“Oh! let no estrangement occur between us; do not become cold and reserved to me too, as you are to the rest of the world!”
“Am I that?” asked he, with an offended air. From her at least he had not deserved this reproach, and it affected him disagreeably, casting a damper over the gayety with which he had been narrating his adventures. “Am I really cold and reserved?” he asked, as she did not reply, for the second time.
“Yes, Wolf,” said she, with vivacity, “you know that you are; the world accuses you of being so.”
“Because I am not like a market-place, open to the inspection of every fool, and in which the inquisitive rabble can gaze at, handle, and criticise every thing, as though the holiest thoughts of the soul were mere wares exposed for sale!—because I am rather to be compared to a fortress surrounded by a high wall, which opens its well-guarded gates to the initiated and chosen only. In this sense I admit that that which is called the world, and which is in reality only the inquisitive, gossipping rabble, composed chiefly of individuals who make great pretensions to intellectuality, but are generally empty-headed—that this world calls me cold and reserved, I admit. But have I ever been so toward my friends, and, above all, toward you?”
“No, Heaven be thanked! no, my beloved Wolf!” cried Charlotte, in eager and tender tones, well aware that she had committed an error, which she wished to repair; “no, toward me you have always been friendly, communicative, and open, and therefore—”
“And therefore, my love,” said he, interrupting her, “therefore you should not have reproached me, undeservedly, in the hour of our reunion.” He arose and took his hat from the table.
“Oh, Wolf!” cried she, anxiously, “you are not going?”
“I must, my dearest! I must first pay a few formal visits, to avoid giving offence. I must call on some friends I expect to meet at the ducal table to-day.”
“Perhaps it was only on this account that you visited me?” said Charlotte, the tears which she could no longer repress, gushing from her eyes. “Wolf, did you visit me solely because you expected to meet me in the ducal palace to-day?”
He regarded her with a look of distress and astonishment. “Charlotte, dear Charlotte, is it possible that so great a change has come over you in two short years?”
She started, and a glowing color suffused itself over her countenance; the poor woman thought of what her mirror had told her but a short time before, and Goethe’s question awakened bitter reflections. “Am I really so changed?” sighed she, and her head sank wearily upon her breast.
“No,” cried he, earnestly, “no, Charlotte, you cannot have changed; it is only that this first moment of reunion after a long separation has affected us strangely. We will soon be restored to each other completely, we will soon be reunited in love and friendship. Charlotte, it is impossible that two years of separation can have torn asunder the holy union of our souls! Let us strive to prevent so unhappy a consummation; it would be a misfortune for me—yes, I may say, a misfortune for you, too! I think we love each other so tenderly that we should both endeavor, with the whole strength of our souls, to ward off misfortune from each other. Let these be my farewell words, darling, and, as I have just learned that you too will dine at court to-day, I can joyfully say—till we meet again!”
He embraced her, and pressed a kiss on her lips, a kiss that wounded her heart more than a cold leave-taking would havedone; for this gentle, friendly kiss seemed to her but as the second echo of what her mirror had said! As the door closed behind his loved form, Charlotte sank down on her knees, buried her face in the cushions of the sofa, and wept bitterly.
His head erect, his countenance grave and earnest, Goethe walked on to pay his calls; and those whom he thus honored found that be had come home colder and more reserved than when he had departed. But, at the banquet, in the ducal palace, he was neither cold nor reserved; there he was eloquent and impassioned,—there enthusiastic words of poetic description flowed like golden nectar from his smiling lips; there his eye sparkled and his cheek glowed, and his illustration of life in Italy awakened delight and admiration in the hearts of all—of all, except Charlotte von Stein! She sat at Goethe’s side, and he often turned his lightning glance on her, as though speaking to her alone, but Charlotte felt only that what he said was intended for all. Had he but attempted to whisper a single word in her ear, had he given her hand a gentle pressure, had he but made her some secret sign understood by herself only, and permitted her to feel that something peculiar and mysterious was going on in which they two alone participated! In society, Goethe had formerly, before his journey to Italy, availed himself of every little opportunity that arose to press her hand and whisper loving words in her ear. To-day he was wanting in these delicate little attentions—in these little love-signals, for which she had so often scolded him in former times! She was therefore very quiet, and did not join in the applause of the rest of the company. But, amidst the admiration evoked by his eloquence, Goethe listened only to hear a word of approval from Charlotte, and, when his friend still remained silent, his animation vanished and his countenance darkened.
But they had loved each other too long and too tenderly not to be alarmed by the thought of a possible coolness and separation. True, Charlotte often wept in the solitude of herchamber, and accused him of ingratitude; true, Goethe often grumbled in silence, and lamented over Charlotte’s irritability and sensitiveness, but yet he was earnest in his desire to avoid all estrangement, and to restore to their hearts the beautiful harmony that had so long existed.
He resumed the habit that had formerly given him so much delight—that of writing to Charlotte almost daily. But her sensitive woman’s ear detected a difference in the melody of his letters; they were no longer written in the same high, passionate key, but had been toned down to a low, melancholy air. Her own replies were of a like character, and this annoyed Goethe greatly. He abused the gloomy skies of Germany, and lamented over the lost paradise of Italy; and Charlotte could not help comprehending that she was the cause of his discontent and anger.
But still he visited her almost every day, and was always animated and communicative in her society. He read portions of his newly-commenced drama “Torquato Tasso,” with her, told her of his plans for the future, and permitted her to take part in his intellectual life. Then she would soon forget her little sorrows and her woman’s sensitiveness, and become once more the intelligent friend, with the clear judgment and profound understanding.
On an occasion of this kind, Goethe requested his “beloved friend” to return the letters he had written to her during the two years of his sojourn in Italy.
Charlotte looked at him in astonishment. “My letters—the dear letters I have kept so sacred that I have not shown a single one of them to my most intimate friends—these letters you desire me to return?”
“Certainly, my dear, I beg you to do so. I intend having an account of my Italian journey published—have also promised Wieland some fragments for his “Mercury,” and, in order to prepare these for the press, it will only be necessary to have the letters I have written to you copied.”
“Can this be possible, Wolf?” asked she, in dismay. “Doyou really intend to have the letters, written by you to me, read and copied by a third person?”
“As a matter of course, I will first correct these letters, and leave nothing in them addressed to you personally and intended for your dear eyes only,” replied Goethe, laughing. “I always had this end in view while writing to you in Italy, and you will have observed that my letters were always divided, to a certain extent, into two portions. The first is addressed to you only, my dear Charlotte—to you, my friend and my beloved—and this was filled with the words of love and longing that glowed in my own heart. The second portion is a mere narrative and description of what I have seen, heard, and done while in Italy, and was intended for publication.”
