Of all the pleasant things which imagination pictures to us, perhaps

there is none more charming than when lovers and young married people

look forward to enjoying their new relation to each other in a fresh,

new world, and test the endurance of the bond between them in so many

changing circumstances. The Major and Charlotte were in the meantime to

have unrestricted powers to settle all questions of money, property, and

other such important worldly matters; and to do whatever was right and

proper for the satisfaction of all parties. What Edward dwelt the most

upon, however, what he seemed to promise himself the most advantage from

was this:--as the child would have to remain with the mother, the Major

would charge himself with the education of it; he would train the boy

according to his own views, and develop what capacities there might be

in him. It was not for nothing that he had received in his baptism the

name of Otto, which belonged to them both.

Edward had so completely arranged everything for himself, that he could

not wait another day to carry it into execution. On their way to the

castle, they arrived at a small town, where Edward had a house, and

where he was to stay to await the return of the Major. He could not,

however, prevail upon himself to alight there at once, and accompanied

his friend through the place. They were both on horseback, and falling

into some interesting conversation, rode on further together.

On a sudden they saw, in the distance, the new house on the height, with

its red tiles shining in the sun. An irresistible longing came over

Edward; he would have it all settled that very evening; he would remain

concealed in a village close by. The Major was to urge the business on

Charlotte with all his power; he would take her prudence by surprise;

and oblige her by the unexpectedness of his proposal to make a free

acknowledgment of her feelings. Edward had transferred his own wishes to

her; he felt certain that he was only meeting her half-way, and that her

inclinations were as decided as his own; and he looked for an immediate

consent from her, because he himself could think of nothing else.

Joyfully he saw the prosperous issue before his eyes; and that it might

be communicated to him as swiftly as possible, a few cannon shots were

to be fired off, and if it was dark, a rocket or two sent up.

The Major rode to the castle. He did not find Charlotte there; he learnt

that for the present she was staying at the new house; at that

particular time, however, she was paying a visit in the neighborhood,

and she probably would not have returned till late that evening. He

walked back to the hotel, to which he had previously sent his horse.

Edward, in the meantime, unable to sit still from restlessness and

impatience, stole away out of his concealment along solitary paths known

only to foresters and fishermen, into his park; and he found himself

toward evening in the copse close to the lake, the broad mirror of which

he now for the first time saw spread out in its perfectness before him.

Ottilie had gone out that afternoon for a walk along the shore. She had

the child with her, and read as she usually did while she went along.

She had gone as far as the oak-tree by the ferry. The boy had fallen

asleep; she sat down; laid it on the ground at her side, and continued

reading. The book was one of those which attract persons of delicate

feeling, and afterward will not let them go again. She forgot the time

and the hours; she never thought what a long way round it was by land to

the new house; but she sat lost in her book and in herself, so beautiful

to look at, that the trees and the bushes round her ought to have been

alive, and to have had eyes given them to gaze upon her and admire her.

The sun was sinking; a ruddy streak of light fell upon her from behind,

tinging with gold her cheek and shoulder. Edward, who had made his way

to the lake without being seen, finding his park desolate, and no trace

of human creature to be seen anywhere, went on and on. At last he broke

through the copse behind the oak-tree, and saw her. At the same moment

she saw him. He flew to her, and threw himself at her feet. After a

long, silent pause, in which they both endeavored to collect themselves,

he explained in a few words why and how he had come there. He had sent

the Major to Charlotte; and perhaps at that moment their common destiny

was being decided. Never had he doubted her affection, and she assuredly

had never doubted his. He begged for her consent; she hesitated; he

implored her. He offered to resume his old privilege, and throw his arms

around her, and embrace her; she pointed down to the child.

Edward looked at it, and was amazed. "Great God!" he cried; "if I had

cause to doubt my wife and my friend, this face would witness fearfully

against them. Is not this the very image of the Major? I never saw such

a likeness."

"Indeed!" replied Ottilie; "all the world say it is like me."

"Is it possible?" Edward answered; and at the moment the child opened

its eyes--two large, black, piercing eyes, deep and full of love;

already the little face was full of intelligence. He seemed as if he

knew both the figures which he saw standing before him. Edward threw

himself down beside the child, and then knelt a second time before

Ottilie. "It is you," he cried; "the eyes are yours! ah, but let me look

into yours; let me throw a veil over that ill-starred hour which gave

its being to this little creature. Shall I shock your pure spirit with

the fearful thought, that man and wife who are estranged from each

other, can yet press each other to their heart, and profane the bonds by

which the law unites them by other eager wishes? Oh yes! As I have said

so much; as my connection with Charlotte must now be severed; as you

will be mine, why should I not speak out the words to you? This child is

the offspring of a double adultery. It should have been a tie between my

wife and myself; but it severs her from me, and me from her. Let it

witness, then, against me. Let these fair eyes say to yours, that in the

arms of another I belonged to you. You must feel, Ottilie, oh! you must

feel, that my fault, my crime, I can only expiate in your arms."

"Hark!" he called out, as he sprang up and listened. He thought that he

had heard a shot, and that it was the sign which the Major was to give.

It was the gun of a forester on the adjoining hill. Nothing followed.

Edward grew impatient.

Ottilie now first observed that the sun was down behind the mountains;

its last rays were shining on the windows of the house above. "Leave me,

Edward," she cried; "go. Long as we have been parted, much as we have

borne, yet remember what we both owe to Charlotte. She must decide our

fate; do not let us anticipate her judgment. I am yours if she will

permit it to be so. If she will not, I must renounce you. As you think

it is now so near an issue, let us wait. Go back to the village, where

the Major supposes you to be. Is it likely that a rude cannon-shot will

inform you of the results of such an interview? Perhaps at this moment

he is seeking for you. He will not have found Charlotte at home; of that

I am certain. He may have gone to meet her; for they knew at the castle

where she was. How many things may have happened! Leave me! she must be

at home by this time; she is expecting me there with the baby."

Ottilie spoke hurriedly; she called together all the possibilities. It

was too delightful to be with Edward; but she felt that he must now

leave her. "I beseech, I implore you, my beloved," she cried out; "go

back and wait for the Major."

"I obey your commands," cried Edward. He gazed at her for a moment with

rapturous love, and then caught her close in his arms. She wound her own

about him, and pressed him tenderly to her breast. Hope streamed away,

like a star shooting in the sky, above their heads. They thought then,

they believed, that they did indeed belong to each other. For the first

time they exchanged free, genuine kisses, and separated with pain and

effort.

The sun had gone down. It was twilight, and a damp mist was rising about

the lake. Ottilie stood confused and agitated. She looked across to the

house on the hill, and she thought she saw Charlotte's white dress on

the balcony.

It was a long way round by the end of the lake; and she knew how

impatiently Charlotte would be waiting for the child. She saw the

plane-trees just opposite her, and only a narrow interval of water

divided her from the path which led straight up to the house. Her

nervousness about venturing on the water with the child vanished in her

present embarrassment. She hastened to the boat; she did not feel that

her heart was beating; that her feet were tottering; that her senses

were threatening to fail her.

She sprang in, seized the oar, and pushed off. She had to use force; she

pushed again. The boat shot off, and glided, swaying and rocking into

the open water. With the child in her left arm, the book in her left

hand, and the oar in her right, she lost her footing, and fell over the

seat; the oar slipped from her on one side, and as she tried to recover

herself, the child and the book slipped on the other, all into the

water. She caught the floating dress, but lying entangled as she was

herself, she was unable to rise. Her right hand was free, but she could

not reach round to help herself up with it; at last she succeeded. She

drew the child out of the water; but its eyes were closed, and it had

ceased to breathe.

In a moment, she recovered all her self-possession; but so much the

greater was her agony; the boat was drifting fast into the middle of the

lake; the oar was swimming far away from her. She saw no one on the

shore; and, indeed, if she had, it would have been of no service to her.

Cut off from all assistance, she was floating on the faithless, unstable

element.

She sought for help from herself; she had often heard of the recovery of

the drowned; she had herself witnessed an instance of it on the evening

of her birthday; she took off the child's clothes, and dried it with her

muslin dress; she threw open her bosom, laying it bare for the first

time to the free heaven. For the first time she pressed a living being

to her pure, naked breast.

[Illustration: OTTILIE. _From the Painting by Wilhelm von Kaulbach_]

Alas! and it was not a living being. The cold limbs of the ill-starred

little creature chilled her to the heart. Streams of tears gushed from

her eyes, and lent a show of life and warmth to the outside of the

torpid limbs. She persevered with her efforts; she wrapped it in her

shawl, she drew it close to herself, stroked it, breathed upon it, and

with tears and kisses labored to supply the help which, cut off as she

was, she was unable to find.

It was all in vain; the child lay motionless in her arms; motionless the

boat floated on the glassy water. But even here her beautiful spirit did

not leave her forsaken. She turned to the Power above. She sank down

upon her knees in the boat, and with both arms raised the unmoving child

above her innocent breast, like marble in its whiteness; alas, too, like

marble, cold; with moist eyes she looked up and cried for help, where a

tender heart hopes to find it in its fulness when all other help has

failed.

The stars were beginning one by one to glimmer down upon her; she turned

to them and not in vain; a soft air stole over the surface, and wafted

the boat under the plane-trees.

CHAPTER XIV

She hurried to the new house, and called the surgeon and gave the child

into his hands. It was carried at once to Charlotte's sleeping-room.

Cool and collected from a wide experience, he submitted the tender body

to the usual process. Ottilie stood by him through it all. She prepared

everything, she fetched everything, but as if she were moving in another

world; for the height of misfortune, like the height of happiness,

alters the aspect of every object. And it was only when, after every

resource had been exhausted, the good man shook his head, and to her

questions, whether there was hope, first was silent, and then answered

with a gentle No! that she left the apartment, and had scarcely entered

the sitting-room, when she fell fainting, with her face upon the carpet,

unable to reach the sofa.

At that moment Charlotte was heard driving up. The surgeon implored the

servants to keep back, and allow him to go to meet her and prepare her.

But he was too late; while he was speaking she had entered the

drawing-room. She found Ottilie on the ground, and one of the girls of

the house came running and screaming to her open-mouthed. The surgeon

entered at the same moment, and she was informed of everything. She

could not at once, however, give up all hope. She was flying up stairs

to the child, but the physician besought her to remain where she was. He

went himself, to deceive her with a show of fresh exertions, and she sat

down upon the sofa. Ottilie was still lying on the ground; Charlotte

raised her, and supported her against herself, and her beautiful head

sank down upon her knee. The kind medical man went backward and forward;

he appeared to be busy about the child; his real care was for the

ladies; and so came on midnight, and the stillness grew more and more

deathly. Charlotte did not try to conceal from herself any longer that

her child would never return to life again. She desired to see it now.

It had been wrapped up in warm woolen coverings. And it was brought down

as it was, lying in its cot, which was placed at her side on the sofa.

The little face was uncovered; and there it lay in its calm sweet

beauty.

