“Qui n’a pas l’esprit de son âgeDe son âge n’a que la malheur!”[54]
“Qui n’a pas l’esprit de son âgeDe son âge n’a que la malheur!”[54]
“Qui n’a pas l’esprit de son âgeDe son âge n’a que la malheur!”[54]
“Qui n’a pas l’esprit de son âge
De son âge n’a que la malheur!”[54]
Strange words these! She felt as if a chilly hand had been laid on her warm, quivering heart. Was the spirit of her age wanting in her? was nothing but its unhappiness portrayed in her faded countenance? With an angry movement she threw the book aside, arose from her seat, and went to her mirror.
“Am I really old? Is the unhappiness of old age really depicted in my countenance, while the spirit of youth and love is at the same time burning in my heart?”
She anxiously scanned her features in search of the handwriting of this inexorable enemy of women, who stalkspitilessly behind their youth and beauty, is their invisible companion on all the rosy paths of life, and who, when he at last becomes visible, drives away all those who had loved, adored, and done homage to their beauty. Charlotte sighed; she recognized this handwriting; the enemy was becoming but too plainly visible! She sighed again.
“Yes, it is written there that I am forty-six years old, and every one can read it! He, too—alas! he, too!” But after a short pause her countenance grew brighter. “Charlotte, you should be ashamed of yourself—you insult your friend and lover! He loves you for your beauty of heart and mind, and not for your outward beauty. It was your mind that attracted him, your heart that enchained him, and they have not undergone any change, have not grown older. He loves you for the eternal youth that glows in your heart and mind, and he cares not for the mask with which age has covered your countenance! Yes, thus it is, and thus it always will be, for Goethe is not like other men; he cares not for outward appearances, he looks at the inmost being. This it is that he loves, and ever will love in me, for this is and ever will be unchanged! Be joyous, Charlotte, be happy! Do not dread the unhappiness of old age. Voltaire was wrong, and I will take the liberty of correcting Voltaire. His sentence should read:
“Qui n’a pas l’esprit de la jeunesseN’aura que le malheur de la vieillesse.”
“Qui n’a pas l’esprit de la jeunesseN’aura que le malheur de la vieillesse.”
“Qui n’a pas l’esprit de la jeunesseN’aura que le malheur de la vieillesse.”
“Qui n’a pas l’esprit de la jeunesse
N’aura que le malheur de la vieillesse.”
“Yes, thus it should read: ‘Who does not bear the spirit of youth within himself, to him old age brings nothing but unhappiness!’”
As her dear friend soon afterward entered the pavilion, Charlotte advanced to meet him with the reflection of enduring youth resting on her brow, and a glad smile on her lips.
But he did not observe it, his countenance was grave and earnest. He came with the conviction that the thunder storm that had been long gathering overhead would now burst upon them in all its fury. He had come armed for the fraywith this outward sternness of manner, while his soul was filled with grief and tenderness.
“Goethe,” she murmured, extending both hands to greet him, “Goethe, I thank you for having come.”
“Charlotte,” said he, gently, “how can you thank me for doing what is as gratifying to me as to yourself?”
“And yet I was compelled to entreat you to do so for the fourth time. Three times you excused yourself with pretexts,” she cried, forgetful of her good resolutions, and carried away by her sensitiveness.
“Pretexts?” repeated Goethe.—“Well, if you will have it so, I must admit that they were pretexts, and this should convince you, Charlotte, of my anxiety to avoid offending you; for to any one else I would plainly and openly have said: ‘I will not come.’ It will be better for us both if we avoid any further explanation. It would perhaps have been wiser, my dear Charlotte, if you had endeavored to master this irritation in silence, instead of bringing about the explanations which it would have been better for us both to have avoided.”
“I have nothing to avoid; I can give every explanation. I can lay bare my heart and soul to you, Wolf, and give an account of my every thought and deed. No, I have no cause to avoid explanations. I love you and have always been true to you, but you, you—”
“My love,” he said, interrupting her, “do not reproach me again; my soul’s pinions are already drooping under the weight of reproaches that retard the flight of my imagination!”
“Now you are reproaching me!” cried Charlotte. “I am to blame that the pinions of your soul are drooping! O Wolf, how can you be so cruel! To reproach me!”
“No, Charlotte, I do not reproach you, and how could I? If you have to bear with me in many things, it is but right that I, too, should suffer. It is much better to make a friendly compromise, than to strive to conform to eachother’s requirements in all things, and, in the event of our endeavor being unsuccessful, to become completely estranged. I would, however, still remain your debtor in any agreement we might make. When we reflect how much we have to bear from all men, my love, it will teach us to be considerate with each other.”[55]
“Then we are no longer to endeavor to live together in happiness, but only in an observance of consideration toward each other?” cried Charlotte.