“But this is unheard of,” cried Charlotte, angrily; “this experiment does great honor to your cold calculation, but very little to your heart.”
“Charlotte, I am not aware of ever having done any thing discreditable to my heart in my relations to you!”
“Relations to me!” she repeated, offended. “Certainly, this is an entirely new name for the ardent love you once protested could never expire in your heart.”
“Charlotte, dear, beloved Charlotte!” he sighed, sadly, “do take pity on us both. Be yourself once more. You were once so noble, so lofty-minded; do not now fall from this high estate, but take a quiet, unprejudiced view of our relations. Why should you reproach me for desiring to have a portion of your letters published? Will they be any the less your letters on that account?”
“They are not, and never were mine!” she replied, angrily; “they merely chanced to be addressed to me—these letters, which you intended for publication even while writing them, and which were so well concocted that it will only be necessary to extract a few little elements of feeling and sentiment to make the manuscript complete and ready for the press. And I, poor, blinded simpleton, imagined that this Goethe, whocould leave me to go to Italy—I imagined that this Goethe, whom my soul had followed with its sighs of affectionate longing, still loved me. I was generous enough to believe that the thoughts, love, and confidence contained in his letters were addressed to me only; but now I must learn that I was nothing more to him than the representative of the great hydra-headed monster, the public, and that he was only informing it when he seemed to be speaking to me!”
“Charlotte, I conjure you, do not continue to talk in this manner; you cannot know how your words grieve my heart! Charlotte, by the brightest and most beautiful years of my life, I conjure you, do not step forth from the pure and radiant atmosphere in which you have heretofore appeared to me. I conjure you, my friend, by all the adoration, esteem, and love which I have consecrated to you, do not descend from the altar on which my love has placed you; do not join the throng of those women who are unnecessarily jealous when they fancy their lovers not quite so tender as usual. You are not one of them; remain, therefore, on your altar, and allow me to worship you as I have heretofore done.”
“You do well to say ‘as you have done,’ but as you no longer do,” cried Charlotte, bursting into tears, without considering that woman’s tears are but poor weapons to use against men, and that the woman must be very young, very beautiful, and the object of great adoration, who can afford to disfigure her countenance with tears and clouds of discontent.
Goethe looked at her in surprise and alarm, and his glance rested on her countenance inquiringly, as though seeking the charm that had formerly attracted him so irresistibly. Then, as she fastened her tear-stained eyes on his countenance, he started and turned hastily aside, as though some unwelcome vision had arisen before him.
The conviction now dawned on Charlotte that she had committed a grave error; she quickly dried her eyes, and, with that power peculiar to women, she even forced a smile to her lips.
“You turn from me, Wolf,” said she, in tender tones, “you do not reply?”
“My dear,” said he, gently, “as you have asked me no question, what can I answer? You asserted that I no longer loved and adored you as in former days. To such an assertion, Charlotte, I can make no reply; I would consider it a sacrilegious breach of the union that has been sanctified and confirmed by long years of love and fidelity, and that should be elevated above all doubt and protestations.”
“Then you love me, Wolf? You still love me?”
“Yes,” said he; and it seemed to Charlotte as though he had laid a peculiar emphasis on this little word. It sounded like another echo of the ominous whisperings of her mirror.
For a moment both were silent, perhaps because Charlotte was too completely absorbed in her own thoughts. When they conversed again it was on an entirely different topic.
After a short time Goethe tenderly took leave of Charlotte, and left the house; he hurried through the streets and entered the park, to the densest and most obscure retreats of which he had so often revealed his thoughts in past years. This park had been Goethe’s true and discreet friend for many years, and he now turned his footsteps once more toward the favorite retreat in which he had so often poured out his sighs and complaints in former days, when Charlotte had cruelly repelled the advances of her tender friend and lover. Goethe suffered to-day also, but his sufferings were not to be compared to those he had formerly experienced in the same shady avenues. Then his soul was filled with a despair that was tempted with hope and joyousness. For was there ever a true lover whose ladylove had driven him to despair by her cruelty, who did not nevertheless entertain a joyous hope that her hard heart would at last be softened, and that he would yet become ahappylover? Then these avenues had often resounded with Goethe’s sighs and lamentations, and there the tears of wounded pride had often filled his eyes. To-day he neither sighed nor lamented, and his eyes weretearless, but he looked gloomy, and an expression of annoyance rather than of sadness rested on his countenance. In silence he walked to and fro with hasty strides; suddenly he raised the light cane which he held in his hand and struck a sprig of blossoming woodbine from a vine that overhung the walk, so violently that it fell to his feet; and then his lips murmured: “She is very much changed. She has become an old woman, and I—I cannot make myself ridiculous by playing the lover—no!”
He ceased speaking, without having finished his sentence, as if alarmed at his own words. He then stooped down, picked up the sprig of woodbine, and regarded it thoughtfully.
“Poor blossom,” said he, gently, “I did wrong to strike you! You are not beautiful, but you are very fragrant, and it is for this reason probably that the kindly and delicate feeling of the people has given you so pretty a name. They call you, ‘The longer, the dearer!’ I will not tread you under foot, you poor ‘the longer the dearer;’ your fragrance is very delightful, and somehow it seems to me as though Charlotte’s eyes were gazing at me from out your tiny cups.”
He placed the flower in a button-hole of his coat, and, as though his little “the longer the dearer” blossom had given him a satisfactory solution of his heart-troubles, he left the shady retreat and went toward an opening in the park. He walked rapidly, and was on the point of turning into a path that led to his garden-house, when he saw a young girl approaching from the other side of the road. She was unknown to Goethe, and her whole appearance indicated that she did not belong to that favored class that claims to constitute what is called “society.” The simple calico dress which enveloped her full and graceful figure, the coarse shoes in which her little feet were enclosed, and the white and delicate little ungloved hands, proclaimed that she did not belong to “society.” Moreover, the light little hat which ladies of rank wore jauntily on one side of their powdered hair at that time,was wanting. Her hair was uncovered, and surrounded her lovely little head with a mass of sunny curls. Her countenance was radiant with youth, innocence, and freshness; she blushed as her eyes encountered Goethe’s lightning glances. Her large blue eyes rested on him with an expression of gentle entreaty and tender humility, and a soft smile played about her pouting, crimson lips. This youthful, charming apparition resembled but little the pale, faintly-colored blossoms of the flower which he wore in his button-hole; she was more like the rich mossrose-bud which nestled on the fair girl’s bosom, and with which she had confined the two ends of the lace shawl that hung loosely over her beautiful shoulders.
Goethe now stood before her, regarding her with inquiring, wondering glances. With a graceful movement the young girl raised her right hand, in which she held a folded paper.
