“Thou hast had Hope—in thy belief thy prize—Thy life was centred in it,”
“Thou hast had Hope—in thy belief thy prize—Thy life was centred in it,”
“Thou hast had Hope—in thy belief thy prize—Thy life was centred in it,”
“Thou hast had Hope—in thy belief thy prize—
Thy life was centred in it,”
murmured Theophilus, smiling sadly.
Schiller started and looked inquiringly at the youth, who, in so strange a coincidence of thought, had given expression to his despair in lines taken from the same poem from which the poet had repeated a verse in his hour of trial.
“Are the lines you have just uttered your own?” asked Schiller.
“No,” replied the youth, softly, “from whence should such inspiration come to me. The lines are from Schiller’s poem, ‘To Resignation,’ from the pen of the poet who is the favorite of the gods and muses, the poet who is adored by all Germany.”
“Do you know this Frederick Schiller, of whom you speak with such admiration?”
“No, I have never seen him, nor do I desire to see him! I love and adore him as a sublime spirit, as a disembodied genius. I would, perhaps, envy him if he should appear before me in human form.”
“Envy him, and why?”
“Because he is the chosen, the happy one! I do not wish to see the poet in bodily form; I do not wish to know that he eats and drinks like other men!”
“And suffers like other men, too,” said Schiller, softly.
“No, that is impossible!” cried Theophilus, with vivacity. “His soul is filled with Heaven and the smiles of the Divinity; he cannot suffer, he cannot be unhappy!”
Schiller did not reply. His head was thrown back, and he was gazing up at the heavens; the moon again shone on his countenance, and the starlight sparkled in the tears that rolled slowly down his cheeks. “He cannot suffer, he cannot be unhappy!” he repeated in a low voice. It seemed to him that a transformation was going on within himself, that he was growing larger and stronger, and that his heart had laid on a coat of armor. He sprang from the ground, stood proudly erect, and shook his arms aloft. “Here truly is manly strength, the sinews are tightly drawn, the muscles are firm; a genius has selected this breast as its abode, to give it strength to shake off the burden of sorrow.” He felt that his good genius had conducted him to this unhappy man, that he might be taught that the strong alone can bear pain, and that the weak must succumb under the rod of affliction. Hisheart was filled with pity for the weak brother at his side. “It was God’s will that I should save you from death; in so doing, I however contracted the obligation to preserve your life. I will meet this obligation. Tell me, what were your plans before your father’s death?”
“I hoped, when I should have finished my course at the university, to enter some family as teacher, where I could, in time, earn enough to enable me to go to the Catholic Seminary in Cologne, and maintain me there, while completing my studies.”
“You are a Catholic?”
“My father was from the Rhine, and my mother was of Polish extraction. Both were Catholics, and it was their fond hope that their son might some day receive ordination and become a priest of the Catholic Church. It seems, however, that I have only been ordained to misery, and I could veil my head and die in shame and remorse!”
“Young man, this is blasphemy, you forfeit God’s grace when you speak in this manner. He sent me here to save you, and with his aid I will not leave my task uncompleted. How much will enable you to prepare yourself for your future career?”
“The sum that I require is so great that I scarcely dare mention it.”
“Would one hundred dollars be sufficient?”
“That is far more than I need, more than I ever possessed!” cried Theophilus, almost terrified.
“If I should promise to give you this amount—to give it to you here, at this same place, and at this hour, in a week from to-day, would you swear to wait patiently and hopefully until then, and to make no further wicked attempt on your life?”
“I would swear to do so,” replied Theophilus, in a trembling and tearful voice.
“By the memory of your father and mother?”
“By the memory of my father and mother!”
“Well, then, my brother, with God’s help I will bring you the money in a week from to-day. I would say to-morrow, if I had the money; but I am poor, like you, my brother. No, this is hardly true. I am rich, for I have friends, and these friends will furnish the money you require, if I entreat them to do so.”
“You will narrate my history to your friends?” said Theophilus, blushing.
“That I will have to do, in order to awaken sympathy, but I will not mention your name, nor will I so closely narrate the circumstances that they can possibly divine of whom I am speaking. Moreover, you told me that you had no friends or acquaintances in Dresden?”
“True,” sighed Theophilus, letting his head sink on his breast, “misfortune knows itself only, and cares are its only friends. It conceals its wounds, and hides itself in darkness. But I have no longer the right to be proud; I bow my head in humility. Plead my cause, my noble, generous friend, my saviour! God’s mercy will give you eloquence, and the consciousness of having saved a human being from disgrace and crime will make your words irresistible. My heart is filled with the joyful conviction that God has sent you as a messenger of peace and reconciliation. I will believe in, and confide in you; I will live, because you tell me to live!”
“Live, my brother, and hope!” said Schiller, gently. “Await me at this place, and at this hour, a week from to-day; I hope to bring you the money. But you must have something with which to purchase the necessaries of life until then. Here, my brother, take all that I have in my purse. I have only four dollars, but that sum will suffice to provide you with food and lodging.”
Theophilus took the money, and kissed the giver’s hand. “I have proudly rejected the gifts offered me by the rich, preferring to die rather than receive their heartless charity. But from you, brother Samaritan, I humbly accept the gift of love. I willingly burden myself with this debt of gratitude.”
“Let us now separate,” said Schiller. “In a week we meet again. Butonerequest I desire to make of you.”
“You have but to command, and I will obey you implicitly.”
“I beg you not to attempt to find me out, or to learn who I am? We have seen each other’s countenances in the moonlight, but they were covered with a golden veil. Do not attempt to remove this veil in the light of day, and to learn my name. I feel assured that you will make no mention of this incident of to-night, but I also desire to avoid meeting you in future. I therefore beg you not to go out much in Dresden, and not to frequent the main streets of the city. If we should meet, my heart would prompt me to extend my hand and speak to you, and that would not be desirable.”
“Further down on the Elbe there is a little inn where I can board cheaply. From here I will go to this inn and there remain till the appointed hour. I will not go near the city.”
“Good-night, brother!” said Schiller, extending his hand. “Here we shall meet again. And now, turn you to the left, and I will turn to the right. May good spirits watch over us till our return!”
SEPARATION.
Schiller walked homeward with rapid strides. The streets of the city were silent and deserted, and the houses enveloped in darkness. He passed by the house in which she lived for whom he had suffered so much. He did not look up, but his head sank lower on his breast, and a feeling of unutterable sadness came over him; but he had no pity for himself, not a single sigh or complaint escaped his breast.
A sensation of chilliness crept over him as he now entered his solitary dwelling. No one was there to extend the handof sympathy and bid him welcome. His two friends had awaited his return for a long time, but had finally gone home. They knew their friend’s disposition, they knew that Schiller always avoided men when his passions were aroused, and sought out some solitude where no eye could witness his struggle to subdue them.
“He very probably has gone to Loschwitz, to spend a few days in the pavilion in which he wrote ‘Don Carlos,’” said Körner. “His genius always directs the poet aright, and he possesses the healing balsam for his wounds in his own breast. I will go to Loschwitz myself, to-morrow, to see if he is there, and to make a few inquiries as to his condition. If I find him there I shall leave him to himself till his agitation and passion have subsided, and he voluntarily returns to his friends.”