The report of the accident soon spread through the village; every one

was aroused, and the story reached the hotel. The Major hurried up the

well-known road; he went round and round the house; at last he met a

servant who was going to one of the out-buildings to fetch something. He

learnt from him in what state things were, and desired him to tell the

surgeon that he was there. The latter came out, not a little surprised

at the appearance of his old patron. He told him exactly what had

happened, and undertook to prepare Charlotte to see him. He then went

in, began some conversation to distract her attention, and led her

imagination from one object to another, till at last he brought it to

rest upon her friend, and the depth of feeling and of sympathy which

would surely be called out in him. From the imaginative she was brought

at once to the real. Enough! she was informed that he was at the door,

that he knew everything and desired to be admitted.

The Major entered. Charlotte received him with a miserable smile. He

stood before her; she lifted off the green silk covering under which the

body was lying; and by the dim light of a taper, he saw before him, not

without a secret shudder, the stiffened image of himself. Charlotte

pointed to a chair, and there they sat opposite each other, without

speaking, through the night. Ottilie was still lying motionless on

Charlotte's knee; she breathed softly, and slept or seemed to sleep.

The morning dawned, the lights went out; the two friends appeared to

awake out of a heavy dream. Charlotte looked toward the Major, and said

quietly: "Tell me through what circumstances you have been brought

hither, to take part in this mourning scene."

"The present is not a time," the Major answered, in the same low tone as

that in which Charlotte had spoken, for fear lest she might disturb

Ottilie; "this is not a time, and this is not a place for reserve. The

condition in which I find you is so fearful that even the earnest matter

on which I am here loses its importance by the side of it." He then

informed her, quite calmly and simply, of the object of his mission, in

so far as he was the ambassador of Edward; of the object of his coming,

in so far as his own free will and his own interests were concerned in

it. He laid both before her, delicately but uprightly; Charlotte

listened quietly, and showed neither surprise nor unwillingness.

As soon as the Major had finished, she replied, in a voice so light that

to catch her words he was obliged to draw his chair closer to her: "In

such a case as this I have never before found myself; but in similar

cases I have always said to myself, how will it be tomorrow? I feel very

clearly that the fate of many persons is now in my hands, and what I

have to do is soon said without scruple or hesitation. I consent to the

separation; I ought to have made up my mind to it before; by my

unwillingness and reluctance I have destroyed my child. There are

certain things on which destiny obstinately insists. In vain may reason,

may virtue, may duty, may all holy feelings place themselves in its way.

Something shall be done which to it seems good, and which to us seems

not good; and it forces its own way through at last, let us conduct

ourselves as we will.

"And, indeed, what am I saying? It is but my own desire, my own purpose,

against which I acted so unthinkingly, which destiny is again bringing

in my way? Did I not long ago, in my thoughts, design Edward and Ottilie

for each other? Did I not myself labor to bring them together? And you,

my friend, you yourself were an accomplice in my plot. Why, why, could I

not distinguish mere man's obstinacy from real love? Why did I accept

his hand, when I could have made him happy as a friend, and when another

could have made him happy as a wife? And now, look here on this unhappy

slumberer. I tremble for the moment when she will recover out of this

half death-sleep into consciousness. How can she endure to live? How

shall she ever console herself, if she may not hope to make good that to

Edward, of which, as the instrument of the most wonderful destiny, she

has deprived him? And she can make it all good again by the passion, by

the devotion with which she loves him. If love be able to bear all

things, it is able to do yet more; it can restore all things; of myself

at such a moment I may not think.

"Do you go quietly away, my dear Major; say to Edward that I consent to

the separation; that I leave it to him, to you, and to Mittler, to

settle whatever is to be done. I have no anxiety for my own future

condition; it may be what it will; it is nothing to me. I will subscribe

whatever paper is submitted to me, only he must not require me to join

actively. I cannot have to think about it, or give advice."

The Major rose to go. She stretched out her hand to him across Ottilie.

He pressed it to his lips, and whispered gently: "And for myself, may I

hope anything?"

"Do not ask me now!" replied Charlotte. "I will tell you another time.

We have not deserved to be miserable; but neither can we say that we

have deserved to be happy together."

The Major left her, and went, feeling for Charlotte to the bottom of his

heart, but not being able to be sorry for the fate of the poor child.

Such an offering seemed necessary to him for their general happiness. He

pictured Ottilie to himself with a child of her own in her arms, as the

most perfect compensation for the one of which she had deprived Edward.

He pictured himself with his own son on his knee, who should have better

right to resemble him than the one which was departed.

With such flattering hopes and fancies passing through his mind, he

returned to the hotel, and on his way back he met Edward, who had been

waiting for him the whole night through in the open air, since neither

rocket nor report of cannon would bring him news of the successful issue

of his undertaking. He had already heard of the misfortune; and he too,

instead of being sorry for the poor creature, regarded what had befallen

it, without being exactly ready to confess it to himself, as a

convenient accident, through which the only impediment in the way of his

happiness was at once removed.

The Major at once informed him of his wife's resolution, and he

therefore easily allowed himself to be prevailed upon to return again

with him to the village, and from thence to go for a while to the little

town, where they would consider what was next to be done, and make their

arrangements.

After the Major had left her, Charlotte sat on, buried in her own

reflections; but it was only for a few minutes. Ottilie suddenly raised

herself from her lap, and looked full with her large eyes in her

friend's face. Then she got up from off the ground, and stood upright

before her.

"This is the second time," began the noble girl, with an irresistible

solemnity of manner, "this is the second time that the same thing has

happened to me. You once said to me that similar things often befall

people more than once in their lives in a similar way, and if they do,

it is always at important moments. I now find that what you said is

true, and I have to make a confession to you. Shortly after my mother's

death, when I was a very little child, I was sitting one day on a

footstool close to you. You were on a sofa, as you are at this moment,

and my head rested on your knees. I was not asleep, I was not awake: I

was in a trance. I knew everything which was passing about me. I heard

every word which was said with the greatest distinctness, and yet I

could not stir, I could not speak; and if I had wished it, I could not

have given a hint that I was conscious. On that occasion you were

speaking about me to one of your friends; you were commiserating my

fate, left as I was a poor orphan in the world. You described my

dependent position, and how unfortunate a future was before me, unless

some very happy star watched over me. I understood well what you said. I

saw, perhaps too clearly, what you appeared to hope of me, and what you

thought I ought to do. I made rules to myself, according to such limited

insight as I had, and by these I have long lived; by these, at the time

when you so kindly took charge of me, and had me with you in your house,

I regulated whatever I did and whatever I left undone.

"But I have wandered out of my course; I have broken my rules; I have

lost the very power of feeling them. And now, after a dreadful

occurrence, you have again made clear to me my situation, which is more

pitiable than the first. While lying in a half torpor on your lap, I

have again, as if out of another world, heard every syllable which you

uttered. I know from you how all is with me. I shudder at the thought of

myself; but again, as I did then, in my half sleep of death, I have

marked out my new path for myself.

"I am determined, as I was before, and what I have determined I must

tell you at once. I will never be Edward's wife. In a terrible manner

God has opened my eyes to see the sin in which I was entangled. I will

atone for it, and let no one think to move me from my purpose. It is by

this, my dearest, kindest friend, that you must govern your own conduct.

Send for the Major to come back to you. Write to him that no steps must

be taken. It made me miserable that I could not stir or speak when he

went. I tried to rise--I tried to cry out. Oh, why did you let him leave

you with such unlawful hopes!"

Charlotte saw Ottilie's condition, and she felt for it; but she hoped

that by time and persuasion she might be able to prevail upon her. On

her uttering a few words, however, which pointed to a future--to a time

when her sufferings would be alleviated, and when there might be better

room for hope, "No!" Ottilie cried, with vehemence, "do not endeavor to

move me; do not seek to deceive me. At the moment at which I learn that

you have consented to the separation, in that same lake I will expiate

my errors and my crimes."

CHAPTER XV

Friends and relatives, and all persons living in the same house

together, are apt, when life is going smoothly and peacefully with them,

to make what they are doing, or what they are going to do, even more

than is right or necessary, a subject of constant conversation. They

talk to each other of their plans and their occupations, and, without

exactly taking one another's advice, consider and discuss together the

entire progress of their lives. But this is far from being the case in

serious moments; just when it would seem men most require the assistance

and support of others, they all draw singly within themselves, every one

to act for himself, every one to work in his own fashion; they conceal

from one another the particular means which they employ, and only the

result, the object, the thing which they realize, is again made common

property.

After so many strange and unfortunate incidents, a sort of silent

seriousness had passed over the two ladies, which showed itself in a

sweet mutual effort to spare each other's feelings. The child had been

buried privately in the chapel. It rested there as the first offering to

a destiny full of ominous foreshadowings.

Charlotte, as soon as ever she could, turned back to life and

occupation, and here she first found Ottilie standing in need of her

assistance. She occupied herself almost entirely with her, without

letting it be observed. She knew how deeply the noble girl loved Edward.

She had discovered by degrees the scene which had preceded the accident,

and had gathered every circumstance of it, partly from Ottilie herself,

partly from the letters of the Major.

Ottilie, on her side, made Charlotte's immediate life much more easy for

her. She was open, and even talkative, but she never spoke of the

present, or of what had lately passed. She had been a close and

thoughtful observer. She knew much, and now it all came to the surface.

She entertained, she amused Charlotte, and the latter still nourished a

hope in secret to see her married to Edward after all.

But something very different was passing in Ottilie. She had disclosed

the secret of the course of her life to her friend, and she showed no

more of her previous restraint and submissiveness. By her repentance and

her resolution she felt herself freed from the burden of her fault and

her misfortune. She had no more violence to do to herself. In the bottom

of her heart she had forgiven herself solely under condition of the

fullest renunciation, and it was a condition which would remain binding

for all time to come.

So passed away some time, and Charlotte now felt how deeply house and

park, and lake and rocks and trees, served to keep alive in them all

their most painful reminiscences. They wanted change of scene, both of

them, it was plain enough; but how it was to be effected was not so

easy to decide.

Were the two ladies to remain together? Edward's previously expressed

will appeared to enjoin it--his declarations and his threats appeared to

make it necessary; only it could not be now mistaken that Charlotte and

Ottilie, with all their good will, with all their sense, with all their

efforts to conceal it, could not avoid finding themselves in a painful

situation toward each other. In their conversation there was a constant

endeavor to avoid doubtful subjects. They were often obliged only half

to understand some allusion; more often, expressions were

misinterpreted, if not by their understandings, at any rate by their

feelings. They were afraid to give pain to each other, and this very

fear itself produced the evil which they were seeking to avoid.

If they were to try change of scene, and at the same time (at any rate

for a while) to part, the old question came up again: Where was Ottilie

to go? There was the grand, rich family, who still wanted a desirable

companion for their daughter, their attempts to find a person whom they

could trust having hitherto proved ineffectual. The last time the

Baroness had been at the castle, she had urged Charlotte to send Ottilie

there, and she had been lately pressing it again and again in her

letters. Charlotte now a second time proposed it; but Ottilie expressly

declined going anywhere, where she would be thrown into what is called

the great world.