“Mr. Privy-Councillor, I beg you to take this and read it.”
“What does this document contain?” asked Goethe, in tender tones.
“It is a petition from my brother in Jena,” murmured her clear, silvery voice. “I promised him to give it to the privy-councillor myself, and to entreat him right earnestly to grant my dear brother’s request. Dear privy-councillor, please do so. We are such a poor and unhappy family; we are compelled to work so hard, and we earn so little. We have to study such close economy, and there are so few holidays in our life! But it would be a glorious fête-day for us all if the privy-councillor would grant what my dear brother so ardently desires.”
Goethe’s eyes were still fastened on the lovely apparition that stood before him like an embodied Psyche. In her rich, youthful beauty she seemed to him like some myrtle-blossom wafted over from sunny Italy. “What is your name, my dear girl?” asked he.
“My name is Christiane Vulpius, Mr. Privy-Councillor,” murmured she, casting her eyes down.
“Not the daughter of that good-for-nothing drunkard, who—”
“Sir, he is my father,” said she, interrupting him in such sad, reproachful tones, that Goethe felt heartily ashamed of his inconsiderate words, and took off his hat as he would have done to a lady of rank. “Forgive me, mademoiselle, I did wrong. Excuse my thoughtless words. But now I can readily comprehend that your family must be poor and unhappy. It seems to me that misfortune has, however, not dared to touch these rosy cheeks and lustrous eyes with its rude fingers.”
She smiled. “I am still so young, sir; youth is light-hearted and hopes for better times. And then, when I grow weary of our dark little room, I run here to the park. The park is every one’s garden, and a great delight for us poor people. Here I skip about, seek flowers in the grass, and sing with the birds. Is not this enough to make me happy, although hard work, poor fare, and much abuse, await me at home?”
“But it seems to me,” said Goethe, taking the hand, which still held the petition, gently in his own, “it seems to me that this fair hand has no right to complain of hard work. It is as white as a lily.”
“And this hand has made a great many lilies,” rejoined she, smiling. “My work consists in making flowers. I love flowers, and roam through the woods all day long on Sundays, seeking beautiful flowers to copy from. My field-flower bouquets are great favorites, and the milliners pay me well for them. They are very fashionable, and the high-born ladies at court all desire to wear field-flower bouquets on their hats. Day before yesterday I furnished a field-flower bouquet, which the milliner sold to Madame the Baroness von Stein, on the same day, and yesterday I saw it on her hat.”
The hand which but now had clasped the white tapering fingers of the young girl so tenderly, trembled a little, and a shadow flitted over his smiling countenance. Madame vonStein’s name sounded strangely on the young girl’s lips; it seemed like a warning of impending danger. He looked grave, and released her hand, retaining only the petition. “Tell me what it contains,” said he, pointing to the paper. “I would rather read it from your lips than from the paper?”
“Mr. Privy-Councillor, it concerns my poor, dear brother. He is such a brave, good fellow, and so diligent and learned. He lives in Jena, translates books from the Italian and French, and sells them to publishing houses. The office of secretary of the university library, in Jena, is now vacant, and my brother desires it, and would be so happy if he should receive the appointment! He has dared to address you, Mr. Councillor, and to entreat you earnestly to use your influence to secure him the situation. I have undertaken to deliver the petition, and to say a great many fine phrases besides. Ah, Mr. Privy-Councillor, I had written down a whole speech that I intended to make to you.”
“Then let me hear this speech, my fair girl. The nightingales and bullfinches have hushed their songs, and are waiting for you to begin.”
“Sir,” murmured she, blushing, “I do not know why it is, but I cannot.”
He bent forward, closer to her side, so close that the wind blew her golden locks against his cheek. “Why is it that you cannot, my fair child? Why not let me hear your beautiful little speech?”
“Because, because—I have hitherto only seen you at a distance, and then you looked so exalted, and walked with so much stiffness and dignity, that I entertained the most profound respect for the proud old privy-councillor, and now that I am near you I see, well—”
“Well?”
“Well,” cried she, with a joyous peal of laughter, “I see that you are much too young, that my speech is entirely inappropriate.”
“Why so?” asked Goethe, smiling. “Try it, let me hear it, nevertheless.”
She looked up at him with an inquiring, childlike expression. “Do you believe that my beautiful speech would influence you and promote my brother’s interests? If you believe that, I will speak, for my brother is a dear, good fellow, and I will do any thing to make him happy!”
“Then let us hear it,” replied Goethe, delighted with the fair young girl, whose beauty, grace, and naïveté, reminded him of the lovely Leonora in Rome. Yes, it was she, it was Leonora, with this difference only, that this fair girl was a northern version of the Leonora of the south, but was none the less beautiful on that account. “Oh, Leonora, you child of the sun and of Nature, am I really to be so blessed, am I to find you here again—here where my heart was congealing, and longing for the sunny rays of delight from a fair woman’s eyes? Yes, Leonora, this is your sweet smile and kindling, childlike glance; it is you, and yet it is not you. God and Nature were reflected in your countenance, a whole heaven shone in your features. Fair Nature is reflected in this lovely countenance also, but I seek the divinity in vain, and instead of heaven I find the joyous earth enthroned therein!”
Goethe was occupied with these thoughts while Christiane, blushing, smiling, half-ashamed at times, and then again bold and fearless, was declaiming her well-prepared speech. Too much of what was passing in Goethe’s mind must have been reflected in the tender, ardent glances which rested on her countenance, for she suddenly broke off in the midst of a sentence, murmured a few embarrassed words, blushed, courtesied, and then turned and fled like a startled doe.
THE TWO POETS.
“She is bewitching,” murmured Goethe, as the beautiful girl was lost to view behind the green bushes that skirted the avenue. “I had no idea that dull, sober Weimar contained such a treasure, and—”
“Goethe! Welcome, Goethe!” cried the joyous voice of a woman behind him; “how delighted I am to meet you here!”
He turned hastily, and saw Madame von Kalb standing before him, on the arm of a tall, fair-haired gentleman. This was the cause of Christiane’s flight. The beautiful girl had seen this lady and gentleman coming. She was, therefore, not only beautiful, she was also discreet and modest. Goethe said this to himself, while he kissed Madame von Kalb’s extended hand, and gayly responded to her greeting.
“The two gentlemen are, of course, acquainted,” said she.
“I believe I have never had the honor,” replied Goethe, who had again assumed the cold reserve of the privy-councillor.
“Who does not know the greatest and most celebrated of Germany’s poets?” said the other gentleman, a slight flush suffusing itself over his pale, hollow cheeks. “I have known the poet Goethe for a long time; I was present when he visited the Charles School in Stuttgart. He, of course, did not observe the poor scholar, but the latter was delighted to see the poet Goethe. And he is now delighted to make the acquaintance of the Privy-Councillor Goethe!”