“But if he is not there?” said Göschen, anxiously, as they stepped out into the street. “I never before saw Schiller in so violent a state of excitement. If this fearful awakening from his delusion should overcome him—if in his despair he should—”
“Do not conclude your sentence,” said Körner, interrupting him, “do not utter that terrible word. Do not insult your absent friend; remember that he is a genius. He will not yield to despair like an ordinary man; his soul will soon recover its buoyancy.”
But for this night, at least, Körner’s prophecy was not destined to be fulfilled. True, Schiller had overcome despair, but the pain still rankled in his breast. The bed on which he threw himself in his physical exhaustion was a bed of pain. His thoughts and remembrances were the thorns that pierced his heart, and drove sleep from his couch.
He arose the next morning at a late hour in a state of feverish excitement, entered his plainly-furnished parlor, and looked gloomily around him. But yesterday his parlor had looked so cosey and comfortable, to-day it seemed so bare and desolate. Those flowers in the little vase were but yesterdayso bright and fragrant, to-day they were faded. The books and papers on his table were in the greatest disorder. The appearance of the room awakened in Schiller the sensation of sadness and desolation we experience on entering the deserted room of a dear friend who has suddenly left us.
Yes, joy, love, hope, and enthusiasm, had departed from this room; it now looked dreary and desolate. How can we work, how can we write poetry, without enthusiasm, without joy?
“Elegies on a faithless sweetheart,” said Schiller, in loud, mocking tones. “A tearful poem, with the title: ‘When last I saw her in the circle of her suitors;’ or ‘The amorous swain outwitted!’”
He burst into laughter, stepped to the window, and commenced tapping on the panes with his fingers, as he had done when Körner and Göschen first aroused his suspicions concerning his love. He was now reminded of this; he hastily withdrew his hands and walked back into the room. But he suddenly recoiled, and uttered a cry of dismay, as though he had seen a ghost. Marie von Arnim stood in the doorway, pale but composed, her large blue eyes fastened with an imploring expression on Schiller’s countenance.
She gave him no time to recover from his surprise, but locked the door behind her, threw her bonnet and shawl on a chair, and walked forward into the room.
“Schiller,” said she, in a soft, trembling voice, “I have come because I do not wish you to despise me, because I do not wish the thought of me to leave a shadow on your memory.”
He had now recovered his composure; a feeling of anger raged in him and demanded utterance.
“What is there surprising in your coming? Why should you not have come? Ladies of rank go in person to their tailors and shoemakers when they desire to make purchases or leave orders, why should you not come to a poet to order a nuptial poem. I am right in supposing that the young ladywishes me to write a poem in honor of her approaching nuptials with Count Kunheim, am I not? I am also right, I believe, as regards the name of that favored member of the exclusive family circle of yesterday, who is destined to become that young lady’s husband?”
“Yes, you are,” she replied, softly. “You see, Schiller, I have not interrupted you, but have received your words as the penitent receives the blows of the rod, without complaint or murmur, although blood is streaming from her wounds. But now be merciful, Schiller! let this punishment suffice, and listen to me!”
“I know what the substance of the poem is to be,” observed Schiller, in the same threatening voice. “Undoubtedly you desire a sort of illustration of the courtship, from the first meeting down to the avowal, and then the golden honeymoon is to be painted in brilliant colors. Probably it would meet your wishes if a comical feature were also introduced; for instance: a poor poet, who, in his absurd conceit, had dared to consider himself Count Kunheim’s equal, and who, acting on this belief, had even dared to fall in love with the beautiful young lady, who, of course, only laughed at his presumption.”
“No, Schiller, who would have been the proudest and happiest of women if circumstances had permitted her to avow her love freely and openly.”
“Yes,” cried Schiller, gruffly, “circumstances are always the scapegoats of the weak and faithless. I, however, admit the difficulties arising from the circumstances by which you were surrounded in this instance. You were making use of the poet’s love to allure richer suitors into your toils, a game requiring some finesse. My rôle was neither a flattering nor a grateful one, but yet it was a rôle, and a dramatic poet cannot expect to have good ones only. But enough of this! Let us speak of the poem. When must it be ready?”
“Schiller,” she cried, almost frantic, tears streaming from her eyes, “Schiller, will you have no pity on me?”
“Did you have pity on me?” asked he, with a suddentransition from his mocking to an angry tone of voice, and regarding Marie, who had folded her hands humbly, and was looking up at him entreatingly, with glances that grew darker and angrier as he spoke. “I ask you, did you have pity on me? Did it never occur to you, while engaged in your shrewd calculation, that you were preparing to give me a wound for which there is no cure? When two loving hearts are torn asunder by death or the hand of fate, the pain can be borne, and time may heal the wound; when the cruel laws of human society compel us to separate from those we love, a consolation still remains. The sacred, the undimmed remembrance of past hours of bliss, and the hope that time, the great equalizer, may remove all obstacles, still remains. But what consolation remains to him who has been cheated of his love, his enthusiasm, and his ideal?—to me, over whose heart the remembrance of this deception lies like a pall? From whence am I to derive faith, hope, and confidence, now that you, whom I loved, have deceived me? You have not only destroyed my happiness, but you have also offended the genius of poetry within me. Henceforth all will seem cold and insipid. The word ‘enthusiasm’ will ring in my ear like a mockery. I will even mistrust the vows of fidelity uttered by the lips of my dramatic creations; for, now that you have so shamefully deceived me, there is no longer any thing noble, pure, and beautiful.”
He hurled a last angry glance at her, and then turned away, walked to the window and looked out into the street. Marie von Arnim followed him and laid her cold, trembling hand on his arm.
“Schiller, if I were really the woman you take me to be, would I have come to you at the risk of being observed by others—at the risk of its becoming known throughout the city that I had visited you? I have come, Schiller, because I was unwilling that the most beautiful music of my life should end in discord, because I was unwilling that you should remember me with anger, when I only deserve commiseration.”
“Commiseration!” repeated Schiller, shrugging his shoulders.
“Yes,” she continued, in a soft voice, “yes, I deserve it. I am not bad, not faithless, and not false. I am only a poor girl whose heart and hands have been fettered by fate. A poor girl who cannot do what she would, but must obey God’s command and submit to her mother’s will. Do not require me to acquaint you with all the misery which afflicts my family, with the cares and humiliations which those must suffer who cover their want with a veil of wealth, and polish and plate iron poverty till it has the appearance of golden plenty. Believe me, Schiller, we are so poor that we do not know how we are to escape from our importunate creditors.”
“And yet, you gave agreeable dinners, and entertained the exclusive family circle at delightful suppers,” observed Schiller, jeeringly, and without even turning to look at Marie, who stood behind him.
“My mother would have it so, Schiller. She had sold her last jewels in order that she might be able to come to Dresden, where she hoped to marry her daughter to a fortune. Schiller, you will believe me when I swear that I knew nothing of this, and that my first and greatest joy on coming to Dresden was experienced when I made your acquaintance, and when you honored me with your notice! Schiller, I have dreamed a sweet, a blissful dream.”