“I had hoped that consideration for each other’s weaknesses would lead us back to happiness. I, for my part, will gladly be indulgent.”
“I was not aware that I stood in need of your indulgence,” said Charlotte, proudly.
“I will, however, be indulgent, nevertheless. And I will gladly say—that is, if you care to hear it—that your discontent and many reproaches have left no feeling of anger in my heart, although they inflicted great pain.”
“This is surely to be attributed to the fact that candor compels you to admit that my reproaches are just, and my discontent, as you call my sadness, but natural under the circumstances. Tell me, Wolf, what reproaches have I ever made that were not fully warranted by your changed manner and coldness?”
“There it is!” cried Goethe, beginning to lay aside his kindly manner, and to resent Charlotte’s haughtiness; “therein lies the reproach, and, I must say, the unmerited reproach. This is the refrain that I have been compelled to listen to ever since my return. I am changed, I love you no longer. And yet my return and my remaining here, are the best and most conclusive proofs of my love for you! For your sake, I returned—for your sake I tore myself from Italy, and all the beauties that surrounded me, and—”
“And also from the beauty who had entwined herself around your faithless heart,” added Charlotte.
He did not notice this interruption, but continued in more animated tones: “And for your sake have I remained here, although I have felt that this life was scarcely endurable ever since my return. I saw Herder and the duchess take their departure; she urged me to take the vacant seat in her carriage, and journey to Italy in her company, but I remained, and remained on your account. And yet I am told, over and over again, that I might as well have remained away—that I no longer take an interest in my fellow-man, and that it is no pleasure to be in my company.”[56]
“That I have never said.”
“You have said that and much more! You have called me indifferent, cruel, cold-hearted! Ask all my other friends if I am indifferent to them, less communicative, or take less interest in all that concerns them, than formerly. Ask them if I do not belong more completely to them and to society than formerly.”
“Yes, indeed, so it is! You belong more to them and society, because you belong less to me; you have abandoned our intimate, secret, and peculiar relation, in order to devote yourself to the world in general. This relation is no longer pleasant, because all confidence is at an end between us.”
“Charlotte,” cried he, in angry tones, “whenever I have been so fortunate as to find you reasonable and disposed to converse on interesting topics, I have felt that this confidence still existed. But this I must admit,” he continued, with increased violence, and now, that the floodgates were once opened, no longer able to repress his indignation; “this I must admit, the manner in which you have treated me of late is no longer endurable. When I felt disposed to converse, you closed my lips; when I was communicative, you accused me of indifference; and when I manifested interest in my friends, you accused me of coldness and negligence. You have criticised my every word, have found fault with my manner, and have invariably made me feel thoroughly ill atease. How can confidence and sincerity prosper when you drive me from your side with studied caprice?”[57]
“With studied caprice?” repeated Charlotte, bursting into tears. “As if my sadness, which he calls studied caprice, were not the natural result of the unhappiness which he has caused me.”
“I should like to know what unhappiness I have caused you. Tell me, Charlotte; make your accusations; perhaps I can succeed in convincing you that you are wrong.”
“It shall be as you say,” cried Charlotte, passionately. “I accuse you of being faithless, of having forgotten the love which you vowed should live and die with you—of having forgotten it in a twofold love, in a noble and in an unworthy one.”
“Charlotte, consider well what you say; weigh your words lest they offend my soul.”
“Did you weigh your words? You have offended my soul mortally, fearfully. Or, perhaps, you suppose your telling me to my face that you had loved another woman in Italy, and had left there in order to flee from this love, could not have inflicted such fearful pain.”
“Had left there in order to preserve myself foryou, Charlotte; to remain true toyou.”
“A great preservation, indeed, when love is already lost. And even if I admit that the beauty of the charming Italian girl made you for the moment forgetful of your plighted faith, what shall I say to what is now going on here in Weimar? What shall I think of the great poet, the noble man, the whole-souled, loving friend, when he finds his pleasure in secret, disreputable intercourse with a person who has neither standing nor education, who belongs to a miserable family, and who, in my estimation, is not even worthy to be my chambermaid? Oh, to think, to know, that the poet Goethe, the privy-councillor Goethe, the scholar Goethe—that hesteals secretly to that wretched house in the evening to visit the daughter of a drunkard! To think thatmyGoethe, my heart’s favorite, my pride, and my love, has turned from me to a person who is so low that he himself is ashamed of her, and only visits her clandestinely, anxiously endeavoring to avoid recognition!”