Perhaps there was a slight touch of irony in these words, but his large blue eyes beamed as mildly and lovingly as ever. A slight shadow flitted over Goethe’s brow.
“You are right,” said he, “in reminding me that there are hours in which the poet must be contented to perform theduties of an official. By the document which I hold in my hand, you will perceive, my lady, that I am an official who has duties to fulfil, and I trust that you will, therefore, excuse me.” He bowed formally, and passed on in the direction of his garden-house.
“He is becoming colder and more reserved each day,” said Madame von Kalb. “He has been completely transformed since I first saw him here in Weimar. Then, radiant and handsome as Apollo, flaming with enthusiasm, carrying all hearts with him by his impetuosity and genial manner—then we were forced to believe that earth had no barriers or fetters for him, but that he could spread his pinions and soar heavenward at any moment; now, a stiff, unapproachable, privy-councillor, reserved and grandly dignified! Schiller, no woman could change so fearfully, or become so false to herself! Goethe’s appearance has saddened me so much that I feel like crying!”
“And I,” said Schiller, angrily, “I feel like calling myself a simpleton for having addressed a kindly greeting to so haughty a gentleman. He despises me, and looks down upon the unknown dramatic writer with contempt; he—”
“Frederick,” said Madame von Kalb, gently, “my Frederick, such petty envy does not beseem a genius like yourself; you—”
“Nor do I envy him,” said Schiller, interrupting her; “in my breast also glows the holy fire that was not stolen from heaven by Prometheus for him alone! My spirit also has pinions that would bear it aloft to the sun, if—yes, if it were not for the paltry fetters that bind my feet to earth!”
“And yet, my beloved friend,” rejoined Charlotte, passionately, “and yet I will be only too happy to share these fetters with you—and I would rather live with you in a modest cottage, than in the most magnificent palace at the side of an unloved man.”
“You are an angel, Charlotte,” murmured Schiller; “you over-estimate me, and I know only too well how little I resemblethe sublime image your lively imagination has made of me.”
He did not look at Charlotte while uttering these words, his manner was embarrassed, and his eyes turned heavenward. He suffered Charlotte to lead him by the hand, and walked at her side like a dreaming, confiding child.
She led him to the darkest and most solitary avenue—to the same retreat in which Goethe had walked restlessly to and fro but a short time before. The little branch of woodbine which Goethe had struck down with his cane, and from which he had plucked a blossom and placed it in his button-hole, still lay in the middle of the road. Charlotte carelessly trod it under foot, never dreaming that these crushed blossoms could have told a tale that might have served her as a warning.
But of women’s hearts the same may be said that Mirabeau said of princes: “They have learned nothing and forgotten nothing!”
No; they, too, learn nothing and forget nothing, these poor women’s hearts. Never have they learned by the fate of another woman that love is not immortal, and that the vows of men, as Horace says, “are wafted away like the leaves of the forest.” Never have they forgotten these vows, and on the leaves of the forest do they still erect air-castles, which they fondly hope will stand forever.
They seated themselves on a rustic bench that had been placed in a flowery niche, cut out of the hedge that skirted the path in which they had been walking. There they sat, hand in hand, Charlotte’s eyes fastened on Schiller’s noble, thoughtful countenance, with an expression of mingled pain and tenderness.
“Frederick, you have nothing to say to me?”
He raised his eyes slowly, and in the vehemence of her own feelings she failed to observe that his glance was somewhat embarrassed and anxious.
“It is very beautiful here,” he said in low tones. “Thissolitude, this eloquent silence of Nature, is very delightful, particularly when I can enjoy it at your side, my beloved friend. Our souls are like two harps that are tuned to the same tone, and are so near together that, when the strings of the one are touched, those of the other echo a response in the same accord.”
“God grant that it may ever be so, my Frederick! God grant that no storm break in upon the harmony of these harps!”
“And from whence should such a storm come, my dear friend, beloved sister of my soul? No, I am sure that this can never be. The love which unites us is exalted above all change and illusion. I can conceive of no purer or more beautiful relation than that of a brother to his sister, when they are loving, and live in a proper understanding of their duties to each other. Let this thought truly console us and strengthen our hearts, Charlotte, if other wishes entertained by me for a long time, as you well know, should never be fulfilled. Charlotte, I am not one of those whose lives flow on in a smooth, unbroken current, and over whose desires auspicious stars shine in the heavens. To forego has ever been my fate, and you, my dearest, have given me painful instruction in this bitter lesson. You will remember how I knelt at your feet in Mannheim, passionately entreating you to sunder the fetters which bound you to the unloved man, and to become mine, my wife! It was, however, in vain; and now, when your heart is at last inclined to grant the fulfilment of our wishes and hopes—now, when you would dare to become my wife, another obstacle presents itself that seems to render it impossible that we should ever be outwardly united.”
“What obstacle, Frederick? Who can prevent it?”
“Your husband, Charlotte. It seems that he loves you truly, and cannot bear to entertain the thought of separation.”
“Have you spoken with him, Frederick? Have you honestly and openly told him of our wishes, and have you entreated him to fulfil them?”
“I have often attempted to do so, but he always avoidedcoming to the point. Whenever he observed that I was endeavoring to turn our conversation in that direction, he would break off abruptly and introduce another topic of conversation. This convinced me that he loved you dearly, and the thought that I am about to grieve this good and noble man and rob him of a treasure that my own feelings teach me must be very dear to him, pains me to the heart’s core.”
“Frederick,” said she, softly, “how fearful it is to see the most beautiful flowers of spring fade and die, sometimes cut off by a nipping frost, sometimes parched by the too great warmth of the sun!”
“I do not understand you, Charlotte,” said Schiller, in a little more confusion than was entirely compatible with his “not understanding.”
“And I,” cried she, with sparkling eyes, “I wish I did not understand you! Tell me, Frederick, is your heart really mine? Are your feelings toward me unchanged?”
He raised his eyes, and gazed into her agitated countenance earnestly and thoughtfully. “Charlotte, you ask a question which God alone can answer. Who can say of himself that he has a true and exact knowledge of his own feelings? All is subject to change; the sea has its ebb and flow, the sun rises and sets. But the sea ever and again returns to the beach it had before deserted, and the sun ever rises again after the dark night. As the sea and sun, with all their changes, are still eternally constant, so it is also with true love. At times it would seem as though it were withdrawing, and leaving a bleak, sandy desert behind; in the next hour its mighty waves surge back impetuously over the barren strand, chanting, in holy organ-tones, the song that love is eternal.”