“And the light in the window was the night-lamp in this dream,” he observed, in mocking tones.
“I make no attempt to justify myself,” said she, gently. “My mother gave me her commands, and I was compelled to obey. When she yesterday declared to me that the only issue out of all her troubles was for me to accept Count Kunheim’s addresses, and begged me to do so, I only consented after a long and fruitless struggle, after many tears and entreaties. I yielded to my mother’s commands, but I exacted this condition: Schiller must now learn the whole truth, these little mysteries must cease, and no light shall be placed at the windowthis evening, requesting him not to come. This, my mother promised, but she was cruel enough to break her promise.”
“So that I should still wander about, a deluded and credulous simpleton, if I had not broken through the barriers of the exclusive family circle in defiance of the warning light.”
“I am thankful that fate willed otherwise, and frustrated my mother’s intentions,” said Marie, gently. “When we are compelled to deny any one the happiness we would so willingly accord, it is our duty to tell him the truth, although it may be painful. Truth is a two-edged sword; it not only wounds him who hears, but him also who imparts it. I have come, Schiller,” continued Marie in an agitated voice, after a short pause, “to take leave of you—to say to you: Schiller, we shall never meet again in life, let us part in peace!”
“Never again!” murmured he, slowly turning his countenance toward the woman, who had heretofore looked so bright and joyous, so radiant with youth and beauty, and who now stood at his side so humble and submissive, her tearful eyes raised imploringly to his.
“Never again!” sighed Marie. “Our paths in life will henceforth be widely separated. I intend to marry the man whose wealth will save my mother and brother. I will be to him a faithful and grateful wife, although I may not be a loving one. I am to be affianced to Count Kunheim at noon to-day, and I have employed the last hour of my liberty in coming here to take leave of you, Schiller, and to beg forgiveness for the pain inflicted on you, of which I am the innocent cause.”
“The innocent cause!” cried Schiller, turning around and staring at her with his large, flaming eyes. “How can you say that you are the innocent cause of the pain which you inflicted on me? You knew that I loved you. I told you so, and you listened to my avowal. You gave me hope, although you must have known that my love was hopeless.”
“You speak of yourself only,” rejoined Marie, in low andtrembling tones. “You are not thinking of me at all; it does not occur to you that I also have suffered, that I also have hoped. Yes, Schiller, I did suppose that my mother would yield to my prayers and entreaties; even yesterday I conjured her on my knees to permit me to seek my own happiness in my own way, as my heart prompted. At that time I was not aware that my mother’s circumstances were so desperate. I knew not that her honor and even her liberty were endangered. When she admitted that such was the case, when she disclosed the whole sorrowful truth, I felt as though my heart would break, as though all the blossoms of my future had suddenly faded. The conviction forced itself upon me that it was my duty to sacrifice, to my mother’s welfare, my own wishes and hopes. I did my duty; I gave up my own happiness to save my mother—to secure, at least, a ray of sunshine in the evening of her life. I have submitted. I will become the wife of Count Kunheim.”
“And will say to him that you joyfully accept and reciprocate his generous love!”
“No, I will not tell this noble man a falsehood, nor have I done so. When he yesterday evening offered me his hand, I told him honestly and openly that I esteemed and confided in him, and would be a very thankful and faithful wife, but that my heart was no longer free—a love dwelt therein that could never die, for it was Schiller whom I loved!”
“You told him that?” asked Schiller, with emotion. “And he—”
“He agreed with me that the heart which loved Schiller could never forget him, but added that he would only esteem me the more, and could never be jealous on account of this love. He said that my love for Schiller should be the altar of our married life and of our house—the altar to which we would bring the fruits of our noblest thoughts and feelings.”
“Noble, generous man!” cried Schiller, “Yes, he deserves to be happy and to possess you. Be his wife, Marie, and do your duty. Let the early blossom of your heart fade, and letthe full summer-rose of your love bloom for your husband. You can do so, Marie, for—I say it without anger or ill-will—you have never loved me! No, do not contradict, do not attempt to assure me that such is not the case. In this hour, when my soul is elevated above all selfish wishes and desires—in this hour, I rejoice in recognizing the fact,you have never loved me. I know that a kind Providence has thus spared you the pain I now endure; I know you will be happy at the side of the noble and high-souled man who demands your hand in marriage. I do not mean to say that you will soon forget me; I think too well of myself to believe this. No, you will yet shed tears when you think of him who loved you, but the bridegroom will be there to dry these tears. With tender sympathy he will speak to you of your love, as of a beautiful dream of the spring-time, and you will find that the awakening from this dream on a bright, flowery summer day, is also beautiful, and that will console you. Some day, after many years, when my pain has long since vanished, and I have gone home to the unknown land from whence no traveller returns—some day, when your weeping children and grandchildren surround your couch, and you feel your last hour approaching, you will once more remember this dream of the spring-time. It will greet you like a ray of sunshine from the new life that is dawning. With a smile on your lips, you will turn to your children and say: ‘I leave you gold and treasures, a brilliant name and high rank. But I leave you a more precious legacy. Schiller loved me, and a poet’s love is a blessing that is inherited from generation to generation. Your father’s name gives you rank and honor before men, but the love which the poet consecrated to your mother gives you renown and immortality. Strive to be worthy of this love. Go to the grave of the poet who died in solitude and poverty, and pray for him!’”
“No, Schiller, that will not be all that I say to those who will some day surround my death-bed,” said Marie, drying her tears, in order that her large, luminous eyes might gazeat his sad countenance more fully and firmly. “I will say to them: ‘I am now returning to God, and to my first, my imperishable love. In death I may proudly and joyfully confess I have loved Schiller! I still love him!’”
The poet, as if irresistibly attracted by her enthusiasm and her glowing countenance—hardly knowing what he did—extended his arms toward Marie. She threw herself on his breast; he pressed her gently to his heart, and let his hand rest lovingly on her head.
It was a silent and solemn moment, a last blissful and sorrowful embrace. Their lips were dumb, but their hearts communed in holy thought and prayer.
After a pause, Schiller gently raised up between his hands the head that was still resting on his breast; he gazed long and lovingly into the fair girl’s countenance. The tears that flowed from his eyes fell on hers like glowing pearls, mingling with her own tears and trickling down her cheeks. Schiller bowed his head, and kissed the lips that responded warmly to his own. He then pressed her hands to his eyes and released her from his embrace.
She turned slowly, walked toward the door, and put on her shawl and bonnet. “Farewell, Schiller!”
“Farewell, Marie!”
And now she stood in the doorway, her eyes fastened on him in a last lingering look. He stood silently regarding her.
A grating noise broke in upon the silence; it was the closing door behind which Marie had vanished. Schiller remained standing at the same place, his eyes fixed on the door. Had it suddenly grown so dark? was the sun overcast? or was it only the tears in his eyes that made the room look so gloomy? Had a storm suddenly arisen? did an earthquake make the ground tremble beneath him? or was it only the storm of passion that was passing over his head? Why was it that his knees trembled, and that he would have fallen to the ground had not a chair stood near by, into which he sank, groaning?