“If I did that, it was for your sake,” cried he, pale with inward agitation, his lips quivering, and his eyes sparkling. “If I visited her clandestinely, I did so because I knew that your noble perception was dimmed, and that you were no longer capable of looking down upon these petty, earthly relations from a more exalted stand-point. If you were wise and high-hearted, Charlotte, you would ignore a relation that lies entirely out of the sphere in which we both live. Of what nature is this relation? Upon whose rights does it trespass? Who lays claim to the feelings I bestow upon this poor creature? Who claims the hours that I pass in her company?”[58]
With a loud cry of anguish, Charlotte raised her arms toward heaven, “O God, he admits it! He admits this fearful relation!”
“Yes,” said he, proudly, “he does, but he also entreats you to aid him in preventing the relation you so greatly abhor, from degenerating—to aid him in keeping it as it is. Confide in me again, look at this matter from a natural point of view, permit me to reason with you on the subject, and I may still hope to bring about a good understanding between us.”[59]
“Not I!” she cried, with a proud toss of her head. “No good understanding can exist between us while this person stands in the way—this person who makes me blush with shame and humiliation, when I reflect that the hand which grasps my own has, perhaps, touched hers; that these lips—oh, Wolf, I shudder with anger and disgust, when I reflectthat you might kiss me after having kissed her a short time before!”
“There will be no further occasion for such disagreeable reflections,” said he, gruffly, his countenance deathly pale. “Out of love I have endured much from you, but you have now gone too far! I repeat it, you will never again have to overcome the disgust of being kissed by me, and while I, as you observed, have perhaps kissed another but a short time before! And as for this other woman, I must now confess that you were quite right in reproaching me for visiting her clandestinely, and making a mystery of our relation. You are right, this is wrong and cowardly; a man must always avow his actions, boldly and openly; and this I will do! Farewell, Charlotte, you have shown me the right path, and I will follow it! We now separate, perhaps to meet no more in life; let me tell you before I go that I owe to you the happiest years of my life! I have known no greater happiness than my confidence in you—the confidence that has hitherto been unbounded. Now, that this confidence no longer exists, I have become another being, and must in the future suffer still further changes!”[60]
He ceased speaking, and struggled to repress the tears that were rushing from his heart to his eyes. Charlotte stared at him in dismay and breathless anxiety. Her heart stood still, her lips were parted, but she repressed the cry of anguish that trembled on her lips, as he had repressed his tears. A warm, tender, forgiving word might perhaps have called him back, and all misunderstanding might have vanished in tears, remorse, and forgiveness; but Charlotte was too proud, she had been too deeply wounded in her love and vanity to consent to such a humiliation. She had exercised such great power over Goethe for the past ten years, that she perhaps even now believed that he would return, humble himself before her, and endeavor to atone for the past. But the thought did not occur to her that a man can forgive the woman who mistrustshis love, but that he never will forgive her who wounds his pride and his honor.
Charlotte did not speak; she stood motionless, as in a trance, and saw him take up his hat, incline his head, and murmur: “Farewell! dearest, beloved Charlotte, farewell!”
Then all was still, and she saw him no longer! She glanced wildly and searchingly around the room, and when the dread consciousness that he had gone, and that she was surrounded by a terrible solitude, dawned upon her, Charlotte sank down on her knees, stretched out her arms toward the door through which his dear form had vanished, and murmured, with pale, quivering lips: “Farewell! lost dream of my youth, farewell! Lost delight, lost happiness, lost hope, farewell! Night and solitude surround me! Youth and love have departed, and old age and desolation are at hand! Henceforth, no one will love me! I shall be alone! Fearfully alone! Farewell!”
While Charlotte was wailing and struggling with her grief, Goethe was pacing restlessly to and fro in the shady little retreat in the park to which he had so often confided his inmost thoughts in the eventful years that rolled by. When he left the park, after hours of struggling with his own heart, an expression rested on his noble and handsome countenance that had never been observed there before. An expression of mingled gloom and determination was depicted in his features. His eyes were luminous, not with their usual glow of enthusiasm, but with subdued and sudden flames. “Descended into hell, and arisen again from the dead!” murmured he, with a derisive smile, as he walked on through the streets to the wretched little house in which Christiane Vulpius drunken father and his family lived.
She came forward to greet him with an exclamation of joyous surprise, for it was the first time Goethe had visited, in the light of day, the little house in which she lived. She threw herself into his extended arms, entwined hers around his neck and kissed him.
