a good question—for dependence on men, but with sufficient education to make them entirely wary of me. I can learn about this yeast by working with it. Its growth is mysterious, miraculous to the ancient mind, but not the modern (though while I believe science can explain the growth of yeast under certain conditions, I myself do not understand what happens). What is important is the experience, the handling, of warm, soft dough with the expectation of the desired result: bread. Maybe ein Weib understands this better than eine Frau.
June 2
Matt 13:36–43. One minute Jesus speaks only in parables and the next he is explaining his own parable (the one about weeds). But he is at home in this scene. Maybe he only speaks in parables in public, so that those who would kill him cannot quite be sure what he is talking about. Goethe has his Doctor Faust say that those few who knew something of the goal of knowledge who were foolish enough to bare their hearts to the people have always been crucified and burned5 (yes, I have been back to the library). Jesus knew this as well as anyone. He was cagier than most, and yet he also understood the goal of his existence—death for the sake of life outside time. This “harvest,” Jesus says, is the work of the angels.
If people, Christian people, really believed this, then death would not be a curse. I wonder what my master really thinks about death. He seems to believe in this family curse—only he and an older brother surviving of seven children—as much as anyone. The town talks of the father having been a pious man, a devoted parent, perhaps less devoted as a husband (the first wife died childless), but nonetheless an excellent provider and a model of fidelity to his second wife, my master’s mother—though as a former servant in his house and a distant cousin, I understand, she never rose to the rank of a true wife and matriarch. In short, she never gained her husband’s respect. But she had my master’s love—I can tell from Mrs. H.’s remarks, which she lets out from time to time with a sigh, absent-mindedly, as though there were no one to hear her. She does not talk to herself on other topics, only this—how much our master loved his mother, a former servant in the house of Kierkegaard. “The Son of Man will send his angels, and they will collect from his realm all who give offence and who do wrong and will throw them into the furnace.”
June 3
On my errands I found a dog lying in the gutter—run over by a vain and careless driver. A pedestrian had pulled the poor creature to the side to prevent its being struck repeatedly. Bleeding from both ends—I cannot get the sight out of my mind. My master, noticing my red and swollen eyes this afternoon, asked what was the matter. I told him what I had chanced upon and said I stayed, looking on helplessly, until the trembling animal died. He looked at me in his characteristic way for quite some time, and then said, “There is only one way to understand the suffering and death of the innocent. They are selected by God for the sacrifice.” “But what of the carelessness of people?” I asked. And he answered, “They will be dealt with in time.”
I now understand why my master was never ordained. He is too honest to be a minister. Most Christians are not comforted by truth. How ironic, when our Lord taught us that he is the great liberator by being the embodiment of truth. Perhaps people do not wish to be liberated from falsehood. And I cannot blame them, really, when I consider that our choice is between being sacrificed and being punished, unless, as ordinary people who are neither entirely innocent nor inveterately wicked, we repent and seek the narrow path of faith and love.
When I find myself overcome with evil, I think on our Lord’s mother and what she must have felt, and I pray to her that all the innocent may be allowed to live free and happy, as I am sure she would have them do, and the wicked may be relieved of their impulses, and the rest of us may live in peace. Why this machinery of good and evil, in which all creation is ground to a pulp? To teach us forgiveness?
Matt 13:44–46. Or to teach us what is truly of value—like the treasure in a field or the precious pearl, buried or locked away in nature’s vaults, which only great effort and expense will secure? The heavenly kingdom has its own resources and economy so unlike our own, and seemingly so unjust at times. It is the injustice that makes me angry, and the anger that stays with me. Mother Mary help me!
June 4
I woke up this morning with a heavy head and went down to the kitchen to help, but Mrs. H. sent me right back up to my room with a bit of bread and a cup of steaming broth telling me to keep my cold to myself. She has learned from her midwife-friend that colds and fevers can pass from one person to another, even through a healthy person, though she says doctors do not seem to know this. They go from the bed of a patient who is seriously ill to the bed of a healthy woman in labor and soon the mother is dead of childbed fever. Midwives attend to only one mother at a time. Mrs. H. says the midwives have long noticed that the doctors lose many more mothers than they do, but neither the doctors nor the fathers who hire them seem to notice or care. “The arrogance of men,” she said with some heat, and I thought, “the bitterness of women,” but kept that to myself.
Along with the dinner left at my door this afternoon there appeared the volume I looked into a few days ago containing Faust. My master’s contribution, as neither Emil nor Mrs. H. would recommend such reading. He does not wish me to be lonely or bored. I feel a fever coming on and wonder how this fantastic seduction is likely to affect my addled brain. Perhaps this is an experiment on the part of my master. He is so curious about everything, and to me, likewise.
My mother died of childbed fever soon after giving birth to me. In addition to being something of an orphan and, one might say—metaphorically, at least—a widow, I am also an alien. Like Ruth, I meet all the criteria for the mercy which does not seem at all characteristic of the northern European Christian temperament. This is not self-pity, but honest self-appraisal, along with an unflinching indictment of my brothers and sisters in Christ. I find the Danish not that different from Berliners. I say not self-pity, but then illness does cause one to feel a bit sorry for oneself, as it heightens ongoing affliction. I have never felt I held a proper place in this world, and being ill I feel it more strongly. “A small death” I have heard illness called. The advantage of deadly disease is twofold: one’s self-cherishing is no longer exaggerated when it quite suddenly becomes short-lived. The dying person has a moral superiority and even spiritual acumen that no sane person could possibly envy, and yet the benefit is real—perhaps a recompense for what is to be lost. Most dying people do not know how to use it, however. I like to think that if I were dying I would know all the right things to say to my father. And I would greet our Lord with the deepest gratitude for having released me into the hands of my mother.
Faust confesses to his attendant Wagner6 that his perseverance in medieval medicine, in keeping with the training provided him by his father, actually did more harm than good to the simple people he tried to help—the cure worse than the disease. The magic coat Faust wishes might carry him to unfamiliar lands, to be singled out from humanity as Joseph was from his brothers, who then sold him into slavery—another mad dash out of the rain into the gutter.7 What does this two-souled man, panting after heaven and earth in the same breath, really want, and whom will he not harm to get it?
June 5
A little better this morning.
Matt 13:47–51. The scribe who becomes a disciple of the kingdom of heaven is like the head of a family who hauls out of his storehouse both new and old provisions. Jesus liked scribes better than Pharisees. There was hope for the scribes, men of letters, but no hope for the Pharisees, men of the cloth (Matt 12:38–45), that they could be renewed by a new set of writings, a new teaching.
Faust is a tragedy of failed covenants and false promises. I wonder what sort of writing my master is doing at this moment.
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