The hour in which a man wrestles with his agony—the hour of renunciation and conquest, is sacred; the eye of God only may witness it, but no tongue must attempt to describe it, unless indeed that of the poet whose pain is surrounded by the halo of poetry—the poet to whom the hour of renunciation has also become the hour of enthusiasm.
Some one is weeping and lamenting behind that door. Is it Marie?
Some one is speaking in loud and earnest tones behind this door. Is it the poet composing an inscription for the gravestone of his love?
“Give me thy Laura—give me her whom loveTo thy heart’s core endears;I tore the fond shape from the bleeding love,And gave—albeit with tears!”
“Give me thy Laura—give me her whom loveTo thy heart’s core endears;I tore the fond shape from the bleeding love,And gave—albeit with tears!”
“Give me thy Laura—give me her whom loveTo thy heart’s core endears;I tore the fond shape from the bleeding love,And gave—albeit with tears!”
“Give me thy Laura—give me her whom love
To thy heart’s core endears;
I tore the fond shape from the bleeding love,
And gave—albeit with tears!”
A loud knock is heard at the door, and then a second, and a third, in quick succession. Schiller shakes back the hair from his countenance, and hastens forward to see who is clamoring for admission.
THE SONG “TO JOY.”
It was the postman, who brought the poet a rosy, perfumed letter from Weimar.
With eager hands, Schiller opened and unfolded the missive. His countenance beamed with joy as he recognized Madame von Kalb’s handwriting. “Good and noble woman, you have not forgotten me! Do you still think of me lovingly?”
No, she had not forgotten him; she still loved him, and begged him, with tender and eloquent entreaties, to come to her.
“Schiller, the world is a solitude without you; you are the thought of my inmost thoughts, the soul of my soul! Frederick,separation from you has disclosed the holy mystery of your heart and of mine. It is this: We are the two halves that were one in heaven, and our mission on earth is to strive to come together, in order that our eternal indivisibility and unity of spirit may be restored. Schiller, when we are once more united, hand in hand, and are gazing in each other’s eyes, we shall feel as if we had left the earth and were once more in heaven. Frederick, come to your Charlotte!”
“Yes, I am coming to my Charlotte, I am coming!” cried Schiller, in a loud voice, as he pressed the letter to his lips. “You have saved me, you have made me myself again, Charlotte! I am no longer lonely, no longer unloved. Your heart calls me, your spirit longs for me. I feel as though my soul’s wings, destined to bear me aloft above the misery of earth, were growing stronger. They will bear me to you, Charlotte—to you, the dearest friend of my life! You shall console, you shall restore me, your friendship shall be the balsam for the wounds of my heart. Eternal Fate, I thank thee for having permitted me to hear this call of friendship in this my hour of trial. I thank thee that there is still one soul that I can call mine; I praise thee that I am not compelled to stand aside in shame and tears, like an unloved, friendless beggar, while the happy are feasting at the richly-laden table of life. One soul I can at least call my own, and I will keep her holy, and love and thank her all the days of my life. Away with tears! away with this sorrowing over a dream of happiness! Farewell, Marie! Be forgiven. I will think of you without anger, and rejoice when you become a happy countess! Farewell, Marie![32]A greeting to you, Charlotte! I am coming to you! I am coming!”
He walked slowly to and fro; the cloud of sorrow that hadrested on his brow gradually lifted, and his countenance grew clearer and clearer. The man had conquered—the poet was once more himself.
“I will go to Körner! I must see my friend!” He took down his hat, and walked out into the street. His mind had freed itself of its fetters, his step was elastic, and he bore himself proudly, his blue eyes turned heavenward, and a joyous smile rested on his thin and delicate lips.
Thus he entered Körner’s dwelling, and found his friend on the point of starting to Loschwitz, to see what had become of the poet. Schiller extended both hands and greeted him with a loving glance.
“Here I am again, my friend. The prodigal son returns from his wanderings, and begs to be permitted to take up his abode in your heart once more. Will you receive him, friend Körner?”
“I will not only receive him, but will kill the fatted calf in honor of his return. I will give a festival, to which all our friends shall be invited, in order that they may rejoice with me, and exclaim, ‘The wanderer has returned! Blessed be the hour of his return!’”
Schiller threw himself into his friend’s arms, and pressed him to his heart. “I have caused you much sorrow and trouble. I have been a wild and stubborn fellow. Why should beautiful women be blamed for not loving this ungainly and unmannerly fellow, when there are so many handsomer, richer, and happier men in the world? Marie von Arnim is right in marrying the rich and handsome Count Kunheim; and you must not blame her on this account, or say of her that she deceived me. She has only done what we all must do on earth: she has done her duty, and God will bless her and give her His peace in the hour of death for so doing.—But let us speak no more of this.”
“No, my friend, we will speak of it no more,” said Körner, heartily; “let us only rejoice that you have returned to your friends; that you once more believe in us and our friendship.How happy my wife will be when her dear friend is restored to her again! how glad Göschen will be when you once more extend your hand to him in a loving greeting!”
“Poor, generous Göschen!” said Schiller, thoughtfully. “I was cruel and unjust to him yesterday, I imputed ignoble motives to my friend!”
“He thinks of it no longer,” said Körner; “he has no memory for the words spoken by your anguish. He will be only too happy when you once more greet him with a loving smile.”
“How good and patient you all are with me!” said Schiller, softly; “and how little have I deserved such treatment at your hands! In truth, I feel as though I had now returned to you after a long separation—as though I had only seen you of late through a cloud that had arisen between us, and in which a single star shone, and— Be still, no more of this! The cloud has been dissipated; I now see you again, and will rejoice with you as long as we are together.”
“Schiller, you do not contemplate leaving us?” said Körner, sadly.
“I am a poor wanderer, my friend, whose stay at any one place is but brief. At last, a time will come even for me, when I can lay down my staff and knapsack, and exclaim, ‘Here I will rest! This is my home!’ But the gods only know whether this home will be in the grave or in the heart of a woman!”
“No sad thoughts now, my friend, if you please, now that I am ready to exult and rejoice over your return!”
“You are right, no sad thoughts at this time! Let us turn our thoughts to joy. The first song I write shall be in praise of joy. I will no longer avoid mankind, no longer seek solitude! As you said, Körner, so shall it be! Give the prodigal son a festival, call our friends together, let us once more assemble around the festive board and partake of the repast of friendship and joy. This festival shall be in honor of my return and of my departure.”
Körner gave this festival. The lost one, who had of late withdrawn himself from his friends in the violence of his love, had now returned, and this was a fitting occasion for joy and festivity. He called his friends together; he had for each a kind word and a tender greeting. Göschen was richly rewarded when Schiller gave him the manuscript of his Don Carlos, that was now to be given to the world, and to entwine the halo of immortality around the poet’s brow, and to enkindle and fan the flame of enthusiasm in thousands and thousands of hearts!