Goethe pressed her lovely head to his bosom, and then raised it gently between his hands. He gazed long and tenderly into her large blue eyes. “Christiane,” murmured he, “Christiane, will you be my wife?”
A dark glow suffused itself over her face and neck, and then a clear ringing peal of laughter, like the joyous outburst of a feathered songster, escaped her coral lips, displaying two rows of pearly teeth. “I, your wife, my good friend? Why do you jest with poor little Christiane?”
“I am not jesting, Christiane. I ask you in all earnestness, Will you be my wife?”
“In all earnestness?” repeated she, the gaze of her large, soft eyes fastened with an expression of astonishment on Goethe, who stood regarding her intently, his countenance radiant with a tender smile.
“Give me an answer, Christiane.”
“First, givemean answer, my good friend. Answer this question. Do you love me? Am I still your pet, your singing-bird, your little love, your fragrant violet?”
“You still are, and will ever remain my pet, my singing-bird, my little love, and my violet.”
“Then let me remain what I am, my dear sir. I am but a poor little girl, and not worthy to be the wife of a gentleman of high rank; I would cut but a poor figure at your side, as the wife of the mighty privy-councillor, and you might even suppose I had only accepted your love because I had seen the altar and this magnificence in the background.”
“I could not think so, my darling; I know that you love me.”
“Then I wish you to understand, good sir, that I must remain as I am, for you are pleased with me as I am. Let me still remain your violet, and blossom in obscurity, observed by no one but you, my good friend and master. I will serve you, I will be your maid-servant, and will work and sew and cook for you. For this I am suited; but I cannot become a noble lady worthy to bear your celebrated name. If I wereyour wife, you would often have cause to blush for me; if I remain your love, I can perhaps amuse you by my little drolleries, and you would have no cause to be ashamed of the ignorant girl who craved nothing except to be near you, and to have you smile on her sometimes.”[61]
“Christiane, you shall ever be near me; I will always smile on you!” protested Goethe, deeply moved.
“Always near you!” repeated Christiane, in joyous, exulting tones. “Oh, do let me be with you, good sir! Let me be your servant—your housekeeper. I will serve and obey you, I will honor you as my master, and I will love you as my dearest friend!”
“And I,” said Goethe, laying his hand on her golden hair, “I swear, by the Eternal Spirit of Love and of Nature, that I will love you, and that your happiness shall be the chief end of my life. I swear that I will honor you as my wife, protect and cherish you as my child, and be to you a husband and father until death.”
He stooped and kissed her shining hair and fair brow, and gazed tenderly into her lustrous eyes. “And now, my pet, get ready and come with me!”
“To go where? You cannot intend to walk with me through the public streets in the broad light of day?”
“Through the public streets, and in the broad light of day, at your side!”
“But that will not do,” said she, in dismay. “It would not be proper for a noble, celebrated gentleman to be seen in public with a poor, humble creature like myself. What would the world say?”
“Let the world say what it will! Come, my violet, I will transplant you to my garden, and there you shall blossom in the future.”
She no longer resisted, but threw her shawl over her shoulders, covered her golden tresses with the hat adorned withroses of her own manufacture, stepped with Goethe from beneath the roof of her father’s wretched house, and walked at his side through the streets to the stately mansion on Market Square, henceforth destined to be her home.
Goethe conducted her up the broad stairway, through the antechamber, and into his reception-room. Both were silent, but the countenances of both were radiant with happiness.
With a gentle hand he relieved her of her shawl and hat, pressed her to his bosom, and then, with upturned eyes, he cried, in loud and impressive tones: “Oftmals hab’ ich geirrt, und habe mich wieder gefunden, aber glücklicher nie; nun ist dies Mädchen mein Glück! Ist auch dieses ein Irrthum, so schont mich, ihr klügeren Götter, und benehmt mir ihn erst drüben am kalten Gestade.”[62]
SCHILLER’S MARRIAGE.
The two great intellects, whose genius shed such rays of light over Weimar, and over all Germany, neither knew nor loved each other. These two heroes of poetry still kept at a distance from each other, and yet there was a wondrous uniformity in their inner life, although their outward existence was so different. Goethe, the recognized poet, the man of rank, who had never known want or care: Schiller, still struggling, creating much that was great and beautiful, but aspiring to, and foreseeing with prophetic mind, a future of greater and more brilliant success—Schiller, the man of humble standing, who was still wrestling with want and care. His anxiety and poverty were not destined to be relieved by the appointment which Schiller received in the year 1789, as Professorof History at the University of Jena, for—no salary was attached to this professorship!