"Do not think me foolish or self-willed, my dear aunt," she said; "I had

better tell you what I feel, for fear you should judge hardly of me;

although in any other case it would be my duty to be silent. A person

who has fallen into uncommon misfortunes, however guiltless he may be,

carries a frightful mark upon him. His presence, in every one who sees

him and is aware of his history, excites a kind of horror. People see in

him the terrible fate which has been laid upon him, and he is the object

of a diseased and nervous curiosity. It is so with a house, it is so

with a town, where any terrible action has been done; people enter them

with awe; the light of day shines less brightly there, and the stars

seem to lose their lustre.

"Perhaps we ought to excuse it, but how extreme is the indiscretion with

which people behave toward such unfortunates, with their foolish

importunities and awkward kindness! You must forgive me for speaking in

this way, but that poor girl whom Luciana tempted out of her retirement,

and with such mistaken good nature tried to force into society and

amusement, has haunted me and made me miserable. The poor creature, when

she was so frightened and tried to escape, and then sank and swooned

away, and I caught her in my arms, and the party came all crowding round

in terror and curiosity!--little did I think, then, that the same fate

was in store for me. But my feeling for her is as deep and warm and

fresh as ever it was; and now I may direct my compassion upon myself,

and secure myself from being the object of any similar exposure."

"But, my dear child," answered Charlotte, "you will never be able to

withdraw yourself where no one can see you; we have no cloisters now:

otherwise, there, with your present feelings, would be your resource."

"Solitude would not give me the resource for which I wish, my dear

aunt," answered Ottilie. "The one true and valuable resource is to be

looked for where we can be active and useful; all the self-denials and

all the penances on earth will fail to deliver us from an evil-omened

destiny, if it be determined to persecute us. Let me sit still in

idleness and serve as a spectacle for the world, and it will overpower

me and crush me. But find me some peaceful employment, where I can go

steadily and unweariedly on doing my duty, and I shall be able to bear

the eyes of men, when I need not shrink under the eyes of God."

"Unless I am much mistaken," replied Charlotte, "your inclination is to

return to the school."

"Yes," Ottilie answered; "I do not deny it. I think it a happy

destination to train up others in the beaten way, after having been

trained in the strangest myself. And do we not see the same great fact

in history? some moral calamity drives men out into the wilderness; but

they are not allowed to remain as they had hoped in their concealment

there. They are summoned back into the world, to lead the wanderers into

the right way; and who are fitter for such a service, than those who

have been initiated into the labyrinths of life? They are commanded to

be the support of the unfortunate; and who can better fulfil that

command than those who have no more misfortunes to fear upon earth?"

"You are selecting an uncommon profession for yourself," replied

Charlotte. "I shall not oppose you, how ever. Let it be as you wish;

only I hope it will be but for a short time."

"Most warmly I thank you," said Ottilie, "for giving me leave at least

to try, to make the experiment. If I am not flattering myself too

highly, I am sure I shall succeed: wherever I am, I shall remember the

many trials which I went through myself, and how small, how infinitely

small they were compared to those which I afterward had to undergo. It

will be my happiness to watch the embarrassments of the little creatures

as they grow; to cheer them in their childish sorrows, and guide them

back with a light hand out of their little aberrations. The fortunate is

not the person to be of help to the unfortunate; it is in the nature of

man to require ever more and more of himself and others, the more he has

received. The unfortunate who has himself recovered, knows best how to

nourish, in himself and them, the feeling that every moderate good ought

to be enjoyed with rapture."

"I have but one objection to make to what you propose," said Charlotte,

after some thought, "although that one seems to me of great importance.

I am not thinking of you, but of another person: you are aware of the

feelings toward you of that good, right-minded, excellent Assistant. In

the way in which you desire to proceed, you will become every day more

valuable and more indispensable to him. Already he himself believes that

he can never live happily without you, and hereafter, when he has become

accustomed to have you to work with him, he will be unable to carry on

his business if he loses you; you will have assisted him at the

beginning only to injure him in the end."

"Destiny has not dealt with me with too gentle a hand," replied Ottilie;

"and whoever loves me has perhaps not much better to expect. Our friend

is so good and so sensible, that I hope he will be able to reconcile

himself to remaining in a simple relation with me; he will learn to see

in me a consecrated person, lying under the shadow of an awful calamity,

and only able to support herself and bear up against it by devoting

herself to that Holy Being who is invisibly around us, and alone is able

to shield us from the dark powers which threaten to overwhelm us."

All this, which the dear girl poured out so warmly, Charlotte privately

reflected over; on many different occasions, although only in the

gentlest manner, she had hinted at the possibility of Ottilie's being

brought again in contact with Edward; but the slightest mention of it,

the faintest hope, the least suspicion, seemed to wound Ottilie to the

quick. One day when she could not evade it, she expressed herself to

Charlotte clearly and peremptorily on the subject.

"If your resolution to renounce Edward," returned Charlotte, "is so firm

and unalterable, then you had better avoid the danger of seeing him

again. At a distance from the object of our love, the warmer our

affection, the stronger is the control which we fancy that we can

exercise on ourselves; because the whole force of the passion, diverted

from its outward objects, turns inward on ourselves. But how soon, how

swiftly is our mistake made clear to us, when the thing which we thought

that we could renounce, stands again before our eyes as indispensable to

us! You must now do what you consider best suited to your

circumstances. Look well into yourself; change, if you prefer it, the

resolution which you have just expressed. But do it of yourself, with a

free consenting heart. Do not allow yourself to be drawn in by an

accident; do not let yourself be surprised into your former position. It

will place you at issue with yourself and will be intolerable to you. As

I said, before you take this step, before you remove from me, and enter

upon a new life, which will lead you no one knows in what direction,

consider once more whether really, indeed, you can renounce Edward for

the whole time to come. If you have faithfully made up your mind that

you will do this, then will you enter into an engagement with me, that

you will never admit him into your presence; and if he seeks you out and

forces himself upon you, that you will not exchange words with him?"

Ottilie did not hesitate a moment; she gave Charlotte the promise, which

she had already made to herself.

Now, however, Charlotte began to be haunted with Edward's threat, that

he would only consent to renounce Ottilie, as long as she was not parted

from Charlotte. Since that time, indeed, circumstances were so altered,

so many things had happened, that an engagement which was wrung from him

in a moment of excitement might well be supposed to have been cancelled.

She was unwilling, however, in the remotest sense to venture anything or

to undertake anything which might displease him, and Mittler was

therefore to find Edward, and inquire what, as things now were, he

wished to be done.

Since the death of the child, Mittler had often been at the castle to

see Charlotte, although only for a few moments at a time. The unhappy

accident which had made her reconciliation with her husband in the

highest degree improbable, had produced a most painful effect upon him.

But ever, as his nature was, hoping and striving, he rejoiced secretly

at the resolution of Ottilie. He trusted to the softening influence of

passing time; he hoped that it might still be possible to keep the

husband and the wife from separating; and he tried to regard these

convulsions of passion only as trials of wedded love and fidelity.

Charlotte, at the very first, had informed the Major by letter of

Ottilie's declaration. She had entreated him most earnestly to prevail

on Edward to take no further steps for the present. They should keep

quiet and wait, and see whether the poor girl's spirits would recover.

She had let him know from time to time whatever was necessary of what

had more lately fallen from her. And now Mittler had to undertake the

really difficult commission of preparing Edward for an alteration in her

situation. Mittler, however, well knowing that men can be brought more

easily to submit to what is already done, than to give their consent to

what is yet to be done, persuaded Charlotte that it would be better to

send Ottilie off at once to the school.

Consequently, as soon as Mittler was gone, preparations were at once

made for the journey. Ottilie put her things together; and Charlotte

observed that neither the beautiful box, nor anything out of it, was to

go with her. Ottilie had said nothing to her on the subject; and she

took no notice, but let her alone. The day of the departure came;

Charlotte's carriage was to take Ottilie the first day as far as a place

where they were well known, where she was to pass the night, and on the

second she would go on in it to the school. It was settled that Nanny

was to accompany her, and remain as her attendant.

This capricious little creature had found her way back to her mistress

after the death of the child, and now hung about her as warmly and

passionately as ever; indeed she seemed, with her loquacity and

attentiveness, as if she wished to make good her past neglect, and

henceforth devote herself entirely to Ottilie's service. She was quite

beside herself now for joy at the thought of traveling with her, and of

seeing strange places, when she had hitherto never been away from the

scene of her birth; and she ran from the castle to the village to carry

the news of her good fortune to her parents and her relations, and to

take leave.

Unluckily for herself, she went, among other places, into a room where

a person was who had the measles, and caught the infection, which came

out upon her at once. The journey could not be postponed. Ottilie

herself was urgent to go. She had traveled once already the same road.

She knew the people of the hotel where she was to sleep. The coachman

from the castle was going with her. There could be nothing to fear.

Charlotte made no opposition. She, too, in thought, was making haste to

be clear of present embarrassments. The rooms which Ottilie had occupied

at the castle she would have prepared for Edward as soon as possible,

and restored to the old state in which they had been before the arrival

of the Captain. The hope of bringing back old happy days burns up again

and again in us, as if it never could be extinguished. And Charlotte was

quite right; there was nothing else for her except to hope as she did.

CHAPTER XVI

When Mittler was come to talk the matter over with Edward, he found him

sitting by himself, with his head supported on his right hand, and his

arm resting on the table. He appeared in great suffering.

"Is your headache troubling you again?" asked Mittler.

"It is troubling me," answered he; "and yet I cannot wish it were not

so, for it reminds me of Ottilie. She too, I say to myself, is also

suffering in the same way at this same moment, and suffering more

perhaps than I; and why cannot I bear it as well as she? These pains are

good for me. I might almost say that they were welcome; for they serve

to bring out before me with the greater vividness her patience and all

her other graces. It is only when we suffer ourselves, that we feel

really the true nature of all the high qualities which are required to

bear suffering."

Mittler, finding his friend so far resigned, did not hesitate to

communicate the message with which he had been sent. He brought it out

piecemeal, however; in order of time, as the idea had itself arisen

between the ladies, and had gradually ripened into a purpose. Edward

scarcely made an objection. From the little which he said, it appeared

as if he was willing to leave everything to them; the pain which he was

suffering at the moment making him indifferent to all besides.

Scarcely, however, was he again alone, than he got up, and walked

rapidly up and down the room; he forgot his pain, his attention now

turning to what was external to himself. Mittler's story had stirred the

embers of his love, and awakened his imagination in all its vividness.

He saw Ottilie by herself, or as good as by herself, traveling on a road

which was well known to him--in a hotel with every room of which he was

familiar. He thought, he considered, or rather he neither thought nor

considered; he only wished--he only desired. He would see her; he would

speak to her. Why, or for what good end that was to come of it, he did

not care to ask himself; but he made up his mind at once. He must do it.