Six days after Schiller’s “return,” the festival which Körner had promised took place. Körner and his beautiful young wife, Theresa Huber, Göschen, and the artist Sophie Albrecht, were present; a few friends in Leipsic had also joyfully availed themselves of Körner’s invitation, and had come to Dresden to see the poet once more.
There he sat at the festive board, his arm thrown around Körner’s neck; in his right hand he held the goblet filled with sparkling Rhine wine. His eyes beamed and his countenance shone with enthusiasm. His glance was directed upward, and, perhaps, he saw the heavens open and the countenance of the blessed, for a soft and joyous smile played about his lips.
“Look at this favorite of the muses,” cried Körner. “One might suppose they held him in their embrace, and were whispering words of inspiration into his poet’s heart.”
“Perhaps they are whispering a song of joy in my ear, my friend, in order that I may repeat it to you, the favorite of the gods! But before I do so, I will narrate a history—a history that will touch your hearts and open your purses, unless you are cold-hearted egotists, and then you deserve to share the fate of King Midas, whose very food and wine were turned into gold because he was a hard-hearted miser. I condemn you to this punishment if you have the courage to listen to my story without being moved to tears and generosity!”
With deep pathos and eloquence Schiller recounted to hislistening friends his midnight adventure, his conversation with the poor youth who had attempted to take his own life. So graphic was his representation of the unfortunate youth’s distress and vain struggles, that the hearts of his hearers were deeply touched, and no eye remained dry.
When he had concluded his narrative and told his friends of the promise he had made to poor Theophilus, Schiller arose from his seat, took the plate which lay before him, and walked around the table, halting at each seat and extending his plate like a beggar, with soft words of entreaty. When the ready hands opened and dollars and gold-pieces rang out on the plate, Schiller inclined his head and smiled, thanking the givers with looks of tenderness.
Now he had returned to his seat and was counting the money. “Seventeen gold-pieces and thirty dollars. I thank you, my friends! You have saved a human life; you have redeemed a soul from purgatory! To-morrow night I will take this love-offering to the poor youth; the blessing of a good man will then rest on your closed eyelids, and you will be rewarded with sweet dreams and a happy awakening. Now, my dear friends, you shall receive from the poet’s lips the thanks that are glowing in my heart. Now, you shall hear the exulting song to joy which Körner supposed the Muses were whispering in my ear. Raise your glasses and listen; when I incline my head repeat the words last spoken.”
Schiller arose, drew a small, folded sheet of paper from his pocket, opened it, glanced over it hastily, and then let it fall on the table. He did not require it; his song resounded in his mind and brain; it was written on the tablets of his heart, and his lips now uttered it exultantly:
“Joy, thou brightest heaven-lit spark,Daughter from the Elysian choir,On thy holy ground we walk,Reeling with ecstatic fire!”
“Joy, thou brightest heaven-lit spark,Daughter from the Elysian choir,On thy holy ground we walk,Reeling with ecstatic fire!”
“Joy, thou brightest heaven-lit spark,Daughter from the Elysian choir,On thy holy ground we walk,Reeling with ecstatic fire!”
“Joy, thou brightest heaven-lit spark,
Daughter from the Elysian choir,
On thy holy ground we walk,
Reeling with ecstatic fire!”
His eyes shone with enthusiasm, his cheeks glowed, and a heavenly smile illumined his whole countenance, while recitinghis song “To Joy.” His friends caught the inspiration of his poem, arose with one accord from their seats, clasped hands and gazed into each other’s eyes—into the eyes that shone lustrously, although they were filled with tears. Now, at the culminating point of his rapture, Schiller’s countenance suddenly quivered with pain as he recited a second verse of his song:
“Yea—who callsonesoul his own,Oneon all earth’s ample round:—Who cannot, may steal alone,Weeping from our holy ground.”
“Yea—who callsonesoul his own,Oneon all earth’s ample round:—Who cannot, may steal alone,Weeping from our holy ground.”
“Yea—who callsonesoul his own,Oneon all earth’s ample round:—Who cannot, may steal alone,Weeping from our holy ground.”
“Yea—who callsonesoul his own,
Oneon all earth’s ample round:—
Who cannot, may steal alone,
Weeping from our holy ground.”
“Who cannot, may steal alone, weeping from our holy ground,” repeated his friends. The tears gushed from their eyes; they clasped hands more firmly, and listened breathlessly to the words of the poet, whose voice now rose again to the high tones of enthusiasm. It was almost like an adoration of joy, friendship, and love. Their hearts beat higher, mightier and mightier the waves of rapture surged in their kindred souls.
“Myriads join the fond embrace!’Tis the world’s inspiring kiss.Friends, yon dome of starry blissIs a loving father’s place.”
“Myriads join the fond embrace!’Tis the world’s inspiring kiss.Friends, yon dome of starry blissIs a loving father’s place.”
“Myriads join the fond embrace!’Tis the world’s inspiring kiss.Friends, yon dome of starry blissIs a loving father’s place.”
“Myriads join the fond embrace!
’Tis the world’s inspiring kiss.
Friends, yon dome of starry bliss
Is a loving father’s place.”
They embraced each other; they wept, but with rapture, with enthusiasm. The kiss that passed from mouth to mouth was given to the whole world; for all that the world could offer of love, of friendship, and of happiness, the friends found combined at the happy festival to which Schiller had dedicated his song “To Joy.”
TOGETHER ONCE MORE.
Night had come, a dark, gloomy night. The moonlight that had played so beautifully, on the rippling waters of the Elbe, a week before, was wanting on this night. The sky was overcast, and the clouds that were being driven through theheavens by the wind, cast on the river dark shadows that looked like yawning graves.
Theophilus stood on the river bank at the same place where he had knelt and prayed a week before. He stood there gazing at the dark river and looking up from time to time at the driving clouds.
“If he should not respect his word, if he should not be able to keep his promise, because no generous hearts responded to his entreaties! What then? Will this river be my grave? Are the waves murmuring my death-song? No, no! be brave, Theophilus; wait patiently, be strong in hope! His voice was so gentle, so full of conviction, when he promised to meet me here to-night, to bring me help! He appeared before me like the angel Gabriel; I will believe that God sent him in human form, and that he will also send him a second time. Hope, my heart, and be strong in faith!”
He folded his hands in silent prayer, and listened anxiously to every slight noise other than the murmuring of the waves on the shore, and the rustling of the wind in the trees, that broke in upon the stillness of the night. Some distance up the river, on its opposite bank, lay the city with its many lights. On the Elbe bridge, towering conspicuously above all other objects, stood the gilded crucifix, surrounded by a circle of lighted lamps, placed there by pious hands.
Theophilus saw this crucifix, and it awakened pious thoughts and brave resolutions in his breast. “I will endure all that may befall me in patience and hope. By resignation and pious devotion, I will endeavor to atone for the sins committed in my despair. My whole life belongs to Thee, my God, and shall be dedicated to Thy service! I will serve the poor and the unfortunate. Every man who suffers shall be my brother, to every man who stumbles will I extend a helping hand. I will strive to dry the tears of the weeping, and, if I can do nothing else, I will, at least, pray with them. This, I swear to Thee, my God!—this I swear by yon luminous crucifix!”