“A Mr. Frederick Schiller,” wrote (not the poet, but) the Minister Goethe—a report forwarded to the Duke Charles August at that time—“a Mr. Frederick Schiller, who has made himself known to the world by his History of the Netherlands, is disposed to take up his abode at the University of Jena. The possibility of this acquisition is all the more worthy of consideration from the fact that it could be had gratis.”
Gratis! The Dukes of Weimar, Meiningen, Altenburg, and Gotha, the patrons of the University of Jena, could offer nothing but a professorship without salary to the poet of “Don Carlos,” of “Fiesco,” of “Louise Müllerin,” and of “The Robbers”—to the poet of so many glorious songs, to the author of “The History of the Netherlands!” They had but one title, but one appointment, to bestow upon the man to honor whom was to honor themselves, and this appointment was made to save expense!
Schiller accepted this professorship with the nobility of mind of the poet whose soul aspired rather to honor and renown than to pecuniary reward, and who had, for those who profited by his labors while withholding all compensation, nothing but a contemptuous shrug of the shoulders and a proud smile. Schiller’s friends were, however, by no means satisfied with this appointment; his practical friend Körner called his attention to the fact, that the necessities of life were also worthy of some consideration, advising him to inform the minister of state that the addition of a salary to his title of professor was both desirable and very necessary. But Schiller was too proud to solicit as a favor what had not been accorded from a sense of duty. He would not beg bread for theprofessor, hoping that the poet would be able to support him. He had been accustomed to study close economy, and to struggle with want; care had been his inseparable companion throughout his entire life. The poet had ever looked up toheaven in blissful enthusiasm, rejoicing in the glory of God, and had been “with Him” while the world was being divided among those who understood looking after their pecuniary interests better than the poet. His heart was rich, and his wants were few. He did not desire wealth, and had refused the rich lady tendered him in marriage by his friend Körner. His loving heart should alone be his guide in the selection of a wife.
His loving heart! Had not Schiller a Charlotte, as well as Goethe? The year 1789 had been an eventful one in Goethe’s heart’s history, and had effected a final separation between Goethe and his Charlotte: the same year was also destined to be an important one in Schiller’s heart’s history, and to bring about a crisis in his relations to his Charlotte.
The experience of the two women at this period was of a similar nature. Charlotte von Kalb had often entreated Schiller to pay her a visit, but in vain. He had invariably excused himself with the plea that the duties of his professorship in Jena were of such a nature that it was impossible to leave there even for a single day.
At last Charlotte despatched a messenger to Jena with this laconic letter: “If you do not come to me in Weimar, I will go to you in Jena. Answer.” And Schiller’s answer was—“I am coming!”
She was now awaiting him, gazing fixedly at the door; a nameless fear made her heart throb wildly.
“He shall not find me weak,” murmured she; “no, I will neither weep nor complain. No, my pride must give me strength to conceal my anguish, and to hear the decision, whatever it may be, with a smiling countenance. I will cover my heart with a veil, and it shall rest with him to withdraw it with a loving hand, if he will.”
“Here you are at last, my Frederick!” she said to Schiller on his arrival. “It seems, however, that a threat was necessary to bring you!”
“No, dearest friend,” replied Schiller, gayly, “the threatwas unnecessary! You know that I love you with my whole soul, and my heart has always yearned to see you once more. The duties of my professorship are such that I find it almost impossible to leave Jena.”
A bitter smile rested for a moment on Charlotte’s lips, but she quickly repressed it. “It is but natural that the new professor should be so busily engaged as not to be able to find time to pay his friend a visit. And yet, Frederick, it was necessary that I should speak to you; life has now brought me to a point where I must decide upon taking one of two paths that lie before me.”
“Charlotte, I am convinced that your heart and your wisdom will prompt you to take the right path,” said Schiller.
She inclined her head in assent. “At our last interview I was excited and agitated; I reproached you for not having spoken to my husband. I believe I even wept, and called you faithless and ungrateful.”
“Why awaken these remembrances, Charlotte? I have endeavored to forget all this, and to bear in mind that we should make allowance for words uttered by our friends when irritated. We have both dreamed a sweet dream, my friend, and have, unfortunately, been made aware that our romantic air-castles are not destined to be realized in this prosaic world.”
“Do you call the plans we have both made for our future, romantic air-castles?”
“Yes,” replied Schiller, with some little hesitation, “I am unhappily compelled to do so. A marriage with you was the brightest and most glorious air-castle of my fantasy; and may the egotism of my love be forgiven if I once dreamed that this castle might on some blissful day descend to earth and open its portals to admit us within its radiant halls! But sober thought followed quickly upon this trance of ecstasy, and told me that these heavenly dreams could not be realized.”