He summoned his valet into his council, and through him he made himself

acquainted with the day and hour when Ottilie was to set out. The

morning broke. Without taking any person with him, Edward mounted his

horse, and rode off to the place where she was to pass the night. He was

there too soon. The hostess was overjoyed at the sight of him; she was

under heavy obligations to him for a service which he had been able to

do for her. Her son had been in the army, where he had conducted himself

with remarkable gallantry. He had performed one particular action of

which no one had been a witness but Edward; and the latter had spoken of

it to the commander-in-chief in terms of such high praise that,

notwithstanding the opposition of various ill-wishers, he had obtained a

decoration for him. The mother, therefore, could never do enough for

Edward. She got ready her best room for him, which indeed was her own

wardrobe and store-room, with all possible speed. He informed her,

however, that a young lady was coming to pass the night there, and he

ordered an apartment for her at the back, at the end of the gallery. It

sounded a mysterious sort of affair; but the hostess was ready to do

anything to please her patron, who appeared so interested and so busy

about it. And he, what were his sensations as he watched through the

long, weary hours till evening? He examined the room round and round in

which he was to see her; with all its strangeness and homeliness it

seemed to him to be an abode for angels. He thought over and over what

he had better do; whether he should take her by surprise, or whether he

should prepare her for meeting him. At last the second course seemed the

preferable one. He sat down and wrote a letter, which she was to read:

EDWARD TO OTTILIE

"While you read this letter, my best beloved, I am close to you. Do not

agitate yourself; do not be alarmed; you have nothing to fear from me. I

will not force myself upon you. I will see you or not, as you yourself

shall choose.

"Consider, oh! consider your condition and mine. How must I not thank

you, that you have taken no decisive step! But the step which you have

taken is significant enough. Do not persist in it. Here, as it were, at

a parting of the ways, reflect once again. Can you be mine:--will you be

mine? Oh, you will be showing mercy on us all if you will; and on me,

infinite mercy.

"Let me see you again!--happily, joyfully see you once more! Let me make

my request to you with my own lips; and do you give me your answer your

own beautiful self, on my breast, Ottilie! where you have so often

rested, and which belongs to you for ever!"

As he was writing, the feeling rushed over him that what he was longing

for was coming--was close--would be there almost immediately. By that

door she would come in; she would read that letter; she in her own

person would stand there before him as she used to stand; she for whose

appearance he had thirsted so long. Would she be the same as she

was?--was her form, were her feelings changed? He still held the pen in

his hand; he was going to write as he thought, when the carriage rolled

into the court. With a few hurried strokes he added: "I hear you coming.

For a moment, farewell!"

He folded the letter, and directed it. He had no time for sealing. He

darted into the room through which there was a second outlet into the

gallery, when the next moment he recollected that he had left his watch

and seals lying on the table. She must not see these first. He ran back

and brought them away with him. At the same instant he heard the hostess

in the antechamber showing Ottilie the way to her apartments. He sprang

to the bedroom door. It was shut. In his haste, as he had come back for

his watch, he had forgotten to take out the key, which had fallen out,

and lay the other side. The door had closed with a spring, and he could

not open it. He pushed at it with all his might, but it would not yield.

Oh, how gladly would he have been a spirit, to escape through its

cracks! In vain. He hid his face against the panels. Ottilie entered,

and the hostess, seeing him, retired. From Ottilie herself, too, he

could not remain concealed for a moment. He turned toward her; and there

stood the lovers once more, in such strange fashion, in each other's

presence. She looked at him calmly and earnestly, without advancing or

retiring. He made a movement to approach her, and she withdrew a few

steps toward the table. He stepped back again. "Ottilie!" he cried

aloud, "Ottilie! let me break this frightful silence! Are we shadows,

that we stand thus gazing at each other? Only listen to me; listen to

this at least. It is an accident that you find me here thus. There is a

letter on the table, at your side there, which was to have prepared you.

Read it, I implore you--read it--and then determine as you will!"

She looked down at the letter; and after thinking a few seconds, she

took it up, opened it, and read it: she finished it without a change of

expression; and she laid it lightly down; then joining the palms of her

hands together, turning them upward, and drawing them against her

breast, she leant her body a little forward, and regarded Edward with

such a look, that, eager as he was, he was compelled to renounce

everything he wished or desired of her. Such an attitude cut him to the

heart; he could not bear it. It seemed exactly as if she would fall upon

her knees before him, if he persisted. He hurried in despair out of the

room, and leaving her alone, sent the hostess in to her.

He walked up and down the antechamber. Night had come on, and there was

no sound in the room. At last the hostess came out and drew the key out

of the lock. The good woman was embarrassed and agitated, not knowing

what it would be proper for her to do. At last as she turned to go, she

offered the key to Edward, who refused it; and putting down the candle,

she went away.

In misery and wretchedness, Edward flung himself down on the threshold

of the door which divided him from Ottilie, moistening it with his tears

as he lay. A more unhappy night had been seldom passed by two lovers in

such close neighborhood!

Day came at last. The coachman brought round the carriage, and the

hostess unlocked the door and went in. Ottilie was asleep in her

clothes; she went back and beckoned to Edward with a significant smile.

They both entered and stood before her as she lay; but the sight was too

much for Edward. He could not bear it. She was sleeping so quietly that

the hostess did not like to disturb her, but sat down opposite her,

waiting till she woke. At last Ottilie opened her beautiful eyes, and

raised herself on her feet. She declined taking any breakfast, and then

Edward went in again and stood before her. He entreated her to speak but

one word to him; to tell him what she desired. He would do it, be it

what it would, he swore to her; but she remained silent. He asked her

once more, passionately and tenderly, whether she would be his. With

downcast eyes, and with the deepest tenderness of manner she shook her

head in a gentle _No_. He asked if she still desired to go to the

school. Without any show of feeling she declined. Would she then go back

to Charlotte? She inclined her head in token of assent, with a look of

comfort and relief. He went to the window to give directions to the

coachman, and when his back was turned she darted like lightning out of

the room, and was down the stairs and in the carriage in an instant. The

coachman drove back along the road which he had come the day before, and

Edward followed at some distance on horseback.

CHAPTER XVII

It was with the utmost surprise that Charlotte saw the carriage drive up

with Ottilie, and Edward at the same moment ride into the court-yard of

the castle. She ran down to the hall. Ottilie alighted, and approached

her and Edward. Violently and eagerly she caught the hands of the wife

and husband, pressed them together, and hurried off to her own room.

Edward threw himself on Charlotte's neck and burst into tears. He could

not give her any explanation; he besought her to have patience with him,

and to go at once to see Ottilie. Charlotte followed her to her room,

and she could not enter it without a shudder. It had been all cleared

out. There was nothing to be seen but the empty walls, which stood there

looking cheerless, vacant, and miserable. Everything had been carried

away except the little box, which from an uncertainty what was to be

done with it, had been left in the middle of the room. Ottilie was lying

stretched upon the ground, her arm and head leaning across the cover.

Charlotte bent anxiously over her, and asked what had happened; but she

received no answer.

Her maid had come with restoratives. Charlotte left her with Ottilie,

and herself hastened back to Edward. She found him in the saloon, but he

could tell her nothing.

He threw himself down before her; he bathed her hands with tears; he

flew to his own room, and she was going to follow him thither, when she

met his valet. From this man she gathered as much as he was able to

tell. The rest she put together in her own thoughts as well as she

could, and then at once set herself resolutely to do what the exigencies

of the moment required. Ottilie's room was put to rights again as

quickly as possible; Edward found his, to the last paper, exactly as he

had left it.

The three appeared again to fall into some sort of relation with one

another. But Ottilie persevered in her silence, and Edward could do

nothing except entreat his wife to exert a patience which seemed wanting

to himself. Charlotte sent messengers to Mittler and to the Major. The

first was absent from home and could not be found. The latter came. To

him Edward poured out all his heart, confessing every most trifling

circumstance to him, and thus Charlotte learnt fully what had passed;

what it had been which had produced such violent excitement, and how so

strange an alteration of their mutual position had been brought about.

She spoke with the utmost tenderness to her husband. She had nothing to

ask of him, except that for the present he would leave the poor girl to

herself. Edward was not insensible to the worth, the affection, the

strong sense of his wife; but his passion absorbed him exclusively.

Charlotte tried to cheer him with hopes. She promised that she herself

would make no difficulties about the separation; but it had small effect

with him. He was so much shaken that hope and faith alternately forsook

him. A species of insanity appeared to have taken possession of him. He

urged Charlotte to promise to give her hand to the Major. To satisfy him

and to humor him, she did what he required. She engaged to become

herself the wife of the Major, in the event of Ottilie consenting to the

marriage with Edward; with this express condition, however, that for the

present the two gentlemen should go abroad together. The Major had a

foreign appointment from the Court, and it was settled that Edward

should accompany him. They arranged it all together, and in doing so

found a sort of comfort for themselves in the sense that at least

something was being done.

In the meantime they had to remark that Ottilie took scarcely anything

to eat or drink. She still persisted in refusing to speak. They at first

used to talk to her, but it appeared to distress her, and they left it

off. We are not, universally at least, so weak as to persist in

torturing people for their good. Charlotte thought over what could

possibly be done. At last she fancied it might be well to ask the

Assistant of the school to come to them. He had much influence with

Ottilie, and had been writing with much anxiety to inquire the cause of

her not having arrived at the time he had been expecting her; but as yet

she had not sent him any answer.

In order not to take Ottilie by surprise, they spoke of their intention

of sending this invitation in her presence. It did not seem to please

her; she thought for some little time; at last she appeared to have

formed some resolution. She retired to her own room, and before the

evening sent the following letter to the assembled party:

OTTILIE TO HER FRIENDS

"Why need I express in words, my dear friends, what is in itself so

plain? I have stepped out of my course, and I cannot recover it again. A

malignant spirit which has gained power over me seems to hinder me from

without, even if within I could again become at peace with myself.

"My purpose was entirely firm to renounce Edward, and to separate myself

from him for ever. I had hoped that we might never meet again; it has

turned out otherwise. Against his own will he stood before me. Too

literally, perhaps, I have observed my promise never to admit him into

conversation with me. My conscience and the feelings of the moment kept

me silent toward him at the time, and now I have nothing more to say. I

have taken upon myself, under the accidental impulse of the moment, a

difficult vow, which if it had been formed deliberately, might perhaps

be painful and distressing. Let me now persist in the observance of it

so long as my heart shall enjoin it to me. Do not call in any one to

mediate; do not insist upon my speaking; do not urge me to eat or to

drink more than I absolutely must. Bear with me and let me alone, and so

help me on through the time; I am young, and youth has many unexpected

means of restoring itself. Endure my presence among you; cheer me with

your love; make me wiser and better with what you say to one another:

but leave me to my own inward self."