The great bell resounded from the tower of the Catholic Church, striking the eleventh hour. Theophilus shuddered; he remembered that he had heard this bell at the moment when he was on the point of plunging into his watery grave, and that it had then resounded on his ear like a death-knell.
“Never will I hear this hour strike without fear and trembling. It will always sound to me like the knell of the doomed criminal. Grant, O God, that in such an hour I may prove myself a repentant sinner, and make atonement for my crime! I resolve that I will do so,” cried he, in a loud voice. “I swear that this eleventh hour shall each day remind me of my crime, and find me ready to devote to the welfare of mankind the life I was about to sacrifice to despair.”
“In the name of God and humanity I accept your vow!” said a solemn voice behind him. “Here I am, my brother. Forgive me for having kept you waiting, but important business prevented my coming earlier, and I found it difficult to steal away from the friends who were with me, without attracting observation. While awaiting me, you have formed good resolutions, and made your peace with God and your conscience. Hold fast to them, my brother; be firm and brave. Elevate your thoughts above things perishable, let your soul soar above the vanities of earthly existence, and you will find that spiritual joys will amply console you for the sorrows of earth. Here is the money I have brought you, here are one hundred and twenty dollars. According to your calculation it will suffice to enable you to complete your studies, and give you a start in your career. Take the money, my friend, and let us part.”
“Part! without giving me the name of my benefactor and saviour?” asked Theophilus, holding the hand, that had given him the money, firmly clasped in his own. “Part! and may I never hope to see and thank you in the light of day?”
“Thank me, my brother, by being happy. Bear the lightof day within you, and then I shall be rewarded, then my memory will live in your heart. Why should I tell you my name? I am your brother, let that suffice. Go on your way, be just, and do good to others who are suffering and who are unhappy, as you were. This shall be my thanks: I say to you, with Christ: ‘What you do to the least of these my brethren, that you have done unto me.’ Bear this in mind!”
The voice was silent; Theophilus knew that he was again alone. He folded his hands, bowed his head, and prayerfully repeated the words, that, in the stillness of the night, and amid the rustling of the wind, had resounded on his ear like the solemn tones of an organ. “What you do to the least of these my brethren, that you have done unto me. Bear this in mind!”
“I will bear this in mind! I will endeavor to atone for the evil I have done! I dedicate myself to God’s service. The holy crucifix, that illumines the surrounding darkness, has also illumined the darkness of my soul. I will go to Cologne, and enter the seminary, in order that I may become a priest—a pious, humble priest of the Church of God. Farewell! earthly vanity, earthly pride, and earthly hope! I will be a priest of mercy, for God has shown me mercy, and sent an angel-messenger to save me. I will bear this in mind!”
While Theophilus was wending his way to Dresden, Schiller was journeying toward Weimar in the stage-coach. After giving Theophilus the money collected for him, Schiller had hurried to the post-office, where his friends were waiting to take leave of him, and bid the traveller a last farewell.
“Farewell! We shall soon meet again; I will soon return!” cried Schiller from the stage-coach, as it rolled out of the court-yard on through the city gate into the soft summer night.
“Charlotte is awaiting me!” murmured Schiller, as he sank back on the hard cushions. “Charlotte is awaiting me. She is the friend of my soul. Our spirits belong to each other,and I will show my friend the wounds of my heart, in order that she may heal them with the balsam of tender friendship.”
But, strange to say, the nearer he came to his journey’s end, the more joyfully his heart throbbed, the less painful its wounds became.
“Charlotte, dear Charlotte, if I were but already with you! I feel that the fire which drove me from Mannheim is not yet extinguished; a breath from your lips will suffice to kindle the spark into a conflagration.”
There is Weimar! Now the stage-coach has entered the city. Schiller is on classic ground! On the ground where Germany’s greatest poets and intellects dwell. Wieland and Herder, Bertuch and Bode, dwell here; here are also many artists and actors of eminence, and here lives the genial Duke Charles August! And yet Weimar is desolate, for Goethe is not here; he left more than a year ago.
Schiller knew this, but what did he care now! He had so longed to tread this classic ground that his heart throbbed with joy at the prospect of seeing and becoming acquainted with the celebrated men whose works he had read with so much enthusiasm—whom he could now meet with the feeling that he was not unworthy of them, and that he also now filled a place in the republic of intellect.
He had been occupied with these thoughts during the whole journey; but now they suddenly vanished. He thought only of Madame von Kalb, the friend he had not seen for two years—the friend whose dear lips had called him to her side in the hour of his deepest distress.
He had taken lodgings in the chief hotel of the city; it was already quite late in the evening, so late that it seemed hardly proper to call on a lady. He would not remain in his solitary chamber, but would walk out, and at least look at the house in which she lived. If the lights had, however, not yet been extinguished, if she should still be awake— He did not complete this thought, but sprang down the steps, ordered the servant, who was walking to and fro in the hall, to accompanyhim and show him the house in which Madame von Kalb lived, and rushed down the designated street with such long and rapid strides that the servant could scarcely follow him.
There is the house in which Madame von Kalb lives, a modest little house at the entrance of the park. A light is still burning behind the basement windows, and he sees the shadow of a tall woman pass across the closed curtains. “That is her figure, I would recognize it among thousands! That is Charlotte!”
“I intend to enjoy this beautiful summer night in the park,” said Schiller, turning to the servant, with a hasty movement. “You may return, I will be able to find my way back, alone.”
As soon as the servant had vanished around the next corner, he walked up to the door and opened it very softly, in order that the bell above it might not betray his entrance. “I will take her by surprise,” murmured he to himself; “I will see what effect my unexpected coming will have on my dear friend.”
The bell rang in such low tones that it could certainly not have been heard in the room. But a servant came forward from the back end of the hall.
“I call at Madame von Kalb’s request. She is in this room, is she not?”
“Madame von Kalb is in. May I have the honor of announcing you?”
“It is unnecessary, she is awaiting me. I can enter unannounced.”
He had uttered these words in subdued tones; Charlotte must not hear him, must know nothing of his arrival until he stood before her. He opened the door noiselessly, closed it gently behind him, and now stood between the door and the heavy velvet curtain that hung over the entrance. He could, however, see his friend through an opening in the curtain. She sat reclining on the sofa, her beautiful eyes gazing dreamingly into empty space. Her cheeks were pale with inwardagitation, and a soft smile played about her lips. Of whom was she thinking? Of whom was she dreaming?
“Charlotte! dear Charlotte!”
She uttered a cry and sprang up from her seat.
“Charlotte, you called me to your side, and here I am! Will you not welcome me?”
She stood as though incapable of utterance, but the beautiful, the loved countenance, with its proud and noble expression, its rosy lips, and soft smile, was before him. Before her stood Schiller, whom she had yearned for since they last parted, whom she had loved ardently and faithfully for two long, long years, without having seen him. But, now he was there, he stood before her with extended arms. She thought nothing, she felt nothing more than that Schiller had returned, and was once more at her side. Happy, blissful reunion!