“Why not?”
“Because I can offer you no compensation for the greatsacrifice you would be compelled to make, and because the thought that you might live to regret what you had done fills me with horror. You are a lady of rank, accustomed to the comforts and luxuries of an aristocratic house. I am only a poor professor, accustomed to hardships and want, and not in a condition to provide a comfortable home for a wife. Whoever takes me must enter upon life with modest expectations, and begin an existence at my side that offers little for the present but hopes and prospects. It would even require much self-denial on the part of a young girl, who is but just beginning life, to become the wife of a poor professor and poet. How much more would it require on the part of a lady of high rank to exchange a palace for an humble cottage, and to relinquish wealth, rank, and even the son she so dearly loves? What could I give her in return after she had relinquished all these blessings? Charlotte, to live with me is to labor, and labor would wound your tender hands. Therefore, forgive the enraptured poet, who thought only of his own happiness when he dared to hope you might still be his, without reflecting that he had no right to purchase his happiness at the expense of that of his idol.”
“You are right, my dear friend; we must never permit love to make us selfish, and we must consider the happiness of the object of our love more than our own. We will both consider this and act accordingly. You have my happiness at heart; let me, therefore, consider yours. Schiller, I conjure you by the great Spirit of Truth and Love, now surely hovering over us, tell me the truth—answer the question I am about to ask as truthfully as you would before God: Do you love me so firmly, so warmly, and so exclusively, that my possession can alone make you happy?”
“Charlotte, this is, indeed, a question that I could only answer before God.”
“God dwells in the breast of each human being, and, by the God of Love, who has stretched out His hand over me, I demand of you a truthful answer to my question: Do youlove me so firmly, so warmly, and so exclusively that my possession can alone make you happy?”
A pause ensued—a long pause. The God of Truth and of Love, whose presence Charlotte had so solemnly proclaimed, alone beheld the pale countenances of the two beings who stood face to face with the bitter feeling that nothing on earth is constant, and that all is subject to change and destruction—even love!
“No!” said Schiller, in a low voice, “no, I do not love you so firmly, so warmly, and so exclusively. Nor do I believe we would be happy together, for it is only when no passion exists that marriage can unite two beings in an eternal union; and then, Charlotte, you are also too exalted for me, and a woman who is a superior being cannot, I believe, make me happy. I must have a wife whom I can educate, who is my creation, who belongs to me alone, whom I alone can make happy, and in whose existence I can renew my own—a wife who is young, inexperienced, and gentle, not highly gifted, devoted to me, and eager to contribute to my comfort and peace.”[63]
“In a word, a woman who is young,” said Charlotte, with proud composure, “or rather, a young girl who is like a sheet of white paper, on which your love is to write the first word.”
“Yes, Charlotte, so it is! You understand my heart as you have always understood it.”
“I relinquish from to-day all further claim to any such understanding, and I can only give you one last piece of advice, and that is, to ask Mademoiselle von Lengefeld if she is not desirous of being the sheet of paper on which you could write your name. I advise you to marry Mademoiselle von Lengefeld; she seems to possess all the required qualifications: she is not gifted, has no experience, and can certainly not be called a superior being.”
“But a noble, an amiable being,” cried Schiller, passionately; “a being full of innocence and goodness, a fair creature full of heart and feeling, full of gentleness and mildness;moreover, she has a noble heart, and a mind capable of great cultivation. She has understanding for all that is intellectual, reverence for all that is great and beautiful, and is at the same time modest, affectionate, playful, and naïve.”
“In brief, she is an ideal,” said Charlotte, derisively. “But let your thoughts sojourn with me for a moment longer. At my request you have told me the truth, now you shall hear the truth from my lips. We might have spared ourselves all these explanations, but I desired to probe your heart to assure myself that I would not wound you too deeply by telling you what I must now avow. Now that I am no longer uneasy on that score, you shall hear the truth from my lips. My air-castles have vanished also—vanished so long since, that I scarcely have a recollection of them, and can only think of them as of a foolish dream, that neither could nor should have been realized. I have awakened, and I will remain what I am, the wife of Mr. von Kalb, and the mother of my son. I live once more in the present, and the past with all its recollections and follies is obliterated.”[64]
“I am glad to hear this,” said Schiller, in a clear and composed voice, the gaze of his large blue eyes fastened on Charlotte’s cold and haughty countenance with an expression of severity. “I am glad to hear that the past is obliterated from your remembrance, as it is from mine. I can now speak to you freely and openly of the happiness which the future has, as I hope, in store for me. I love Charlotte von Lengefeld, and now that you have discarded me, I am at liberty to ask her to become my wife.”
