To: Adelheid von der Marwitz

(1894-1944), sister of the German poet Bernhard von der Marwitz (1890-1918) who died in World War I and had maintained a correspondence with Rilke. Her brother’s frequent recitations of Rilke’s poetry introduced her to the literary culture of her time. A dedication in a book that her brother gave her before his death quotes a poem from Rilke’s “The Book of Images.”

Soglio (Bergell, Graubünden)

September 11th, 1919

My dear young friend:

The joy brought by your letter has many sides: let me recount at least a few. First, this is what we welcome now above all, that human beings are making a new start here and there to rebuild life with the strength and the faith of their indestructible hearts. There are others who could try this but who still just stand there, staring and trying to make sense, and for whom sadness and sloth finally become utterly insurmountable. And this even though based on feeling and reflection, only one thing is urgently needed: to attach oneself with unconditional purpose somewhere to nature, to what is strong, striving and bright, and to move forward without guile, even if that means in the least important, daily matters. Each time we tackle something with joy, each time we open our eyes toward a yet untouched distance we transform not only this and the next moment, but we also rearrange and gradually assimilate the past inside of us. We dissolve the foreign body of pain of which we neither know its actual consistency and make-up nor how many (perhaps) life-affirming stimuli it imparts, once dissolved, to our blood!

Death, especially the most completely felt and experienced death, has never remained an obstacle to life for a surviving individual, because its innermost essence is not contrary to us (as one may occasionally surmise), but it is more knowing about life than we are in our most vital moments. I always think that such a great weight with its tremendous pressure somehow has the task of forcing us into a deeper, more intimate layer of life so that we may grow out of it all the more vibrant and fertile. I learned this experience very early on through various circumstances, and it was then confirmed from pain to pain: what is here and now is, after all, what has been given and is expected of us and we must attempt to transform everything that happens to us into a new familiarity and friendliness with it. For where else should we direct our senses, which after all have been exquisitely designed to grasp and master what is here? And how may we evade the duty to admire what God has entrusted to us, for this surely prepares us completely for all future and eternal admiration! So, if I understood your cheerful and lively words in this sense and with utmost agreement, then it only added to my joy that I thought to recognize you in it quite clearly: somehow I had long suspected that such a decisive leap would come from you. There it was—and I now feel a kind of pride and satisfaction in having guessed and anticipated quite correctly from your earlier letters what you are capable of. You have been able to establish yourself anew in a place which had grown familiar during many years of your childhood and youth. That you feel blessed again in that place to tackle new tasks and desired projects and that the warmth of accomplishing something each day lets you experience a new degree of feeling alive: this is so much that there is nothing left for your friend to wish for besides hoping that everything may remain like this. Your youth, your untainted will, and the heartfelt and natural direction of the path you’ve so courageously chosen all vouch for the likelihood that this will be the case. The fact that you could make the effort to engage fully in the activities of people your age who share your aspirations is a sign of the most noble and admirable courage, and you are experiencing already how these efforts are paying off on the inside. What you told me gave me a sense of the affection of your small and harmonious yet vibrant circle, and I would like for you to return their expression of sympathy. I would be delighted to contribute an hour to your gatherings by giving a bit of myself and receiving from all of you in turn, and to share in your joy and happiness!

I have not yet been able to get back to working productively. It is therefore my task to chastise and reproach myself for not yet being far enough along to grow some new vines and extend a few leaves over the ruination of the past few years. Perhaps they are pushing through somewhere but the surface is only rubble and desolation, with no new growth in sight. I ought to begin in any random spot, right now, today, immediately, but it’s not a matter of my being picky when, in spite of this realization, I am waiting for certain conditions that I expect to provide a kind of peculiar support. I am hoping for a small, old house and an old garden where I may enter into a long period of being apart, close to nature and to a few things humming with the gentle beating of the past. Without this kind of assistance, I do not think I will be able to muster the concentration that would reveal to me the quietest, most guarded spot of my inner nature where new sources well up. I have already talked with your brother Banni of this need which he understands completely and wholeheartedly!

Now it’s a matter of finding out whether something like this exists somewhere. It almost came to pass here, if only on a provisional basis. I’ve taken up residence in this tiny mountain spot (barely an hour from the Italian border) in an ancient Palazzo Salis that has managed to hold on to its ancestral furnishings and an old garden edged by trimmed boxwood, even though decades ago all of it was turned into a hotel. To top it off, they have granted me access to the Count’s old library (otherwise off-limits for guests) with a room perfectly after my innermost taste that seems related to earlier arrangements where I had been most comfortable. Take good care of yourself. I will remain in Switzerland as long as it remains feasible, at this address—please write to me again.

In friendship,

Rilke