The two friends had made all preparation for their journey, but their

departure was still delayed by the formalities of the foreign

appointment of the Major, a delay most welcome to Edward. Ottilie's

letter had roused all his eagerness again; he had gathered hope and

comfort from her words, and now felt himself encouraged and justified in

remaining and waiting. He declared, therefore, that he would not go; it

would be folly, indeed, he cried, of his own accord, to throw away, by

over precipitateness, what was most valuable and most necessary to him,

when although there was a danger of losing it, there was nevertheless a

chance that it might be preserved. "What is the right name of conduct

such as that?" he said. "It is only that we desire to show that we are

able to will and to choose. I myself, under the influences of the same

ridiculous folly, have torn myself away, days before there was any

necessity for it, from my friends, merely that I might not be forced to

go by the definite expiration of my term. This time I will stay: what

reason is there for my going; is she not already removed far enough from

me? I am not likely now to catch her hand or press her to my heart; I

could not even think of it without a shudder. She has not separated

herself from me; she has raised herself far above me."

And so he remained as he desired, as he was obliged; but he was never

easy except when he found himself with Ottilie. She, too, had the same

feeling with him; she could not tear herself away from the same happy

necessity. On all sides they exerted an indescribable, almost magical

power of attraction over each other. Living, as they were, under one

roof, without even so much as thinking of each other, although they

might be occupied with other things, or diverted this way or that way by

the other members of the party, they always drew together. If they were

in the same room, in a short time they were sure to be either standing

or sitting near each other; they were only easy when as close together

as they could be, but they were then completely happy. To be near was

enough; there was no need for them either to look or to speak: they did

not seek to touch one another, or make sign or gesture, but merely to be

together. Then there were not two persons, there was but one person in

unconscious and perfect content, at peace with itself and with the

world. So it was that, if either of them had been imprisoned at the

further end of the house, the other would by degrees, without intending

it, have moved forward like a bird toward its mate; life to them was a

riddle, the solution of which they could find only in union.

Ottilie was throughout so cheerful and quiet that they were able to feel

perfectly easy about her; she was seldom absent from the society of her

friends: all that she had desired was that she might be allowed to eat

alone, with no one to attend upon her but Nanny.

What habitually befalls any person repeats itself more often than one is

apt to suppose, because his own nature gives the immediate occasion for

it. Character, individuality, inclination, tendency, locality,

circumstance, and habits, form together a whole, in which every man

moves as in an atmosphere, and where only he feels himself at ease in

his proper element.

And so we find men, of whose changeableness so many complaints are

made, after many years, to our surprise, unchanged, and in all their

infinite tendencies, outward and inward, unchangeable.

Thus in the daily life of our friends, almost everything glided on again

in its old smooth track. Ottilie still displayed by many silent

attentions her obliging nature, and the others, like her, continued each

themselves; and then the domestic circle exhibited an image of their

former life, so like it that they might be pardoned if at times they

dreamt that it might all be again as it was.

The autumn days, which were of the same length with those old spring

days, brought the party back into the house out of the air about the

same hour. The gay fruits and flowers which belonged to the season might

have made them fancy it was now the autumn of that first spring, and the

interval dropped out and forgotten; for the flowers which now were

blooming were the same as those which then they had sown, and the fruits

which were now ripening on the trees were those which at that time they

had seen in blossom.

The Major went backward and forward, and Mittler came frequently. The

evenings were generally spent in exactly the same way. Edward usually

read aloud, with more life and feeling than before; much better, and

even, it may be said, with more cheerfulness. It appeared as if he was

endeavoring, by light-heartedness as much as by devotion, to quicken

Ottilie's torpor into life, and dissolve her silence. He seated himself

in the same position as he used to do, that she might look over his

book; he was uneasy and distracted unless she was doing so, unless he

was sure that she was following his words with her eyes.

Every trace had vanished of the unpleasant, ungracious feelings of the

intervening time. No one had any secret complaint against another; there

were no cross purposes, no bitterness. The Major accompanied Charlotte's

playing with his violin, and Edward's flute sounded again, as formerly,

in harmony with Ottilie's piano. Thus they were now approaching Edward's

birthday, which the year before they had missed celebrating. This time

they were to keep it without any outward festivities, in quiet enjoyment

among themselves. They had so settled it together, half expressly, half

from a tacit agreement. As they approached nearer to this epoch,

however, an anxiety about it, which had hitherto been more felt than

observed, became more noticeable in Ottilie's manner. She was to be seen

often in the garden examining the flowers: she had signified to the

gardener that he was to save as many as he could of every sort, and she

had been especially occupied with the asters, which this year were

blooming in beautiful profusion.

CHAPTER XVIII

The most remarkable feature, however, which was observed about Ottilie

was that, for the first time, she had now unpacked the box, and had

selected a variety of things out of it, which she had cut up, and which

were intended evidently to make one complete suit for her. The rest,

with Nanny's assistance, she had endeavored to replace again, and she

had been hardly able to get it done, the space being over full, although

a portion had been taken out. The covetous little Nanny could never

satisfy herself with looking at all the pretty things, especially as she

found provision made there for every article of dress which could be

wanted, even the smallest. Numbers of shoes and stockings, garters with

devices on them, gloves, and various other things were left, and she

begged Ottilie just to give her one or two of them. Ottilie refused to

do that, but opened a drawer in her wardrobe, and told the girl to take

what she liked. The latter hastily and awkwardly dashed in her hand and

seized what she could, running off at once with her booty, to show it

off and display her good fortune among the rest of the servants.

At last Ottilie succeeded in packing everything carefully into its

place. She then opened a secret compartment which was contrived in the

lid, where she kept a number of notes and letters from Edward, many

dried flowers, the mementos of their early walks together, a lock of his

hair, and various other little matters. She now added one more to them,

her father's portrait, and then locked it all up, and hung the delicate

key by a gold chain about her neck, against her heart.

In the meantime, her friends had now in their hearts begun to entertain

the best hopes for her. Charlotte was convinced that she would one day

begin to speak again. She had latterly seen signs about her which

implied that she was engaged in secret about something; a look of

cheerful self-satisfaction, a smile like that which hangs about the face

of persons who have something pleasant and delightful which they are

keeping concealed from those whom they love. No one knew that she spent

many hours in extreme exhaustion, and that only at rare intervals, when

she appeared in public through the power of her will, she was able to

rouse herself.

Mittler had latterly been a frequent visitor, and when he came he staid

longer than he usually did at other times. This strong-willed, resolute

person was only too well aware that there is a certain moment in which

alone it will answer to smite the iron. Ottilie's silence and reserve he

interpreted according to his own wishes; no steps had as yet been taken

toward a separation of the husband and wife. He hoped to be able to

determine the fortunes of the poor girl in some not undesirable way. He

listened; he allowed himself to seem convinced; he was discreet and

unobtrusive, and conducted himself in his own way with sufficient

prudence. There was but one occasion on which he uniformly forgot

himself--when he found an opportunity for giving his opinion upon

subjects to which he attached a great importance. He lived much within

himself, and when he was with others, his only relation to them

generally was in active employment on their behalf; but if once, when

among friends, his tongue broke fairly loose, as on more than one

occasion we have already seen, he rolled out his words in utter

recklessness, whether they wounded or whether they pleased, whether they

did evil or whether they did good.

The evening before the birthday, the Major and Charlotte were sitting

together expecting Edward, who had gone out for a ride; Mittler was

walking up and down the saloon; Ottilie was in her own room, laying out

the dress which she was to wear on the morrow, and making signs to her

maid about a number of things, which the girl, who perfectly understood

her silent language, arranged as she was ordered.

Mittler had fallen exactly on his favorite subject. One of the points on

which he used most to insist was, that in the education of children, as

well as in the conduct of nations, there was nothing more worthless and

barbarous than laws and commandments forbidding this and that action.

"Man is naturally active," he said, "wherever he is; and if you know how

to tell him what to do, he will do it immediately, and keep straight in

the direction in which you set him. I myself, in my own circle, am far

better pleased to endure faults and mistakes, till I know what the

opposite virtue is that I am to enjoin, than to be rid of the faults and

to have nothing good to put in their place. A man is really glad to do

what is right and sensible, if he only knows how to get at it. It is no

such great matter with him; he does it because he must have something to

do, and he thinks no more about it afterward than he does of the

silliest freaks which he engaged in out of the purest idleness. I cannot

tell you how it annoys me to hear people going over and over those Ten

Commandments in teaching children. The fifth is a thoroughly beautiful,

rational, preceptive precept. 'Thou shalt honor thy father and thy

mother.' If the children will inscribe that well upon their hearts, they

have the whole day before them to put it in practice. But the sixth now?

What can we say to that? 'Thou shalt do no murder;' as if any man ever

felt the slightest general inclination to strike another man dead. Men

will hate sometimes; they will fly into passions and forget themselves;

and as a consequence of this or other feelings, it may easily come now

and then to a murder; but what a barbarous precaution it is to tell

children that they are not to kill or murder! If the commandment ran,

'Have a regard for the life of another--put away whatever can do him

hurt--save him though with peril to yourself--if you injure him,

consider that you are injuring yourself;'--that is the form which should

be in use among educated, reasonable people. And in our Catechism

teaching we have only an awkward clumsy way of sliding into it, through

a 'what do you mean by that?'

"And as for the seventh; that is utterly detestable. What! to stimulate

the precocious curiosity of children to pry into dangerous mysteries; to

obtrude violently upon their imaginations, ideas and notions which

beyond all things you should wish to keep from them! It were far better

if such actions as that commandment speaks of were dealt with

arbitrarily by some secret tribunal, than prated openly of before church

and congregation--"

At this moment Ottilie entered the room.

"'Thou shalt not commit adultery,'"--Mittler went on--"How coarse! how

brutal! What a different sound it has, if you let it run, 'Thou shalt

hold in reverence the bond of marriage. When thou seest a husband and a

wife between whom there is true love, thou shalt rejoice in it, and

their happiness shall gladden thee like the cheerful light of a

beautiful day. If there arise anything to make division between them,

thou shalt use thy best endeavor to clear it away. Thou shalt labor to

pacify them, and to soothe them; to show each of them the excellencies

of the other. Thou shalt not think of thyself, but purely and

disinterestedly thou shalt seek to further the well-being of others, and

make them feel what a happiness is that which arises out of all duty

done; and especially out of that duty which holds man and wife

indissolubly bound together.'"

Charlotte felt as if she was sitting on hot coals. The situation was

the more distressing, as she was convinced that Mittler was not thinking

the least where he was or what he was saying; and before she was able to

interrupt him, she saw Ottilie, after changing color painfully for a few

seconds, rise and leave the room.

Charlotte constrained herself to seem unembarrassed. "You will leave us

the eighth commandment," she said, with a faint smile.

"All the rest," replied Mittler, "if I may only insist first on the

foundation of the whole of them."

At this moment Nanny rushed in, screaming and crying: "She is dying; the

young lady is dying; come to her, come."

Ottilie had found her way back with extreme difficulty to her own room.

The beautiful things which she was to wear the next day were laid out on

a number of chairs; and the girl, who had been running from one to the

other, staring at them and admiring them, called out in her ecstasy,

"Look, dearest madam, only look! There is a bridal dress worthy of you."