“Wondrous words!” cried Charlotte; “the paraphrase to a glorious song which I hope the poet Frederick Schiller will one day sing to the world! But I ask the poet, whether these are also the words of the man Frederick Schiller? Did the hymn to love, just uttered by the poet’s lips, also resound in the heart of the man, and was it addressed to me?”
“And why these questions, my dearest? The poet and the man are one, and the utterances of the poet’s lips are the thoughts of the man; when he consecrates an enthusiastic hymn to love, while at your side, be assured that it is addressed to you!”
He laid his arm around her neck, and drew her head to his breast, as he had so often done before in hours of tenderness. But Charlotte felt that there was, nevertheless, a difference between then and now: the arm that embraced her did not rest on her neck with the same warm pressure as of yore. She, however, repressed the sigh that had nearly escaped her lips, nestled closer to his bosom, and whispered in low tones: “Frederick, your hymn has found an echo in my heart; Frederick, I am very grateful to God for your love!”
He was silent, his only response was a warmer pressure of the arm entwined around her neck. Then both were silent. Deep stillness reigned; it seemed as though Nature were holding divine service in her green halls under the dome of heaven; at first with silent prayer, then a joyous song of praise resounded from the hidden chorus in the foliage of the tall trees, until the breeze rustled through the leaves in holy organ-tones, and silenced the feathered songsters.
To these deep organ-tones, to this rustling of the wind in the foliage, listened the two lovers, who sat there on the little rustic bench in a trance of delight and devotion. Both were silent, and yet so eloquent in their silence. He, with his pale countenance turned upward, gazing intently at the blue dome of heaven, as though seeking to fathom its mysteries; she, with her head resting on his bosom, seeking no other, now that she had found this heaven. But the wind now rustled through the trees in deeper and more solemn tones, and awakened Charlotte from her sweet repose. A leaf torn from the branches by the wind was borne against her cheek; it glided over her face like the touch of a ghostly finger, and fell into her hands, which lay folded in her lap. She started up in alarm, and looked down at this gift of the wind and trees.
They had given her a withered, discolored leaf. Like the harbinger of coming autumn had this withered leaf touched her face, and rudely awakened her from her heavenly summer dream.
“A bad omen,” she murmured, tearing the leaf to pieces with her trembling fingers.
“What does this murmuring mean, Charlotte?” asked Schiller, who had been completely absorbed in his own thoughts, and had not observed this little by-play in the great tragedy of the heart. “What alarmed you so suddenly?”
“Nothing, it is nothing,” said she, rising. “Come, my friend, let us go; I fear that a storm is gathering in the heavens.”
He looked up at the clear blue sky in amazement. “I do not see a single cloud.”
“So much the better, Frederick!” rejoined Charlotte, quickly, “so much the better! Nothing will therefore prevent our taking the contemplated drive to Rudolstadt.”
Her large eyes fastened a quick, penetrating glance on his countenance while uttering these words, and she saw that he colored slightly, and avoided encountering her gaze.
“We will carry out our intention of driving to Rudolstadt to-morrow, will we not, my friend? I have been promising to pay Madame von Lengefeld a visit for a long time, and it will afford me great pleasure to see her two daughters again. Caroline von Beulwitz is a noble young woman, and bears the cruel fate entailed upon her by her unfortunate marriage with true heroism. At the side of this matured summer-rose stands her sister Charlotte, like a fair young blossom of the spring-time.”
Schiller, his countenance radiant with pure joy, gave Charlotte a tender, grateful look; and this look pierced her heart, and kindled the consuming flames of jealousy. Poor Charlotte! The wind had dashed a withered autumn-leaf against her face, and but now she had called the woman who was henceforth to be her rival “a fair young blossom of the spring-time.”
“How beautifully you paint with a few strokes of the brush, Charlotte!” said Schiller, gayly. “Your portrait is an excellent one, and portrays Madame von Lengefeld’s daughters as they really are. Caroline, as the full-blown rose, and Charlotte as a lovely, fragrant violet.”
“And which of these flowers do you most admire?”
“It is hard to choose between them,” replied Schiller, laughing. “It is best to admire them together; I can scarcely conceive of their being separated; separation would destroy the harmony of the picture!”
Charlotte felt relieved. Then he loved neither. His heart had not chosen between them.
“I am so glad,” said she, “that my friends chance to be yours also! How did you become acquainted with the Von Lengefeld family?”
“We are old acquaintances!” replied Schiller, smiling. “I made the acquaintance of these ladies four years ago while residing in Madame von Wollzogen’s house, soon after my flight from Stuttgart, and it was her son, my friend, William von Wollzogen, who took me to see them in Rudolstadt.”[47]
“Rumor says that Mr. William von Wollzogen loves his cousin Caroline devotedly.”
“And for once, rumor has, as I believe, told the truth. Wollzogen loves his beautiful cousin passionately.”
“And Caroline, does she love him?”
“Who can fathom the heart of this noble woman! Her lips are sealed by the solemn vow which united her with her unloved husband, and Caroline von Beulwitz is too noble and chaste a woman to become untrue even to an unloved husband, and—” Schiller hesitated; he now felt how deeply his words must have wounded the woman who stood at his side—the woman over whom be had just pronounced judgment. But women have a wonderful knack of not hearing what they do not wish to hear, and of smiling even when stabbed to the heart.
Charlotte von Kalb smiled on Schiller as though his words had not wounded her in the slightest degree.
“And has Charlotte, has this poor child, at last recovered from her unhappy love? Have the bleeding wounds of her young heart at last been healed?”
Madame von Kalb, her countenance wreathed in smiles, had drawn the dagger from her own heart and plunged it into her lover’s. “Paete, Paete, non dolet!”
He felt the blow and found it impossible to force a smile to his lips. “What do you mean?” asked he, gloomily. “Who has dared to wound the heart of this fair girl?”
“I am surprised, indeed, that you should have heard nothing of this affair, my dear friend,” said Charlotte, the smile on her lips becoming more radiant as she felt that the dagger was entering deeper and deeper. “Charlotte von Lengefeld was affianced to a noble young man whom she loved devotedly, and it was the most ardent wish of both to be united for life. But, unfortunately, the wealth of their feelings formed a cutting contrast to the poverty of their outward circumstances. Madame von Lengefeld, a lady of experience and discretion, informed the lovers that their union was out of the question, as they were both poor. Yielding to stern necessity they separated, although with many tears and bleeding hearts. The young man entered the Hessian army and went to America, never to return. The young girl remained behind in sorrow and sadness, and, as it is said, took a solemn vow never to marry another, as fate had separated her from the man she loved.”
