am not sure which) were dogs. I rarely remember my dreams, but I awoke in the middle of the night when the fever broke and the dream was fresh in my mind. So I made a mental note of it before I fell back asleep and did not recall it until a few minutes ago. Mrs. H. has sent word to keep to myself until tomorrow, when I can be useful again. In the meantime, more Faust.
June 6
This morning’s sermon: a ramble on everything to do with God. The minister, a young man, prides himself on his ability to preach without notes or an outline in front of him. As a result, though, he manages to repeat himself endlessly without, however, establishing a focus, which makes it impossible to stay on topic. Such argument as manifests is familiar and predictable to the point of utter banality. My master’s elder brother is a pastor, but he (my master) has little use for the clergy due to some past disappointment—so many in this family!
We Christians are called upon to put our faith in one another as well as our Lord (though not to the same extent, I trust), and particularly when it comes to the ordained. This can result in tremendous expectation and letdown. As a woman I have an advantage; it is evident to us that men set things up for their own edification, and so I would never imagine that my spiritual growth is their objective (the clergy’s, I mean). But my master, being a man, believes he has every right to expect utter sincerity from Bishop So-and-So, whose interest lies in the wealth rather than the well-being of my master’s family.8 Most servants are of a better sort than religious authorities, I find, though there is rot in every profession.
Matt 13:53–58. “A prophet is nowhere worth less than in his fatherland and his own house.” Jesus’ works are dependent on the faithfulness of those on whom he works. Those who do not take him seriously never really know him. My master has the brilliance and daring (and anger) of a prophet, and so people fear him mostly, but with fear comes the need to discount. Perhaps he has a tendency to discount himself, being the youngest. No one expects anything of the youngest, so that when they do make a mark, it is an affront, to be dismissed as effrontery.9 I prattle on here worse than a preacher. The Lord’s Day is not set aside to be filled up with words.
The clouds this afternoon look like the flow of a glacier in spring, white opening into blue. The birds sing so sweetly in the trees. I never learned the names of birds and trees in my youth. This puts me before (or behind?) Adam, who could not rest easy until he had named everything, including Eve, I suppose. Now it clouds over; the contrast is lost.
June 7
My strength comes back through honest effort, washing woodwork and windowpanes. One must be well to read Faust and not succumb to its seductions. The language, the variety of verse forms, the subject matter, any of these things alone is enough to make one swoon.
June 8
I see little of my master. He stays to himself while he works or else goes out. He has a reputation for witty, even brilliant conversation—maybe monologue would be more accurate. He entertains sophisticated Danes with satirical talk, but they would not be his friends. His only friend is Emil. There are no ladies in his circle, as far as I can tell, though there was once an engagement, of which we are forbidden to speak in this house or on the street. Part rake and part saint, he is a lonely man. The one thing my master is not is the self-interested Bürger, obsessed with war and taxes, casually ridiculed by Faust,10 and so familiar to me from my youth. As a girl, however, I did not realize how dangerous this Bürger-mentality is, all blood and treasure, treasure at the expense of blood. My master, as cynical as he may seem (or be, for that matter), knows where his treasure is laid up. He has renounced the pursuit of money and worldly honor for the sake of wisdom and grace. That to me is courage. But of course his father’s relentless pursuit of wealth and uncompromising avoidance of luxury (an asceticism resulting from the perception of some wrongdoing—the family curse again) has made my master’s seemingly contradictory course possible. A modern saint is a living contradiction, yet all saints are modern, witnesses to the moment in which they live. I believe in him, and he senses this.
I have doubts about keeping this journal though. It seems like a waste of time. I have no story to tell, or rather no story worth telling. I never was fond of involved plots. My days are boring and empty, and that is fine by me, though I fear getting lost in the vacancy of my life. But writing is a balm, a mercy, a way of being simple: pen to paper, thought by thought, impression after impression. Perhaps I should spend more time praying and less time writing, but simply to breathe conscious of a world of suffering is prayer. Otherwise, how could we pray always, as our Lord enjoined us?11
Matt 14:1–12. The “fury” of “a woman scorned.”12 The daughter of Herodias is used as a tool for her mother’s revenge against the Baptist. Herod so naive as to think Jesus was the resurrected Baptist and so rash as to make an open-ended promise to a charming little dancing girl. The story of the Baptist’s death, his head presented on a banquet platter—could it have been stuffed with an apple in the manner of roasted swine? No, Herod was a Jew of some sort after all13—all told in the past perfect, twice removed from the present—too awful to relate. A man who shouts “Repent!” must be thoroughly debased by those determined to stay their course.
And yet I feel for Herodias, hardly mistress of her fate, teaching her daughter the worst of feminine wiles as a matter of survival—for how was Herodias to have provided for herself and her daughter with their husband and father dead if Herod had obeyed the Baptist’s injunction against a purely figurative incest and repudiated her? Who would dare to have her and her child after that? All victims of a cosmic plotline in which the Baptist, who had given new life to so many, had by one device or another to die, in order to make way for Jesus. It is a wonder more people do not doubt the goodness of God on the basis of Scripture alone. Had the Bible been the work of one man, he would be considered a misanthrope.
Under the mattress with you; it is not safe to write so freely in such a heretical mood. If Mrs. H. were to find this and have someone translate it for her, I could be out on the street before my master or Emil would have a chance to intervene. Fortunately, I keep my own chamber and she is too proud to snoop.
June 9
Rain all day today. Helping in the kitchen. No skill, just the ability to take direction. A father cannot teach a girl how to cook, but he can habituate her to discipleship. Conversation in the kitchen is lively—a welcome relief from my relative isolation, though hardly edifying. Mostly gossip not worth relating. I enjoy watching the dog make itself comfortable by the stove—what a handsome and good-natured animal. Sometimes I think the true child of God is more like an animal than a human being in simply accepting the good that is at hand. My fingernails are still black from digging in the garden yesterday!
Matt 14:13–21. “And he had the people arrange themselves on the grass”—five thousand men, not counting the women and children, so five thousand families, really—an entire town, but not arranged as people arrange themselves, according to rank and wealth and language and livelihood, but in an order not known to us, of angels or animals, an invisible pattern, seemingly random, in which no one wonders where one belongs. The dog belongs beside the stove because that is where it is warm, that is all. He can feel the warmth—he does not have to see it. He does not have to ask after his food like the theologian who wants to know, why five loaves and two fishes precisely? He just eats and drinks and is satisfied. And yet it can be dangerous for a human being to be so simple-minded as to huddle with whatever warmth is offered. Not every man who offers what is needed in the moment is a son of God. How trite I have become in my disillusionment—how stupid!
June