Ottilie heard the word, and sank upon the sofa. Nanny saw her mistress

turn pale, fall back, and faint. She ran for Charlotte, who came. The

medical friend was on the spot in a moment. He thought it was nothing

but exhaustion. He ordered some strong soup to be brought. Ottilie

refused it with an expression of loathing: it almost threw her into

convulsions, when they put the cup to her lips. A light seemed to break

on the physician: he asked hastily and anxiously what Ottilie had taken

that day. The little girl hesitated. He repeated his question, and she

then acknowledged that Ottilie had taken nothing.

There was a nervousness of manner about Nanny which made him suspicious.

He carried her with him into the adjoining room; Charlotte followed; and

the girl threw herself on her knees, and confessed that for a long time

past Ottilie had taken as good as nothing; at her mistress's urgent

request, she had herself eaten the food which had been brought for her;

she had said nothing about it, because Ottilie had by signs alternately

begged her not to tell any one, and threatened her if she did; and, as

she innocently added, "because it was so nice."

The Major and Mittler now came up as well. They found Charlotte busy

with the physician. The pale, beautiful girl was sitting, apparently

conscious, in the corner of the sofa. They had begged her to lie down;

she had declined to do this; but she made signs to have her box brought,

and resting her feet upon it, placed herself in an easy, half recumbent

position. She seemed to be wishing to take leave; and by her gestures,

was expressing to all about her the tenderest affection, love,

gratitude, entreaties for forgiveness, and the most heartfelt farewell.

Edward, on alighting from his horse, was informed of what had happened;

he rushed to the room; threw himself down at her side; and seizing her

hand, deluged it with silent tears. In this position he remained a long

time. At last he called out: "And am I never more to hear your voice?

Will you not turn back toward life, to give me one single word? Well,

then, very well. I will follow you yonder, and there we will speak in

another language."

She pressed his hand with all the strength she had; she gazed at him

with a glance full of life and full of love; and drawing a long breath,

and for a little while moving her lips inarticulately, with a tender

effort of affection she called out, "Promise me to live;" and then fell

back immediately.

"I promise, I promise!" he cried to her; but he cried only after her;

she was already gone.

After a miserable night, the care of providing for the loved remains

fell upon Charlotte. The Major and Mittler assisted her. Edward's

condition was utterly pitiable. His first thought, when he was in any

degree recovered from his despair, and able to collect himself, was,

that Ottilie should not be carried out of the castle; she should be kept

there, and attended upon as if she were alive: for she was not dead; it

was impossible that she should be dead. They did what he desired; at

least, so far as that they did not do what he had forbidden. He did not

ask to see her.

There was now a second alarm, and a further cause for anxiety. Nanny,

who had been spoken to sharply by the physician, had been compelled by

threats to confess, and after her confession had been overwhelmed with

reproaches, had now disappeared. After a long search she was found; but

she appeared to be out of her mind. Her parents took her home; but the

gentlest treatment had no effect upon her, and she had to be locked up

for fear she would run away again.

They succeeded by degrees in recovering Edward from the extreme agony of

despair; but only to make him more really wretched. He now saw clearly,

he could not doubt how, that the happiness of his life was gone from him

for ever. It was suggested to him that if Ottilie was placed in the

chapel, she would still remain among the living, and it would be a calm,

quiet, peaceful home for her. There was much difficulty in obtaining his

consent; he would only give it under condition that she should be taken

there in an open coffin; that the vault in which she was laid, if

covered at all, should be only covered with glass, and a lamp should be

kept always burning there. It was arranged that this should be done, and

then he seemed resigned.

They clothed the delicate body in the festal dress, which she had

herself prepared. A garland of asters was wreathed about her head, which

shone sadly there like melancholy stars. To decorate the bier and the

church and chapel, the gardens were robbed of their beauty; they lay

desolate, as if a premature winter had blighted all their loveliness. In

the earliest morning she was borne in an open coffin out of the castle,

and the heavenly features were once more reddened with the rising sun.

The mourners crowded about her as she was being taken along. None would

go before; none would follow; every one would be where she was, every

one would enjoy her presence for the last time. Men and women and little

boys--there was not one unmoved; least of all to be consoled were the

girls, who felt most immediately what they had lost.

Nanny was not present; it had been thought better not to allow it, and

they had kept secret from her the day and the hour of the funeral. She

was at her parents' house, closely watched, in a room looking toward the

garden. But when she heard the bells tolling, she knew too well what

they meant; and her attendant having left her out of curiosity to see

the funeral, she escaped out of the window into a passage, and from

thence, finding all the doors locked, into an upper open loft. At this

moment the funeral was passing through the village, which had been all

freshly strewed with leaves. Nanny saw her mistress plainly close below

her, more plainly, more entirely, than any one in the procession

underneath; she appeared to be lifted above the earth, borne as it were

on clouds or waves, and the girl fancied she was making signs to her;

her senses swam, she tottered, swayed herself for a moment on the edge,

and fell to the ground. The crowd drew asunder on all sides with a cry

of horror. In the tumult and confusion, the bearers were obliged to set

down the coffin; the girl lay close by it; it seemed as if every limb

was broken. They lifted her up, and by accident or providentially she

was allowed to lean over the body; she appeared, indeed, to be

endeavoring, with what remained to her of life, to reach her beloved

mistress. Scarcely, however, had the loosely hanging limbs touched

Ottilie's robe, and the powerless finger rested on the folded hands,

than the girl started up, and first raising her arms and eyes toward

heaven, flung herself down upon her knees before the coffin, and gazed

with passionate devotion at her mistress.

At last she sprang, as if inspired, from off the ground, and cried with

a voice of ecstasy: "Yes, she has forgiven me; what no man, what I

myself could never have forgiven. God forgives me through her look, her

motion, her lips.

"Now she is lying again so still and quiet, but you saw how she raised

herself up, and unfolded her hands and blessed me, and how kindly she

looked at me. You all heard, you can witness that she said to me: 'You

are forgiven.' I am not a murderess any more. She has forgiven me. God

has forgiven me, and no one may now say anything more against me."

The people stood crowding around her. They were amazed; they listened

and looked this way and that, and no one knew what should next be done.

"Bear her on to her rest," said the girl. "She has done her part; she

has suffered, and cannot now remain any more amongst us." The bier moved

on, Nanny now following it; and thus they reached the church and the

chapel.

So now stood the coffin of Ottilie, with the child's coffin at her head,

and her box at her feet, inclosed in a resting-place of massive oak. A

woman had been provided to watch the body for the first part of the

time, as it lay there so beautiful beneath its glass covering. But Nanny

would not permit this duty to be taken from herself. She would remain

alone without a companion, and attend to the lamp which was now kindled

for the first time; and she begged to be allowed to do it with so much

eagerness and perseverance, that they let her have her way, to prevent

any greater evil that might ensue.

But she did not long remain alone. As night was falling, and the hanging

lamp began to exercise its full right and shed abroad a larger lustre,

the door opened and the Architect entered the chapel. The chastely

ornamented walls in the mild light looked more strange, more awful, more

antique, than he was prepared to see them. Nanny was sitting on one side

of the coffin. She recognized him immediately; but she pointed in

silence to the pale form of her mistress. And there stood he on the

other side, in the vigor of youth and of grace, with his arms drooping,

and his hands clasped piteously together, motionless, with head and eye

inclined over the inanimate body.

Once already he had stood thus before in the Belisarius; he had now

involuntarily fallen into the same attitude. And this time how

naturally! Here, too, was something of inestimable worth thrown down

from its high estate. _There_ were courage, prudence, power, rank, and

wealth in one single man, lost irrevocably; there were qualities which,

in decisive moments, had been of indispensable service to the nation and

the prince; but which, when the moment was passed, were no more valued,

but flung aside and neglected, and cared for no longer. And _here_ were

many other silent virtues, which had been summoned but a little time

before by nature out of the depths of her treasures, and now swept

rapidly away again by her careless hand--rare, sweet, lovely virtues,

whose peaceful workings the thirsty world had welcomed, while it had

them, with gladness and joy; and now was sorrowing for them in

unavailing desire.

Both the youth and the girl were silent for a long time. But when she

saw the tears streaming fast down his cheeks, and he appeared to be

sinking under the burden of his sorrow, she spoke to him with so much

truthfulness and power, with such kindness and such confidence, that,

astonished at the flow of her words, he was able to recover himself, and

he saw his beautiful friend floating before him in the new life of a

higher world. His tears ceased flowing; his sorrow grew lighter: on his

knees he took leave of Ottilie, and with a warm pressure of the hand of

Nanny, he rode away from the spot into the night without having seen a

single other person.

The surgeon had, without the girl being aware of it, remained all night

in the church; and when he went in the morning to see her, he found her

cheerful and tranquil. He was prepared for wild aberrations. He thought

that she would be sure to speak to him of conversations which she had

held in the night with Ottilie, and of other such apparitions. But she

was natural, quiet, and perfectly self-possessed. She remembered

accurately what had happened in her previous life; she could describe

the circumstances of it with the greatest exactness, and never in

anything which she said stepped out of the course of what was real and

natural, except in her account of what had passed with the body, which

she delighted to repeat again and again, how, Ottilie had raised herself

up, had blessed her, had forgiven her, and thereby set her at rest for

ever.

Ottilie remained so long in her beautiful state, which more resembled

sleep than death, that a number of persons were attracted there to look

at her. The neighbors and the villagers wished to see her again, and

every one desired to hear Nanny's incredible story from her own mouth.

Many laughed at it, most doubted, and some few were found who were able

to believe.

Difficulties, for which no real satisfaction is attainable, compel us to

faith. Before the eyes of all the world, Nanny's limbs had been broken,

and by touching the sacred body she had been restored to strength again.

Why should not others find similar good fortune? Delicate mothers first

privately brought their children who were suffering from obstinate

disorders, and they believed that they could trace an immediate

improvement. The confidence of the people increased, and at last there

was no one so old or so weak as not to have come to seek fresh life and

health and strength at this place. The concourse became so great, that

they were obliged, except at the hours of divine service, to keep the

church and chapel closed.

Edward did not venture to look at her again; he lived on mechanically;

he seemed to have no tears left, and to be incapable of any further

suffering; his power of taking interest in what was going on diminished

every day; his appetite gradually failed. The only refreshment which did

him any good was what he drank out of the glass, which to him, indeed,

had been but an untrue prophet. He continued to gaze at the intertwining

initials, and the earnest cheerfulness of his expression seemed to

signify that he still hoped to be united with her at last. And as every

little circumstance combines to favor the fortunate, and every accident

contributes to elate him; so do the most trifling occurrences love to

unite to crush and overwhelm the unhappy. One day, as Edward raised the

beloved glass to his lips, he put it down and thrust it from him with a

shudder. It was the same and not the same. He missed a little private

mark upon it. The valet was questioned, and had to confess that the real

glass had not long since been broken, and that one like it belonging to

the same set had been substituted in its place.

Edward could not be angry. His destiny had spoken out with sufficient

clearness in the fact, and how should he be affected by the shadow? and

yet it touched him deeply. He seemed now to dislike drinking, and

thenceforward purposely to abstain from food and from speaking.

