"Whom the gods love die
young," said the proverb of antiquity.
Yes, but it is our secret self-love which is set upon this favor from on
high; such may be our desire, but such is not the will of God. We are to
be exercised, humbled, tried, and tormented to the end. It is our
patience which is the touchstone of our virtue. To bear with life even
when illusion and hope are gone; to accept this position of perpetual
war, while at the same time loving only peace; to stay patiently in the
world, even when it repels us as a place of low company, and seems to us
a mere arena of bad passions; to remain faithful to one's own faith
without breaking with the followers of the false gods; to make no
attempt to escape from the human hospital, long-suffering and patient as
Job upon his dung hill--this is duty. When life ceases to be a promise
it does not cease to be a task; its true name even is trial.
April 2, 1866. (_Mornex_).--The snow is melting and a damp fog is spread
over everything. The asphalt gallery which runs along the _salon_ is a
sheet of quivering water starred incessantly by the hurrying drops
falling from the sky. It seems as if one could touch the horizon with
one's hand, and the miles of country which were yesterday visible are
all hidden under a thick gray curtain.
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