“Do so,” said she, quietly. “We are about to separate, but my blessing will remain with you; any correspondence between us in the future would, of course, be annoying, and as our letters of the past have become meaningless, I must request you to return mine.”[65]
“As you had already written to me on this subject severaltimes, I took the precaution of bringing these letters with me to-day. Here they are. I have preserved them carefully and lovingly, and I confess that it gives me great pain to part with these relics of the past.”
He handed her the little sealed package which he had drawn from his breast-pocket; she did not take it, however, but merely pointed to the table.
“I thank you, and I will now return your letters.”
She walked into the adjoining room, closing the door softly behind her. With trembling hands she took Schiller’s letters from the little box in which she had kept them. She kissed them, pressed them to her heart and eyes, and kissed them again and again, but when she saw that a tear had fallen on the paper she wiped it off carefully; she then walked rapidly to the door and opened it. On the threshold she stood still, composed, proudly erect.
“Schiller, here are the letters!”
He approached and took them from her hand, which she quickly withdrew. She then returned to the adjoining room, locking the door behind her.
This was their leave-taking, this their parting, after long years of love!
With downcast eyes and in deep sadness of heart, Schiller left the house of the woman he had once loved so ardently. But this soon passed away and gave place to the blissful feeling that he was once more free—free to offer his heart, his hand, and his life, to the woman he loved!
A few days later his heart’s longing was gratified. He went to Rudolstadt and received a loving and cordial welcome from both sisters. Both! But only one of the sisters was at liberty to bestow her hand. Caroline was not! Her hand was fettered by her plighted troth, and even if her husband’s consent to a separation could have been obtained, there were other fetters. She was in her sister’s confidence. She knew that Charlotte loved Schiller tenderly.
They were together in the quiet little parlor, they threealone, for the mother was absent on a little journey. Schiller sat between the sisters, his countenance radiant with happiness.
“Oh, my fair friends, how delighted I am to be with you once more!”
“Schiller,” whispered Caroline, laying her hand gently on his shoulder, “Schiller, I have a word to say to you. Come!”
She conducted him to a window-recess, and inclined her head so close to his ear that her trembling lips kissed one of his fair locks. “Schiller,” whispered she, “you love my sister, and I know that she loves you. Courage, confess your love, and God bless you both!”
Having said this, she walked noiselessly from the room, retired to her solitary chamber, closed the door behind her, and sank down on her knees. She shed no tears, and the brave soul of this noble woman was exalted above all pain in this hour of her great sacrifice. Her chaste lips would not express the noble secret in words, even before God. But her Maker may have read her sacrifice in the expression of anguish and resignation in her upturned countenance.
“Be happy, Schiller! God bless you both! Be happy! then I will be happy, too.”
On returning to the parlor, Caroline’s countenance shone with pleasure, and her lips parted in a happy smile when she saw the two lovers in a close embrace, heart to heart.
“Oh, dear Caroline, she has confessed; you were certainly right! She loves me, she is mine. And so are you, Caroline, you are also mine, and we three will belong to each other for evermore!”
“Yes, for evermore, my friend, my brother!” She gently entwined her arms around Schiller’s and Lottie’s neck; and now the three were joined in one close and loving embrace.
“I have at last entered the haven of happiness,” said Schiller, in deep emotion. “I have, at last, found my home, and eternal peace and repose are mine. I am encircled with your love as with a halo, ye beloved sisters; and now all the greatexpectations which you have entertained concerning me will be realized, for happiness will exalt me above myself. Charlotte, you shall never again have cause to tell me I look gloomy, for your love will shed a flood of sunshine on my existence hereafter. You shall teach me to laugh and be merry. O God, I thank Thee for permitting me to find this happiness! I, too, was born in Arcadia!”
They held each other in a close embrace, they wept for joy, and their souls, beaming eyes, and smiling lips, exchanged mute vows of eternal love and fidelity.
These were blissful days for Schiller. Madame von Lengefeld had given her consent to the marriage of her daughter Lottie with Schiller, sooner than the lovers expected. Charles August gave the poet the title of privy-councillor, and attached a salary of two hundred dollars to his professorship, as a marriage present. The title delighted Madame von Lengefeld, and somewhat reconciled her aristocratic heart to the thought that her daughter, who had been on the point of becoming a maid of honor, should now marry a man of the people. Schiller deemed his salary of two hundred dollars quite a small fortune, and hoped that this, together with the fruits of his poetic labors, would be sufficient to provide a comfortable home for his darling, and—“space in the smallest cottage for a happy and loving pair!”