But from time to time a sort of restlessness came over him; he would

desire to eat and drink something, and would begin again to speak. "Ah!"

he said, one day to the Major, who now seldom left his side, "how

unhappy I am that all my efforts are but imitations ever, and false and

fruitless. What was blessedness to her, is pain to me; and yet for the

sake of this blessedness I am forced to take this pain upon myself. I

must go after her; follow her by the same road. But my nature and my

promise hold me back. It is a terrible difficulty, indeed, to imitate

the inimitable. I feel clearly, my dear friend, that genius is required

for everything; for martyrdom as well as the rest."

What shall we say of the endeavors which in this hopeless condition were

made for him? His wife, his friends, his physician, incessantly labored

to do something for him. But it was all in vain: at last they found him

dead. Mittler was the first to make the melancholy discovery; he called

the physician, and examined closely, with his usual presence of mind,

the circumstances under which he had been found. Charlotte rushed in to

them; she was afraid that he had committed suicide, and accused herself

and accused others of unpardonable carelessness. But the physician on

natural, and Mittler on moral grounds, were soon able to satisfy her of

the contrary. It was quite clear that Edward's end had taken him by

surprise. In a quiet moment he had taken out of his pocketbook and out

of a casket everything which remained to him as memorials of Ottilie,

and had spread them out before him--a lock of hair, flowers which had

been gathered in some happy hour, and every letter which she had written

to him from the first and which his wife had ominously happened to give

him. It was impossible that he would intentionally have exposed these to

the danger of being seen by the first person who might happen to

discover him.

But so lay the heart, which but a short time before had been so swift

and eager, at rest now, where it could never be disturbed; and falling

asleep, as he did, with his thoughts on one so saintly, he might well be

called blessed. Charlotte gave him his place at Ottilie's side, and

arranged that thenceforth no other person should be placed with them in

the same vault. In order to secure this, she made it a condition under

which she settled considerable sums of money on the church and the

school.

So lie the lovers, sleeping side by side. Peace hovers above their

resting-place. Fair angel faces gaze down upon them from the vaulted

ceiling, and what a happy moment that will be when one day they wake

again together!

SHAKESPEARE AND AGAIN SHAKESPEARE[1]

TRANSLATED BY JULIA FRANKLIN

So much has already been written of Shakespeare that it would seem as if

nothing remained to be said; yet it is the peculiarity of a great mind

ever to stimulate other minds. This time I propose to consider

Shakespeare from more than one point of view--first as a poet in

general, then as compared with poets ancient and modern, and finally, as

a strictly dramatic poet. I shall endeavor to show what effect the

imitation of his art has produced upon us and what effect it is capable

of producing in general. I shall voice my agreement with what has

already been said by repeating it upon occasion, but shall express my

dissent positively and briefly, without involving myself in a conflict

of opinions. Let us, then, take up the first point.

I

SHAKESPEARE AS A POET IN GENERAL

The highest that man can attain is the consciousness of his own thoughts

and feelings, and a knowledge of himself which prepares him to fathom

alien natures as well. There are people who are by nature endowed with

such a gift and by experience develop it to practical uses. Thence

springs the ability to conquer something, in a higher sense, from the

world and affairs. The poet, too, is born with such an endowment, only

he does not develop it for immediate mundane ends, but for a more

exalted, universal purpose. If we rate Shakespeare as one of the

greatest poets, we acknowledge at the same time that it has been

vouchsafed to few to discern the world as he did: to few, in expressing

their inward feelings of the world, to give the reader a more realizing

sense of it. It becomes thoroughly transparent to us; we find ourselves

suddenly the confidants of virtue and vice, of greatness and

insignificance, of nobility and depravity--all this, and more, through

the simplest means. If we seek to discover what those means are, it

appears as if he wrought for our eyes; but we are deceived.

Shakespeare's creations are not for the eyes of the body. I shall

endeavor to explain myself.

Sight may well be termed the clearest of our senses, that through which

transmissions are most readily made. But our inward sense is still

clearer and its highest and quickest impressions are conveyed through

the medium of the word; for that is indeed fructifying, while what we

apprehend through our eyes may be alien to us and by no means as potent

in its effects. Now, Shakespeare addresses our inward sense, absolutely;

through it the realm of fancy created by the imagination is quickened

into life and thus a world of impressions is produced for which we can

not account, since the basis of the illusion consists in the fact that

everything seems to take place before our eyes. But if we examine

Shakespeare's dramas carefully, we find that they contain far less of

sensuous acts than of spiritual expressions. He allows events to happen

which may be readily imagined; nay, that it is better to imagine than to

see. Hamlet's ghost, the witches in _Macbeth_, many deeds of horror,

produce their effect through the imagination; and the abundant short

interludes are addressed solely to that faculty. All such things pass

before us fittingly and easily in reading, whereas they are a drag in

representation and appear as disturbing, even as repellent elements.

Shakespeare produces his effects by the living word, and that may be

best transmitted by recitation; the listener is not distracted by either

good or inadequate representation. There is no greater or purer delight

than to listen with closed eyes to a Shakespearean play recited, not

declaimed, in a natural, correct voice. One follows the simple thread

which runs through events of the drama. We form a certain conception of

the characters, it is true, from their designation; but actually we

have to learn from the course of the words and speeches what goes on

within, and here all the characters seem to have agreed not to leave us

in the dark, in doubt, in any particular.

[Illustration: THE OLD THEATRE, WEIMAR _From a Water Color by Peter

Woltze_]

To this end all conspire--heroes and mercenaries, masters and slaves,

kings and messengers; the subordinate figures, indeed, being often more

effective in this respect than the superior ones. Everything

mysteriously brewing in the air at the time of some great world-event,

all that is hidden in the human soul in moments of supreme experience,

is given expression; what the spirit anxiously locks up and screens is

freely and unreservedly exposed; we learn the meaning of life and know

not how.

Shakespeare mates himself with the world-spirit; like it he pervades the

world; to neither is anything concealed; but if it is the function of

the world-spirit to maintain secrecy before, indeed often after, the

event, it is the poet's aim to divulge the secret and make us confidants

before the deed, or at least during its occurrence. The vicious man of

power, well-meaning mediocrity, the passionate enthusiast, the calmly

reflective character, all wear their hearts upon their sleeves, often

contrary to all likelihood; every one is inclined to talk, to be

loquacious. In short, the secret must out, should the stones have to

proclaim it. Even inanimate objects contribute their share; all

subordinate things chime in; the elements, the phenomena of the heavens,

earth and sea, thunder and lightning, wild beasts, raise their voices,

often apparently in parables, but always acting as accessories.

But the civilized world, too, must render up its treasures; arts and

sciences, trades and professions, all offer their gifts. Shakespeare's

creations are a great, animated fair, and for this richness he is

indebted to his native land.

England, sea-girt, veiled in mist and clouds, turning its active

interest toward every quarter of the globe, is everywhere. The poet

lived at a notable and momentous time, and depicted its culture, its

misculture even, in the merriest vein; indeed, he would not affect us

so powerfully had he not identified himself with the age in which he

lived. No one had a greater contempt for the mere material, outward garb

of man than he; he understands full well that which is within, and here

all are on the same footing. It is thought that he represented the

Romans admirably; I do not find it so; they are all true-blue

Englishmen, but, to be sure, they are men, men through and through, and

the Roman toga, too, fits them. When we have seized this point of view,

we find his anachronisms highly laudable, and it is this very disregard

of the outer raiment that renders his creations so vivid.

Let these few words, which do not by any means exhaust Shakespeare's

merits, suffice. His friends and worshipers would find much that might

be added. Yet one remark more It would be difficult to name another poet

each of whose works has a different underlying conception exerting such

a dominating influence as we find in Shakespeare's.

Thus _Coriolanus_ is pervaded throughout by anger that the masses will

not acknowledge the preeminence of their superiors. In _Julius Cæsar_

everything turns upon the conception that the better people do not wish

any one placed in supreme authority because they imagine, mistakenly,

that they can work in unison. _Anthony and Cleopatra,_ calls out with a

thousand tongues that self-indulgence and action are incompatible. And

further investigation will rouse our admiration of this variety again

and again.

II

SHAKESPEARE COMPARED WITH THE ANCIENT AND THE MOST MODERN POETS

The interest that animates Shakespeare's great spirit lies within the

limits of the world; for though prophecy and madness, dreams,

presentiments, portents, fairies and goblins, ghosts, witches and

sorcerers, form a magic element which color his creations at the fitting

moment, yet those phantasms are by no means the chief components of his

productions; it is the verities and experiences of his life that are the

great basis upon which they rest, and that is why everything that

proceeds from him appears so genuine and pithy. We perceive, therefore,

that he belongs not so much to the modern world, which has been termed

the romantic one, as to a naive world, since, though his significance

really rests upon the present, he scarcely, even in his tenderest

moments, touches the borders of longing, and then only at the outermost

edge.

Nevertheless, more intimately examined, he is a decidedly modern poet,

divided from the ancients by a tremendous gulf, not as regards outward

form, which is not to be considered here at all, but as regards the

inmost, the profoundest significance of his work.

I shall, in the first place, protect myself by saying that it is by no

means my intention to adduce the following terminology as exhaustive or

final; my attempt is, rather not so much to add a new contrast to those

already familiar, as to point out that it is included in them. These

contrasts are:

Antique Modern

Naive Sentimental

Pagan Christian

Heroic Romantic

Real Idealistic

Necessity Freedom

_Sollen_ (Duty; shall; must; should). _Wollen_ (Desire; inclination;

would).

The greatest torments, as well as the most frequent, that beset man

spring from the discordances in us all between duty and desire, between

duty and performance (_Vollbringen_); and it is these discordances

that so often embarrass man during his earthly course. The slightest

confusion, arising from a trivial error which may be cleared up

unexpectedly and without injury, gives rise to ridiculous situations.

The greatest confusion, on the contrary, insoluble or unsolved, offers

us the tragic elements.

Predominant in the ancient dramas is the discordance between duty and

desire; in the modern, that between desire and performance. Let us, for

the present, consider this decisive difference among the other

contrasts, and see what can be done with it in both cases. Now this, now

that side predominates, as I have remarked; but since duty and desire

cannot be radically separated in man, both motives must be found

simultaneously, even though the one should be predominant and the other

subordinate. Duty is imposed upon man; "must" is a hard taskmaster;

desire (_das Wollen_) man imposes upon himself; man's own will is his

heaven. A persistent "should" is irksome; inability to perform is

terrible; a persistent "would" is gratifying; and the possession of a

firm will may yield solace even in case of incapacity to perform.

We may look at games of cards as a sort of poetic creation; they, too,

consist of these two elements. The form of the game, combined with

chance, takes the place of the "should" as the ancients recognized it

under the name of fate; the "would," combined with the ability of the

player, opposes it. Looked at in this way, I should call the game of

whist ancient. The form of this game restricts chance, nay, the will

itself; provided with partners and opponents, I must, with the cards

dealt out to me, guide a long series of chances which there is no way of

controlling. In the case of ombre and other like games, the contrary

takes place. Here a great many doors are left open to will and daring; I

can revoke the cards that fall to my share, can make them count in

various ways, can discard half or all of them, can appeal from the

decree of chance, nay, by an inverted course can reap the greatest

advantage from the worst hand; and thus this class of games exactly

resembles the modern method in thought and in poetic art.