“Welcome, my Schiller! welcome, friend of my soul!” She threw herself on his bosom, and he entwined his arms around her, as though they were two chains with which he intended to bind, and hold her forever. Yes, forever!
“Tell me, Charlotte, that you love me! utter the word which your lips refused to confess in Mannheim. Do not again drive me out into the darkness of life, as you did in Mannheim. I am weary of wandering, and am disgusted with the world. You alone are true, in you only can I confide. Accord me a home where I may lay down my head and rest. Tell me, Charlotte, that this is my heart’s home. Tell me that you love me? You do not reply, Charlotte? Why are you silent?” He opened his arms to release her, that he might look at her. But she did not raise her head, she still lay on his breast. She had fainted! He lifted her in his arms, carried her to the sofa, and knelt down beside her. As she lay there with closed eyelids, and pale lips, he bowed down over her and pressed his glowing lips to hers, entreating her to return to life. “Charlotte, friend, awaken! Forgive me for having dared to surprise you in the wilfulness ofmy happiness. Return to me, friend of my soul! I will be quiet and gentle, will sit at your feet like a child, and be contented to look up at your dear countenance, and read in your eyes that you love me. Open these dear eyes! Soul of my soul, heart of my heart, let me hear your loved voice! Give me a word of consolation, of hope, of love!”
And Charlotte, called by the voice she had longed to hear for two long years, awoke, and looked up lovingly into the countenance of him who was the sun of her existence. She entwined her arms around his neck and kissed his lips and his eyes. “I greet you, I kiss you, proclaimer of my happiness.”
“You must tell me that indeed you love me. My heart thirsts for these words; it is wounded and bleeding, and you must heal it. I will drink that oblivion from your lips, Charlotte, that will make me forget all, save that you love me. It is disconsolate to be alone and unloved! I cling to your heart as the shipwrecked mariner clings to the flower thrown up before him by the waves, hoping thereby to save himself. Charlotte, do not let me sink, save me! Let me seek safety from the storm in the haven of your love! Say that you will let me seek and find peace, enthusiasm, and happiness, in this longed-for haven.”
She threw her arms around his neck, and pressed a kiss on his forehead. “I love you, Schiller, I love you; I have the courage to tell you so, and to break through all barriers, and place myself at your side. I have the courage to testify before the whole world, and even to confess to my husband: ‘I love Frederick Schiller. Our souls and hearts are bound together. Tear them asunder, if you can!’ I love you, and with that I have said all—have said, that I will be yours before God and man, and that nothing shall longer separate us.”
“And your husband?” asked Schiller, anxiously.
“He is a good and generous man,” said Charlotte, smiling. “He will not desire to hold me fettered to himself against my wish. Our union was based on convenience and interest, and was never a happy one. We have lived together but little;our natures were entirely different. I have lived in retirement, while my husband has passed his time in luxury and amusements at the court of Queen Marie Antoinette, where he is a welcome guest. We respect and esteem, but we do not love each other. When I confess my love and plead for a divorce, my husband will certainly give his consent. Then I can belong wholly to the man I not only love, but so highly esteem that I joyfully dedicate myself to him until death, and even beyond the grave.”
“It shall be as you say, my friend,” cried Schiller, raising her hand to his lips. “Nothing shall separate us, and even the king of terrors shall have no terrors for us; in the joyousness of our union of souls we will defy him. Yes, we will defy death, and the whole world!”
They kept their promises; they defied the whole world; they made no secret of their union of hearts; they denied to none that they were one and indivisible. Charlotte had the heroism to defy the world and acknowledge her love freely. She had the courage to remain whole days alone with Schiller in her little house. She held herself aloof from society, in order that Schiller might read to her his two new novels, and, above all, his ‘Don Carlos.’ Nor did she avoid being seen with him in public. How could she deny him before men, when she was so proud of him and of his love! She helped to adorn and make comfortable the little apartments he had rented; she sent him carpets, flower-vases, chairs, and many other things. She felt that she was his mother, his sister, his sweetheart, and his friend. In the ardor of her passion, she endeavored to combine the duties of these four persons in herself; she felt that the divine strength of her love would enable her to do so. In her confidence and guilelessness of heart, she never even asked herself this question: Will the man I love be willing to rise with me in this whirlwind of passion, to soar with me from heaven to heaven, and to revel in ever-youthful, celestial thought and feeling, regardless of earthly mutability?
Together, they visited the heroes of art and literature in Weimar, and, together, they drove out to Tiefurt, where the Duchess Amelia had taken up her summer residence.
The duchess gave the poet of “Don Carlos” and “Fiesco” a cordial welcome. “I was angry with you on account of your ‘Robbers,’ Mr. Councillor,” said she, “nor was ‘Louise Müllerin’ entirely to my taste. But ‘Fiesco,’ and, above all, ‘Don Carlos,’ have reconciled me to you. You are, in truth, a great poet, and I prophesy a brilliant future for you. Remain here with us in Weimar!”
“Yes, Mr. Schiller,” cried the little maid of honor Von Göckhausen, as she stepped forward, courtesied gracefully, and handed him a rose, “remain in Weimar. The muses have commanded me to give you their favorite, this rose, and to tell you,sub rosa, that Weimar is the abode of the gods, and that the nine maidens would be well contented to remain here.”
“Göckhausen, take care,” said the Duchess, laughing. “I will tell Goethe what a fickle, faithless little thing you are. While he was here, my Thusnelda’s roses bloomed for him only, and for Goethe only was she the messenger of the gods and muses. Now, the faithless creature is already receiving messages from the muses for Frederick Schiller! But she is not to be blamed; the poet of ‘Don Carlos’ deserves homage; and, when even the muses worship Goethe and Schiller, why should not Göckhausen do it also? Do you know Goethe?”
“No, not personally,” replied Schiller, softly; “but I admire him as a poet, and I shall be happy if I can some day admire and love him as a man also.”
“You should have come earlier,” sighed the duchess. “You should have made his acquaintance during the early days of his stay in Mannheim. Then, you would indeed have loved him. At that time, he was in the youthful vigor of his enthusiasm. It was a beautiful era when Goethe stood among us, like the genius of poetry, descended from heaven, enflaming our hearts with heavenly rapture. He is still a great poet, but he has now become a man of rank—aprivy-councillor! Beware, my dear Councillor Schiller, lest our court atmosphere stiffen you, too, and rob your heart of its youthful freshness of enthusiasm. Goethe was a very god Apollo before he became a privy-councillor, and was entitled to a seat and voice in the state council. By all means avoid becoming a minister; the poet and the minister cannot be combined in one man. Of this, Goethe is an example.”
“No, he is not,” cried Göckhausen, eagerly; “Goethe can be all that it pleases him to be. He will never indeed cease to be a poet; he is one in his whole being. Poetic blood courses through his veins; the minister he can shake off at any time, and be himself again. This he proved some eighteen months ago, when he suddenly took leave of our court and all its glories, and fled from the state council, and all his dignities and honors, to Italy. He cast all this trumpery of ducal grace behind him, and fled to Italy, to be the poet by the grace of God only!”