And after Charlotte, with the cruelty characteristic of all women when they love and are jealous, had dealt this last blow, she smiled and gave her lover a tender glance. But his countenance remained perfectly composed, and Charlotte’s narrative seemed rather to have appealed to the imagination of the poet than to the heart of the man.
“It is true,” said he, softly, “each human heart furnishes material for a tragedy. All life is, in reality, nothing morethan a grand tragedy, whose author is the Eternal Spirit of the universe. We, little children of humanity, are nothing more than the poor actors to whom this Eternal Spirit has given life for no other purpose than that we might play the rôles which He has assigned us. We poor actors fancy ourselves independent beings, yes, even the lords of creation, and talk of free agency and of the sublime power of the human will. This free agency is nothing more than the self-worship of the poor slave.—Come, Charlotte,” cried Schiller, suddenly awakening from his thoughtful contemplation; “come, my dear friend, let us go. Thoughts are burning in my heart and brain, the poet is being aroused within the man. I must write; work only can restore me to peace and tranquillity!”
“Do you no longer find peace and tranquillity with me, Frederick? Have they ceased to ring the festive bells of our union of hearts? Do they no longer call our souls together, that they may impart light and warmth to each other like two rays of sunshine?”
“Charlotte, souls too are untuned at times, although the accord of love is ever the same. Remember this, and do not be angry if storms should sometimes break in upon the harmony of our souls.”
“I am never angry with you,” said she, in tones of mingled sadness and tenderness. “Your peace and your happiness is all I desire, and to give you this shall be the sole endeavor of my whole life. I believe that this is the holy mission with which fate has entrusted me, and for which I have been placed in the world. To do my utmost to add to your happiness and to give joyousness to your heart and gayety to your soul. Yes, you shall be gay! Your good genius smiles on your labors and relieves the laurel-crowned head of the poet of all care, giving him honor and glory. But I—I will give you happiness and gayety, for I love you; and you, you have told me a thousand times that you loved me, and that my heart was the home of your happiness. I will believe this sweet assurance,Frederick, and will hold fast to it forever and evermore. I will look into the future with a glad heart, hoping that we may, at last, overcome all obstacles and belong to each other wholly. You say that my husband always avoids this subject, refusing to understand you. I will compel him to understand us. I, myself, will tell him of our hopes and wishes!”
“No, Charlotte,” said he, “this duty devolves upon me! A time will come when all his endeavors to avoid this subject will be futile, and I will avail myself of this moment to speak for us both. Do not look at me so doubtingly, Charlotte. You have instructed me in the trying art of patience! Be patient yourself, and never forget that the stars of our love will shine forever!”
THE FIRST MEETING.
On the next morning Schiller and Madame von Kalb drove to Rudolstadt to pay the Lengefeld family a visit. Charlotte did not fail to observe that Schiller’s countenance grew brighter and brighter the nearer they approached the little Thuringian village, that was so beautifully situated in the midst of wooded hills.
Madame von Lengefeld received her welcome guests, at the door of her pretty little house, with dignity and kindness. Behind her stood her two lovely daughters; the eyes of both fastened on Frederick Schiller, to whom they extended their hands, blushingly bidding him welcome.
Charlotte von Kalb, although conversing in an animated manner with Madame von Lengefeld, nevertheless listened to every word Schiller uttered, and observed his every glance. She heard him greet the two sisters with uniform cordiality, and she saw that his gaze rested on both with the same kindliness.Madame von Kalb’s countenance assumed a more joyous expression, and a voice in her heart whispered, exultingly: “He does not love her, he has no preference for either one of them. He told me the truth, he entertains a brother’s affection forthem, but his tenderness and love are forme!” And now that her heart had come to this joyful conclusion, Charlotte von Kalb’s whole manner was gay and animated; she laughed and jested with the two young ladies, was devoted in her attentions to Madame von Lengefeld, and treated Schiller with the most tender consideration. Her conversation was very gay and witty, and the most piquant and brilliant remarks were constantly falling like sparkling gems from her smiling lips.
“How intelligent and amiable this lady is!” said the elder of the two sisters, Caroline von Beulwitz, to Schiller, with whom they were walking in the flower-garden, behind the house, while dame von Kalb remained with Madame von Lengefeld in the parlor.
Schiller walked between the sisters, a pretty snow-white hand resting on either arm. His countenance shone with happiness, and his step was light and buoyant. “I should like to ascend straightway into Heaven with you two,” said he, joyously; “and I think it highly probable that I will do so directly. Nothing would be impossible for me to-day, and it seems to me as though Heaven had descended to earth, so that I would have no obstacles to overcome, and could walk right in, with you two ladies on my arms.”
“Then let us return to the house at once, in order to guard against any such ascension,” said Caroline von Beulwitz, smiling.
“Oh, Caroline,” exclaimed Charlotte, laughing joyously, “I wish we could take this flight to Heaven! How surprised they would be, and how they would look for us, while we three were taking a walk up there in the clouds!”
“And how angry Madame von Kalb would be with us, for having enticed her dear friend away!” said Caroline, ironically.
“I would enjoy it all the more on that very account,” rejoined Charlotte, laughing.
“And I, too,” protested Schiller. “It would be very pleasant if we could sometimes cast aside all earthly fetters and rise, like the bird, high above the noisy, sorrowing earth, and float in the sunbright ether with the loved one in our arms. My dear friends, why not make this ascension to-day?”
“To-day! no, not to-day,” said Charlotte, exchanging a meaning glance with her sister. “It will not do to leave the earth to-day, will it, Caroline? We expect to have too pleasant a time here below to think of making the ascension to-day!”
“What does this mystery—what do these sly glances mean?” asked Schiller. “Something extraordinary is about to occur. Tell me, Lolo, what does all this mean?”
“I will tell nothing,” said Charlotte, laughing merrily, and shaking her brown locks. “It is useless to ask me.”
“But you, dear Caroline, on whose sweet lips the truth and goodness are ever enthroned, you, at least, will tell me whether I am wrong in supposing that a mystery exists that will be unravelled to-day.”
“Yes, my dear friend,” said she, smiling, “there is a little surprise in store for you, but I hope you are satisfied that we would never do any thing that—”
“And I believe,” said her younger sister, interrupting her, “I believe that the solution of this mystery is at hand, for I hear a carriage approaching. Listen, it has stopped at our door! Yes, this is the mystery! Come, my friend, the solution awaits you!”
She was about to lead Schiller to the house, when Caroline gently drew her back. “One moment, Lolo! Tell me, my friend, do you place sufficient confidence in us, to follow without question and without uneasiness, even when we confess that we are leading you to the solution of a mystery?”
Schiller clasped the right hands of the two sisters and pressed them to his heart. “I will gladly and proudly followyou wherever you may choose to lead me. I place such confidence in you both that I could lay my life and eternal happiness in your dear hands, and bid defiance to all the mysteries of the world!”