Ancient tragedy is based upon an unavoidable "should," which is

intensified and accelerated only by a counteracting "would." This is the

point of all that is terrible in the oracles, the region where _Oedipus_

reigns supreme. _Sollen_ appears in a milder light as duty in

_Antigone_. But all _Sollen_ is despotic, whether it belongs to the

domain of reason, as ethical and municipal laws, or to that of Nature,

as the laws of creation, growth, dissolution, of life and death. We

shudder at all this, without reflecting that it is intended for the

general good. _Wollen,_ on the contrary, is free, appears free, and

favors the individual. _Wollen,_ therefore, is flattering, and perforce

took possession of men as soon as they learned to know it. It is the god

of the new time; devoted to it, we have a dread of its opposite, and

that is why there is an impassable gulf between our art, as well as our

mode of thought, and that of the ancients. Through _Sollen,_ tragedy

becomes great and forceful; through _Wollen,_ weak and petty. Thus has

arisen the so-called drama, in which the awful power of Fate was

dissolved by the will; but precisely because this comes to the aid of

our weakness do we find ourselves moved if, after painful expectation,

we finally receive but scant comfort.

If now, after these preliminary reflections, I turn to Shakespeare, I

can not forbear wishing that my readers should themselves make the

comparison and the application. Here Shakespeare stands out unique,

combining the old and the new in incomparable fashion. _Wollen_ and

_Sollen_ seek by every means, in his plays, to reach an equilibrium;

they struggle violently with each other, but always in a way that leaves

the _Wollen_ at a disadvantage.

No one, perhaps, has represented more splendidly the great primal

connection between _Wollen_ and _Sollen_ in the character of the

individual. A person, from the point of view of his character, should:

he is restricted, destined to some definite course; but as a man, he

wills. He is unlimited and demands freedom of choice. At once there

arises an inner conflict, and Shakespeare puts it in the forefront. But

then an outer conflict supervenes, which often becomes acute through the

pressure of circumstances, in the face of which a deficiency of will may

rise to the rank of an inexorable fate. This idea I have pointed out

before in the case of Hamlet; but it occurs repeatedly in Shakespeare;

for as Hamlet is driven by the ghost into straits which he cannot pass

through, so is Macbeth by witches, by Hecate, and by the arch-witch, his

wife; Brutus by his friends; nay, even _in Coriolanus_, we find a

similar thing--in short, the conception of a will transcending the

capacity of the individual is modern. But as Shakespeare represents this

trouble of the will as arising not from within but through outside

circumstances, it becomes a sort of Fate and approaches the antique. For

all the heroes of poetic antiquity strive only for what lies within

man's power, and thence arises that fine balance between will, Fate, and

performance; yet their Fate appears always as too forbidding, even where

we admire it, to possess the power of attraction. A necessity which,

more or less, or completely, precludes all freedom, does not comport

with the ideas of our time; but Shakespeare approaches these in his own

way; for, in making necessity ethical, he links, to our gratified

astonishment, the ancient with the modern. If anything can be learned

from him, it is this point that we should study in his school. Instead

of exalting our romanticism--which may not deserve censure or

contempt--unduly and exclusively, and clinging to it in a partisan

spirit, whereby its strong, solid, efficient side is misjudged and

impaired, we should strive to unite within ourselves those great and

apparently irreconcilable opposites--all the more that this has already

been achieved by the unique master whom we prize so highly, and, often

without knowing why, extol above every one. He had, to be sure, the

advantage of living at the proper harvest-time, of expending his

activity in a Protestant country teeming with life, where the madness of

bigotry was silent for a time, so that a man like Shakespeare, imbued

with a natural piety, was left free to develop his real self religiously

without regard to any definite creed.

III

SHAKESPEARE AS A DRAMATIST

If lovers and friends of art wish fully to enjoy a creation of any kind,

they delight in it as a whole, are permeated by the unity with which the

artist has endowed it. To a person, on the other hand, who wishes to

discuss such productions theoretically, to assert something about them,

and therefore, to inform and instruct, discrimination becomes a duty. We

believed we were fulfilling that duty in considering Shakespeare first

as a poet in general, and then comparing him with the ancient and the

most modern poets. And now we wish to complete our design by considering

him as a dramatist.

Shakespeare's name and worth belong to the history of poetry; but it is

doing an injustice to all the dramatists of earlier and later ages to

present his entire merit as belonging to the history of the theatre.

A person of universally acknowledged talent may make a doubtful use of

his endowments. Not everything produced by such a superior mind is done

in the most perfect way. Thus Shakespeare belongs essentially to the

history of poetry; in the history of the theatre he figures only

accidentally. Because we can admire him unqualifiedly in the first, we

must in the latter take into consideration the conditions to which he

submitted and not extol those conditions as either virtues or models.

We distinguish closely allied forms of poetic creation, which, however,

in a vivid treatment often merge into each other: the epic, dialogue,

drama, stage play, may be differentiated. An epic requires oral delivery

to the many by a single individual; dialogue, speech in private company,

where the multitude may, to be sure, be listeners; drama, conversation

in actions, even though perhaps presented only to the imagination; stage

play, all three together, inasmuch as it engages the sense of vision and

may be grasped under certain conditions of local and personal presence.

It is in this sense that Shakespeare's productions are most dramatic; he

wins the reader by his mode of treatment, of disclosing man's innermost

life; the demands of the stage appear unessential to him, and thus he

takes an easy course, and, in an intellectual sense, we serenely follow

him. We transport ourselves with him from one locality to another; our

imagination supplies all the intermediate actions that he omits; nay, we

are grateful to him for arousing our spiritual faculties in so worthy a

fashion. By producing everything in theatrical form, he facilitates the

activity of the imagination; for we are more familiar with the "boards

that mean the world" than with the world itself, and we may read and

hear the most singular things and yet feel that they might actually take

place before our eyes on the stage; hence the frequent failure of

dramatizations of popular novels.

Strictly speaking, however, nothing is dramatic except that which

strikes the eye as symbolic--an important action which betokens one

still more important. That Shakespeare could attain this height too is

evidenced in the scene where the son and heir takes the crown from the

side of the father slumbering on his deathbed, places it on his own

head, and struts off with it.[2] But these are only episodes, scattered

jewels separated by much that is undramatic. Shakespeare's whole mode of

procedure finds something unaccommodating in the actual stage; his great

talent is that of an epitomist, and since poets are, on the whole,

epitomists of Nature, we must here, too, acknowledge Shakespeare's great

merit; only we deny, at the same time, and that to his credit, that the

stage was a worthy sphere for his genius. It is precisely this

limitation of the stage, however, which causes him to restrict himself.

But he does not, like other poets, select particular materials for

particular works; he makes an idea the central point and refers the

earth and the universe to it. As he condenses ancient and modern

history, he can utilize the material of every chronicle, and often

adheres to it literally. Not so conscientiously does he proceed with the

tales, as _Hamlet_ attests. _Romeo and Juliet_ is more faithful to

tradition; yet he almost destroys its tragic content by the two comic

figures, Mercutio and the nurse, probably presented by two popular

actors--the nurse undoubtedly acted by a man. If we examine the

structure of the play very closely, we notice that these two figures and

the elements touching them, appear only as farcical interludes, which,

with our love of the logical and harmonious, must strike us as

intolerable.

But Shakespeare is most marvelous when he adapts and recasts plays

already in existence. We can institute a comparison in the case of _King

John_ and _Lear_; for the older dramas are still extant. But in these

instances, likewise, he is again rather a poet than a dramatist.

But let us, in conclusion, proceed to the solution of the riddle. The

imperfection of the English stage has been represented to us by

well-informed men. There is not a trace of those requirements of realism

to which we have gradually become used through improvements in

machinery, the art of perspective, the wardrobe, and from which it would

be difficult to lead us back into the infancy of those beginnings, to

the days of a stage upon which little was seen, where everything was

only _indicated_, where the public was satisfied to assume the chamber

of the king lying behind a green curtain, the trumpeter who sounded the

trumpet always at a certain spot, and many like things. Who at present

would permit such assumptions? Under those conditions Shakespeare's

plays were highly interesting tales, only they were recited by a number

of persons, who, in order to make somewhat more of an impression, were

characteristically masked as the occasion demanded, moved about, came

and went, but left it to the spectator's imagination to fancy at will

paradise and palaces on the empty stage.

How, indeed, did Schröder achieve the great credit of putting

Shakespeare's plays upon the German stage but by epitomizing the

epitomizer? Schröder confined himself entirely to what was effective; he

discarded everything else, indeed, even much that was essential, when it

seemed to him that the effect upon his nation, upon his time, would be

impaired. Thus it is true, for example, that by omitting the first scene

of _King Lear_ he changed the character of the piece; but he was right,

after all, for in that scene Lear appears so ridiculous that one can not

wholly blame his daughters. The old man awakens our pity, but we have no

sympathy for him, and it is sympathy that Schröder wished to arouse as

well as abhorrence of the two daughters, who, though unnatural, are not

absolutely reprehensible.

In the old play which is Shakespeare's source, this scene is productive,

in the course of the play, of the most pleasing effects. Lear flees to

France; daughter and son-in-law, in some romantic caprice, make a

pilgrimage, in disguise, to the seashore, and encounter the old man, who

does not recognize them. Here all that Shakespeare's lofty, tragic

spirit has embittered is made sweet. A comparison of these dramas

affords ever renewed pleasure to the lover of art.

In recent years, however, the notion has crept into Germany that

Shakespeare must be presented on the German stage word for word, even if

actors and audience should fairly choke in the process. The attempts,

induced by an excellent, exact translation,[3] would not succeed

anywhere--a fact to which the Weimar stage, after honest and repeated

efforts, can give unexceptionable testimony. If we wish to see a

Shakespearean play, we must return to Schröder's adaptation; but the

dogma that, in representing Shakespeare, not a jot or tittle may be

omitted, senseless as it is, is constantly being reechoed. If the

advocates of this view should retain the upper hand, Shakespeare would

in a few years be entirely driven from the German stage. This, indeed,

would be no misfortune; for the solitary reader, or the reader in

company with others, would experience so much the purer delight.

The attempt, however, in the other direction, on which we have dilated

above, was made in the arrangement of _Romeo and Juliet_ for the Weimar

stage. The principles upon which this was based, we shall set forth at

the first opportunity, and it will perhaps then be recognized why that

arrangement--the representation of which is by no means difficult, but

must be carried out artistically and with precision--had no success on

the German stage. Similar efforts are now in progress, and perhaps some

result is in store for the future, even though such undertakings

frequently fail at the first trial.

ORATION ON WIELAND (1813)[4]

TRANSLATED BY LOUIS H. GRAY, PH. D.

[To the Memory of the noble Poet, Brother, and Friend, Wieland.]

Most serene protector!

Right worshipful master I

Very honorable assembly I