They were a “happy, loving pair;” and the serene heaven of their happiness was undimmed by the smallest cloud. Had a cloud appeared, Charlotte’s quick eye would have detected and dissipated it before the lovers were aware of its existence. The sister watched over their happiness like their good genius, like a faithful sentinel.
At times, while gazing dreamily into his Lottie’s soft eyes, Schiller would smile and then ask her if she really loved him, as though such happiness were incredible.
In reply, Charlotte would smile and protest that she had loved him for a long time, and that her sister, who had known her secret, could confirm her statement.
“And she it was who told me this sweet secret. Yes, Caroline was the beneficent angel who infused courage into my timid heart.”
“Yes, she is an angel!” said Charlotte, thoughtfully. “I look up to her as to a being far superior to myself, and, let me confess, my beloved, that the thought sometimes torments me that she really could be more to you than I am, and that I am not necessary to your happiness.”
He gazed into her lovely countenance, an expression of perfect peace resting on his own. “Your love is all I require to make me happy. The peculiar and happiest feature of our union is, that it is self-sustaining, ever revolving on its own axis in a well-defined orbit; this forbids my entertaining the fear that I could ever be less to either of you, or that I could ever receive less from you. Our love has no need of anxiety—of watchfulness. How could I rejoice in my existence unless for you and Caroline?—how could I always retain sufficient control over my own soul, unless I entertained the sweet conviction that my feelings toward both, and each of you, were of such a nature that I am not forced to withdraw from the one what I give to the other? My soul revolves between you in safety, ever returning lovingly from the one to the other, the same star, the same ray of light, differently reflected from different mirrors. Caroline is nearer to me in age, and therefore more closely akin to me in the form of her thought and feeling; but I would not have you other than you are, for all the world, Lottie. That in which Caroline is your superior, you must receive from me; your soul must expand in my love, and you must be my creation. Your blossom must fall in the spring of my love.”[66]
“Yes,” cried Charlotte, entwining her arm more closely around his neck, “I will be your creation, and happy shall I feel in the consciousness of belonging to you, and of being able to contribute somewhat to your happiness.”[67]
On the morning of the twentieth of February, 1790, a closed carriage drove rapidly from Rudolstadt in the direction of Jena. But this carriage stopped in the little village in the immediate vicinity of the university-city— Weningenjena—at the door of the village church with its tapering spire.
The sexton was standing at the open door in his Sunday suit; when the carriage drove up, he hastened forward to open the door. A tall gentleman, attired in black, stepped out; his countenance was pale, but a wondrous light beamed in his eyes, and noble thoughts were enthroned on his brow, while his lips were parted in a soft smile. With tender solicitude, he helped an elderly lady from the carriage. Then followed a younger lady, with pale cheeks, but with eyes that were radiant with love and peace. At last a young girl—a girl with rosy cheeks, and a timid, childlike smile on her fresh lips—was about to descend from the carriage, but the tall gentleman would not suffer her to touch the pavement with her tender little feet. He raised her fair form in his arms, and bore her over the rough stones and into the church.
The two ladies followed, and behind them came the sexton, gravely shaking his head, and ruminating over the strangely quiet nature of the approaching ceremony. He did what Pastor Schmidt, who was already standing between the burning wax-candles in front of the altar, had told him to do. He closed and locked the church doors, so that no one should see what was going on in the church.
And you, too, ye rude winter winds, hold your breath and blow softly! and thou, thou clear blue sky, look down mildly; and thou, bright sun, shed thy warmest rays through the windows into the little village church of Weningenjena. For the poet Frederick Schiller is standing before its altar at the side of his lovely bride. Charlotte weeps, but her tears are tears of emotion and of joy. The mother stands at her side, her hands folded in prayer. Caroline’s eyes are upturned; and God reads the mute entreaty of her lips.
Schiller’s countenance is radiant with peace and happiness,and manly determination beams in the large blue eyes that gaze so firmly and tranquilly at the preacher, who stands before the altar, proclaiming the sacred nature of the union about to be consummated.
Subdue your fury, ye boisterous winter storms! do not touch the poet’s cheeks too rudely with your cold breath. He has already suffered much from cold winter winds, he has journeyed over rough paths—has renounced and struggled, and has often seen his heart’s fairest blossoms bruised and borne away by rude storms. Be tranquil, and let the spring-time come, that the buds of his hopes may put forth blossoms.
Shed thy glorious light upon this little church, thou heavenly sun! greet the poet Frederick Schiller, the poet of the German nation, who is now celebrating life’s fairest festival before its holy altar! But,