“But yet you would like to know what this mystery is, would you not?” asked Lolo.
“No,” replied Schiller, with an expression of abiding faith; “no, the solution of the mystery which my fair friends have in store for me will unquestionably be agreeable. Let us go.”
“We are much obliged to you for your confidence, Schiller,” said Caroline. “We will, however, not permit you to be surprised, as the other ladies had determined you should be. It will depend upon your own free-will whether you enter into the plans agreed upon by your friends, or not. Schiller, you heard a carriage drive up to our door a few moments since? Do you know who were in that carriage? Madame von Stein and Goethe!”
“Is not that a surprise?” cried Lolo, laughing.
“Yes,” he said, with an expression of annoyance, “yes, a surprise, but not an agreeable one. The Privy-Councillor Goethe showed no desire to cultivate my acquaintance, and I would not have him think that I desire to intrude myself on his notice. If he deems my acquaintance undesirable, the world is wide enough for us both, and we can easily avoid each other. As much as I admire Goethe’s genius, I am not humble enough to forget that I too am a poet to whom some consideration is due. Nothing could be less becoming than for Schiller to advance while Goethe recedes, or even stands still.”
“But this is not so, Schiller; it could not be!” exclaimed Charlotte earnestly, while Caroline gazed at him with sparkling eyes as though rejoicing in his proud bearing and energetic words. “Join with me, Caroline, in assuring him that is not the case! Tell him how it is.”
“My friend,” said Charlotte, in a low voice, “Goethe knew as little of your presence here as you of his. The two ladies,Madame von Stein and Madame von Kalb, arranged the whole affair, and we were only too glad to assist them in bringing together the two greatest poets of our day, the two noblest spirits of the century, in order that they might become acquainted, and lay aside the prejudices they had entertained concerning each other. While we are conversing with you here, this same explanation is being made to Goethe by the ladies in the house. Charlotte von Stein is also there, and, as you will readily believe, holds the honor of her beloved friend Schiller in too high estimation to permit Goethe to suppose for a moment that you had connived at this meeting, or were anxious to make an acquaintance which he might deem undesirable.”
“Come, my friends, let us return to the house,” said Schiller, smiling sadly. “It is but proper that I should make the first advances to my superior in rank and ability, and—”
He ceased speaking, for at this moment Goethe and the two Charlottes appeared on the stairway.
“You see,” whispered Caroline, “Goethe thinks as you do, and he, too, is willing to make the first advances.”
In the meantime Goethe had walked down into the garden, still accompanied by the two ladies, with whom he was engaged in an animated conversation. But when he saw Schiller approaching, Goethe hastened forward to meet him.
“Madame von Kalb has reproached me for having withdrawn so abruptly when we met in the park a few days since,” said Goethe, in kindly tones. “I admit that I was wrong, but, at the same time, I must confess that it did not seem appropriate to me that we should make each other’s acquaintance under such circumstances—as it were by the merest chance.”
“And yet it is chance again that enables me to greet the poet Goethe, to-day,” replied Schiller, quickly.
“But this time it has been brought about by fair hands,” cried Goethe, bowing gracefully to the ladies, “and, with the ancients, I exclaim: ‘What the great gods vouchsafe can only be good and beautiful!’”
But, as though he had conceded enough to his friends’ wishes, and shown Schiller sufficient consideration, Goethe now turned again to the ladies, and resumed the conversation in which he had been engaged on entering the garden. They had been questioning him about Madame Angelica Kaufmann, the painter, and Goethe was telling them of her life, her genius, and her nobility of mind, with great animation and in terms of warm approval. Afterward, when the company were assembled around the table at dinner in the garden pavilion, Goethe, at Charlotte von Stein’s request, told them of his travels, of the Eternal City, and of that charming life in Italy which he considered the only one worthy of an artist, or of any really intellectual man. Carried away with enthusiasm, his countenance shone with manly beauty, originating rather from his inward exaltation than from any outward perfection of form and feature.
The ladies were fascinated by this handsome countenance, these lustrous eyes, and the eloquent lips which described sunny Italy, the land of promise, of art and poetry, in such glowing colors.
Schiller sat there in silence, listless, his eyes cast down, rarely adding a low word of approval to the enthusiastic applause of the ladies, and never addressing a question or remark to Goethe; nor did the latter ever address himself directly to Schiller, but spoke to all with the air of a great orator who feels assured thatallare listening to his words with deference and admiration.
“I am not satisfied with our success to-day,” sighed Madame von Kalb, while returning with Schiller to Weimar in the evening. “I had promised myself such glorious results from this meeting with Goethe. I hoped that you would become friends, learning to love each other, but now you seem to have passed like two stars that chance to meet on their heavenly course, yet journey on without attracting each other. Tell me, at least, my dear friend, how you were pleased with Goethe.”
“Ask me how I am pleased with a glacier, and whether I feel warm and cheerful in its vicinity. Yes, this Goethe is a glacier, grand, sublime, and radiant, like Mount Blanc, but the atmosphere that surrounds him is cold, and the little flowers of attachment that would so gladly blossom are frozen by his grandeur. To be in Goethe’s society often, would, I confess, make me unhappy. He never descends from this altitude, even when with his most intimate friends. I believe him to be egotistic in an eminent degree. He possesses the gift of enchaining men, and of placing them under obligations to himself, by little as well as great attentions, while he always manages to remain unfettered himself. He manifests his existence in a beneficent manner, but only like a god, without revealing himself—this, it seems to me, is a consistent and systematic rule of action, based on the highest enjoyment of self-love. Men should not permit such a being to spring into existence in their midst. This, I confess, makes me detest him, although I love his intellect, and have a high opinion of his ability.”[48]
“But you will yet learn to love him as a man, Frederick.”
“It is quite possible that I may,” said Schiller, thoughtfully. “He has awakened a feeling of mingled hatred and love in my bosom—a feeling, perhaps, not unlike that which Brutus and Cassius may have entertained toward Cæsar. I could murder his spirit, and yet love him dearly.”[49]
While “Brutus” was giving utterance to this feeling of mingled hatred and love, “Cæsar” was also pronouncing judgment over “Brutus;” this judgment was, however, not a combination of hatred and love, but rather of pride and contempt. The hero who had overcome all the difficulties of the road, and whose brow was already entwined with the well-deserved laurel, may have looked down, from the sublime height which he had attained, with some proud satisfaction and pityingcontempt upon him who had not yet overcome these difficulties, who had not yet vanquished the demons who opposed his ascent.
“My dear Wolf,” said Madame von Stein to Goethe, while returning to Weimar, “I had hoped that you would meet Schiller in a more cordial manner. You scarcely noticed him.”