“See, my Thusnelda has returned to her old enthusiasm!” cried the duchess, laughing. “That was all I desired; I only wished to arouse her indignation, and make her love for Goethe apparent.—Now, Mr. Schiller, you see what my Thusnelda’s real sentiments are, and how true she is to her distant favorite.”
“Much truer, probably, than he is to his former favorites,” said Göckhausen, smiling. “Men cannot be true; and I am satisfied that Werther, if he had not shot himself prematurely, would subsequently have consoled himself, although the adored Lotte was married, and could never be his. Laugh on, duchess! I am right, nevertheless. Is not Goethe himself an example of this? Did he not love Charlotte von Kästner? If he had shot himself at that time, he could not have consoled himself afterwards with Charlotte von Stein, to become desperate once more, and finally to take a pleasant and consolatory trip to Italy, instead of leaving the world. Truly, the Charlottes are very dangerous to poets; but I would, however, advise each and every one of them to beware offalling in love with a poet, for—how forgetful I am! I beg your pardon, Madame von Kalb!”
“Why, my dear young lady?”
“Because I did not remember that you, too, were a Charlotte,” murmured the malicious maid of honor, meekly.
Von Kalb laughed, but she was more subdued and thoughtful after this visit than usual. Her eyes often rested on Schiller with a peculiar, inquiring look, and when he sat at her side on the sofa that evening, she laid her hands gently on his shoulders and gazed intently into his countenance.
“You love me, Schiller, do you not?”
“I love you, although you are a Charlotte. That is the question you intended to ask, is it not?”
She smiled and laid her head on his shoulder. “Schiller, I would that our union of heart and soul had already received its indissoluble consecration. I would that my husband had already given his consent to a separation and I were wholly yours.”
“Are you not truly and wholly mine? Is not our union indissoluble? Does not God, does not the whole world know that we are one and inseparable? Does not society respect and treat our relation to each other with consideration for both of us? The people with whom we come in contact have the discretion to leave us when they observe that we wish to be alone. Did not Von Einsiedel, who called on you this evening, leave again when the servant told him that I was with you? Was not even the Duchess Amelia so considerate as to invite us together yesterday; for that she did so out of consideration for the relation existing between us, Wieland told me.[33]You see, therefore, my dearest friend, that no one doubts, or ignores our union.”
“Why do you call me your dearest friend?” asked she, anxiously.
“Why? Because you are. Is it not your opinion, also, that friendship is the highest power of love?”
She said yes, but she was very thoughtful after Schiller had gone. “I would that my husband were here, and that the word of separation had already been spoken!” she murmured.
Several months passed before her husband arrived in Weimar. Madame had not been able to endure this uncertainty, this continued hypocrisy. She had written to her husband, confessing her love and her relation to Schiller, and begging him, as her best friend, to give her his advice and to promote her happiness.
Her husband had replied at once as follows: “My dear friend, for the very reason that I am, as you say, your best friend, I will treat your letter as though I had not received it. It is obliterated from my memory, and I only know that I love and esteem you as the mother of my little boy, and that the dearest wish of my heart is your happiness. Let us leave these little afflictions of the heart to time, the great healer. I am coming to Weimar in a few months, and we shall then see if time has not exercised its healing properties on yourself and on the heart of an easily-excited poet. If this should not be the case, however, and you should then repeat the words written in your letter, it will still be time to see whether the desires of your heart can be gratified without detriment to our son’s interests. Let us, therefore, postpone the decision for a few months.”
He had also written to Schiller, but without any reference to Charlotte’s communications. His letter was full of quite hearty sympathy, profound admiration for the poet, and earnest assurances of friendship. He concluded by announcing that he would come to Weimar in a few months, and that Schiller would find him ready to do him any service, and to make any sacrifice for him that the poet could expect at the hands of a friend.
Schiller folded the letter thoughtfully, and a glowing color suffused itself over his cheeks. “He will come,” said he to himself, in a low voice. “It will be a strange meeting for me, I already blush with shame when I think of it. He loves me,he calls me his friend, and yet he knows all! Will I really have the courage to demand this sacrifice of a friend, and—” asked he in a low voice—“and do I really so ardently desire this sacrifice? I came here to seek consolation from a dear friend, and I found love—love that has drawn me into the whirlpool of passion. We are both being driven around in its eddying circles, and who knows but that marriage is the sunken reef on which our hearts will ultimately be shipwrecked. Save us from a violent end, thou Spirit of the Universe; save me from such an end, thou genius of poetry; let me fly to some peaceful haven where I can find safety from the storms of life! There is a mystery in every human breast; it is given to God only and to time, to solve it. Let us, therefore, wait and hope!”
When her husband arrived in Weimar a few months afterward, this mystery seemed to have sunk deeper in Charlotte and Schiller’s hearts; neither of them had the courage to lift the veil and speak the decisive word. Charlotte was paler and quieter than usual, and her eyes were often stained with tears, but she did not complain and made no attempt to bring her husband to an explanation.
Only once, when she held her little boy, who had just recovered from an attack of illness, lovingly in her arms, her husband stepped up to her, and gave her a kind, inquiring look:
“Could you ever make up your mind to leave this child, Charlotte—to deliver it over to the care of a stranger.”
“Never, no, never!” cried she, folding her arms tenderly around her delicate little boy. “No, not for all the treasures—for all the happiness earth can offer, could I part with my darling child!”
“And yet you would be compelled to do so, if you should lay aside the name your child’s father bears,” said her husband, gently.
He made no explanation of his words, but his wife had well understood him, and also understood his intention when,after a short interval, he smilingly observed that he would now go to see Schiller, and take a walk with his dear friend.
When her husband had left the room she looked down at the pale child, who was slumbering in her arms. Tears gushed from her eyes, and she folded her hands over her boy’s head:
“Give us all peace, Thou who art the Spirit of Eternal Love! Give us wisdom to discern truth and strength, to make any sacrifice in its behalf!”
On the evening of this day, after a long walk which Schiller had taken with Charlotte’s husband, and during which they had conversed on the highest intellectual topics only, Schiller wrote to his bosom friend Körner, in Dresden: “Can you believe me when I assert, that I find it almost impossible to write anything concerning Charlotte? Nor can I even tell you why! The relation existing between us, like revealed religion, is based on faith. The results of the long experience and slow progress of the human mind are announced in the latter in a mystical manner, because reason would have taken too long a time to attain this end. The same is the case with Charlotte and myself. We commenced with a premonition of the result, and must now study and confirm our religion by the aid of reason. In the latter, as in the former case, all the intervals of fanaticism, skepticism, and superstition, have arisen, and it is to be hoped that we will ultimately arrive at that reasonable faith that is the only assurance of bliss. I think it likely that the germ of an enduring friendship exists in us both, but it is still awaiting its development. There is more unity in Charlotte’s mind than in my own, although she is more changeable in her humors and caprices. Solitude and a peculiar tendency of her being have imprinted my image more firmly in her soul, than her image could ever be imprinted in mine. Her husband treats me precisely as of yore, although he is well aware of the relation existing between us. I do not know that his presence will leave me as Iam. I feel that a change has taken place within me that may be still further developed.”[34]