“I esteem him too highly to meet him with a pretence of cordiality when I really dislike him,” replied Goethe, emphatically. “I have an antipathy to this man that I neither can nor will overcome.”
“But Goethe is not the man to be influenced by antipathies for which he has no good reasons.”
“Well, then,” cried Goethe, with an outburst of feeling, such as he had rarely indulged in since his return from Italy, “well, then, I have good reasons. Schiller destroys what I have toiled to create; he builds up what I fancied I had overthrown—this abominable revolution in the minds of men, this heaven-storming conviviality, this wild glowing, and reeling, so very indistinct and cloudy, so replete with tears, sighs, groans, and shouts, and so antagonistic to lucid, sublime thought, and pure enthusiasm. His ‘Robbers’ I abhor—this Franz Moor is the deformed creation of powerful but immature talent. I found, on my return from Italy, that Schiller had flooded Germany with the ethic and theatrical paradoxes of which I had long been endeavoring to purify myself. The sensation which these works have excited, the universal applause given to these deformed creations of an intoxicated imagination, alarm me. It seems to me as though my poetic labors were all in vain, and had as well be discontinued at once. For, where lies the possibility of stemming the onward tide impelled by such productions—such strange combinations of genuine worth and wild form? If Germany can be inspired by the robber, Charles Moor, and can relish a monstrous caricature like the brutal Franz Moor, then it is all over with the pure conceptions of art, which Ihave sought to attain for myself and my poems—then my labors are useless and superfluous, and had best be discontinued.”[50]
“But you are speaking of Schiller’s first works only, my dear friend; his later writings are of a purer and nobler nature. Have you not yet read his ‘Don Carlos?’”
“I have, and I like it no better than ‘The Robbers.’ It is useless to attempt to reconcile us to each other. Intellectually, we are two antipodes, and more than one diameter of the earth lies between and separates us. Let us then be considered as the two poles that, in the nature of things, can never be united.”[51]
“How agitated you are, my dear friend!” sighed Charlotte. “It seems there is still something that can arouse you from your Olympian repose and heartless equanimity, and recall you to earth.”
“‘Homo sum, nihil humani a me alienum puto,’” rejoined Goethe, smiling. “Yes, Charlotte, I learned in Italy to appreciate the vast distance between myself and the great gods of Olympus, and I say with all humility: ‘I am a man, and a stranger to nothing that is human.’”
“I wish you had never been in Italy,” sighed Charlotte.
“And I,” rejoined Goethe, “I wish I had never left Italy to return to Germany, and to exchange a bright sky for a gloomy one.”
“How cruel you are, Goethe!” cried Charlotte, bursting into tears.
“Cruel!” repeated he, in dismay. “Good heavens! are we never to understand each other again! Does Charlotte no longer sympathize with me in my sorrows, as in my joys? Can you not comprehend the deep sadness that fills my heart when I think of Italy?”
“Certainly I can,” cried Charlotte. “Since you told me of your love-affair with the beautiful Leonora, I comprehendand understand all. I know that you left your heart in Italy, and that it is the longing of love that calls you back to the sunny land from the bleak north.”
He gave her a lingering, reproachful look. “Charlotte, it is now my turn to callyoucruel, and I can do so with perfect justice. That which you should consider the best proof of my love and friendship—the unreserved and complete confession I made when I told you of this affair—this same confession seems rather to have made you doubt me, than to have carried the conviction to your heart that you are the being I love most dearly on earth!”
“I thank God that I have no confession to make to you,” cried Charlotte. “I have not forgotten you for a moment. My soul and heart were ever true to you, and, while you were kneeling at the feet of the beautiful Leonora, I knelt at the feet of God, and entreated Him to bless and preserve the faithless man who was perhaps betraying me at that very hour, and who now carries his cruelty so far that he dares to complain and lament over his lost Italian paradise in my presence, and—”
“Charlotte, do not speak so, I conjure you,” cried Goethe, interrupting her. “You cannot know what incalculable pain your words inflict. My friend, my beloved, is nothing sacred? is every temple to be overthrown? is every ideal to be destroyed? Charlotte, be yourself once more; do not give way to this petty jealousy. Be the noble, high-souled woman once more, and lay aside these petty weaknesses. Know that the holy bond of love in which we are united is indestructible, and still exists even when fair blossoms of earth spring into life beside it. Be indulgent with me and with us both, and do not desire that I, at forty years of age, should be an ascetic old man, dead to all the little fleeting emotions of the heart.”
“These sophistries are incomprehensible to me,” said she, sharply, “and it seems to me that what you call fleeting emotions of the heart are simply infidelity and a desecrationof the love which you vowed would be eternal and unchangeable.”
Goethe bowed his head sadly. “It really looks as though we could no longer understand each other,” said he, gently. “I admit, however, that I am to blame, and beg you to pardon me. In the future I will be more cautious. I will make no more communications calculated to offend you.”
“That is, you will withdraw your confidence, but you will not cease to do that which must offend me.”
His countenance quivered, his eyes sparkled with anger, and his cheeks turned pale, but he struggled to repress the indignant words that trembled on his lips.
Charlotte turned pale with alarm. Goethe looked sternly on his beloved for the first time. She read indifference in his features for the first time. A loud cry of anguish escaped her lips, and the tears gushed from her eyes.
Goethe did not attempt to console her, but sat at her side in silence, his gaze resting gloomily on her countenance. “It is a cruel destiny that women should be compelled to give vent to their grief in tears, for their beauty is seldom enhanced thereby,” said he to himself. “The tears of offended love are becoming in youthful faces only, and Charlotte’s is not youthful enough. She looks old and ugly when she cries!”
Poor Charlotte!
Late in the evening of this day Goethe left his house through a side door that led from his garden into a narrow little street. His hat was pressed down over his forehead, and a long cloak enveloped his figure. In former days, before his trip to Italy, he had often slipped through this small door in the early hours of the morning, and in the twilight, to take the most direct and quiet route to his beloved Charlotte; the side door had also been often opened to admit the beautiful Madame von Stein when she came to visit her dear friend Goethe. To-day, Goethe had waited until it grew so dark that it was impossible that his curious neighbors couldobserve his departure, and on this occasion he did not direct his footsteps toward the stately house in which madame the Baroness von Stein resided. He took an entirely different direction, and walked on through streets and alleys until he came to a poor, gloomy, little house. But a light was still burning in one window, and the shadow of a graceful, girlish figure flitted across the closed blind. Goethe tapped twice on the window, and then the shadow vanished. In a few moments the door was cautiously opened. Had any one stood near he would soon have observed two shadows on the window-blind—two shadows in a close embrace.