THE TWO POETS.
"She is bewitching," murmured Goethe, as the beautiful girl was lost to
view behind the green bushes that skirted the avenue. "I had no idea
that dull, sober Weimar contained such a treasure, and--"
"Goethe! Welcome, Goethe!" cried the joyous voice of a woman behind
him; "how delighted I am to meet you here!"
He turned hastily, and saw Madame von Kalb standing before him,
on the arm of a tall, fair-haired gentleman. This was the cause
of Christiane's flight. The beautiful girl had seen this lady and
gentleman coming. She was, therefore, not only beautiful, she was also
discreet and modest. Goethe said this to himself, while he kissed
Madame von Kalb's extended hand, and gayly responded to her greeting.
"The two gentlemen are, of course, acquainted," said she.
"I believe I have never had the honor," replied Goethe, who had again
assumed the cold reserve of the privy-councillor.
"Who does not know the greatest and most celebrated of Germany's
poets?" said the other gentleman, a slight flush suffusing itself over
his pale, hollow cheeks. "I have known the poet Goethe for a long
time; I was present when he visited the Charles School in Stuttgart.
He, of course, did not observe the poor scholar, but the latter was
delighted to see the poet Goethe. And he is now delighted to make the
acquaintance of the Privy-Councillor Goethe!"
Perhaps there was a slight touch of irony in these words, but his
large blue eyes beamed as mildly and lovingly as ever. A slight shadow
flitted over Goethe's brow.
"You are right," said he, "in reminding me that there are hours in
which the poet must be contented to perform the duties of an official.
By the document which I hold in my hand, you will perceive, my lady,
that I am an official who has duties to fulfil, and I trust that you
will, therefore, excuse me." He bowed formally, and passed on in the
direction of his garden-house.
"He is becoming colder and more reserved each day," said Madame von
Kalb. "He has been completely transformed since I first saw him here in
Weimar. Then, radiant and handsome as Apollo, flaming with enthusiasm,
carrying all hearts with him by his impetuosity and genial manner--then
we were forced to believe that earth had no barriers or fetters for
him, but that he could spread his pinions and soar heavenward at any
moment; now, a stiff, unapproachable, privy-councillor, reserved and
grandly dignified! Schiller, no woman could change so fearfully, or
become so false to herself! Goethe's appearance has saddened me so much
that I feel like crying!"
"And I," said Schiller, angrily, "I feel like calling myself a
simpleton for having addressed a kindly greeting to so haughty a
gentleman. He despises me, and looks down upon the unknown dramatic
writer with contempt; he--"
"Frederick," said Madame von Kalb, gently, "my Frederick, such petty
envy does not beseem a genius like yourself; you--"
"Nor do I envy him," said Schiller, interrupting her; "in my breast
also glows the holy fire that was not stolen from heaven by Prometheus
for him alone! My spirit also has pinions that would bear it aloft to
the sun, if--yes, if it were not for the paltry fetters that bind my
feet to earth!"
"And yet, my beloved friend," rejoined Charlotte, passionately, "and
yet I will be only too happy to share these fetters with you--and
I would rather live with you in a modest cottage, than in the most
magnificent palace at the side of an unloved man."
"You are an angel, Charlotte," murmured Schiller; "you over-estimate
me, and I know only too well how little I resemble the sublime image
your lively imagination has made of me."
He did not look at Charlotte while uttering these words, his manner was
embarrassed, and his eyes turned heavenward. He suffered Charlotte to
lead him by the hand, and walked at her side like a dreaming, confiding
child.
She led him to the darkest and most solitary avenue--to the same
retreat in which Goethe had walked restlessly to and fro but a short
time before. The little branch of woodbine which Goethe had struck
down with his cane, and from which he had plucked a blossom and placed
it in his button-hole, still lay in the middle of the road. Charlotte
carelessly trod it under foot, never dreaming that these crushed
blossoms could have told a tale that might have served her as a warning.
But of women's hearts the same may be said that Mirabeau said of
princes: "They have learned nothing and forgotten nothing!"
No; they, too, learn nothing and forget nothing, these poor women's
hearts. Never have they learned by the fate of another woman that love
is not immortal, and that the vows of men, as Horace says, "are wafted
away like the leaves of the forest." Never have they forgotten these
vows, and on the leaves of the forest do they still erect air-castles,
which they fondly hope will stand forever.
They seated themselves on a rustic bench that had been placed in a
flowery niche, cut out of the hedge that skirted the path in which
they had been walking. There they sat, hand in hand, Charlotte's
eyes fastened on Schiller's noble, thoughtful countenance, with an
expression of mingled pain and tenderness.
"Frederick, you have nothing to say to me?"
He raised his eyes slowly, and in the vehemence of her own feelings she
failed to observe that his glance was somewhat embarrassed and anxious.
"It is very beautiful here," he said in low tones. "This solitude,
this eloquent silence of Nature, is very delightful, particularly when
I can enjoy it at your side, my beloved friend. Our souls are like two
harps that are tuned to the same tone, and are so near together that,
when the strings of the one are touched, those of the other echo a
response in the same accord."
"God grant that it may ever be so, my Frederick! God grant that no
storm break in upon the harmony of these harps!"
"And from whence should such a storm come, my dear friend, beloved
sister of my soul? No, I am sure that this can never be. The love which
unites us is exalted above all change and illusion. I can conceive
of no purer or more beautiful relation than that of a brother to his
sister, when they are loving, and live in a proper understanding of
their duties to each other. Let this thought truly console us and
strengthen our hearts, Charlotte, if other wishes entertained by me for
a long time, as you well know, should never be fulfilled. Charlotte,
I am not one of those whose lives flow on in a smooth, unbroken
current, and over whose desires auspicious stars shine in the heavens.
To forego has ever been my fate, and you, my dearest, have given me
painful instruction in this bitter lesson. You will remember how I
knelt at your feet in Mannheim, passionately entreating you to sunder
the fetters which bound you to the unloved man, and to become mine, my
wife! It was, however, in vain; and now, when your heart is at last
inclined to grant the fulfilment of our wishes and hopes--now, when you
would dare to become my wife, another obstacle presents itself that
seems to render it impossible that we should ever be outwardly united."
"What obstacle, Frederick? Who can prevent it?"
"Your husband, Charlotte. It seems that he loves you truly, and cannot
bear to entertain the thought of separation."
"Have you spoken with him, Frederick? Have you honestly and openly told
him of our wishes, and have you entreated him to fulfil them?"
"I have often attempted to do so, but he always avoided coming to
the point. Whenever he observed that I was endeavoring to turn our
conversation in that direction, he would break off abruptly and
introduce another topic of conversation. This convinced me that he
loved you dearly, and the thought that I am about to grieve this good
and noble man and rob him of a treasure that my own feelings teach me
must be very dear to him, pains me to the heart's core."
"Frederick," said she, softly, "how fearful it is to see the most
beautiful flowers of spring fade and die, sometimes cut off by a
nipping frost, sometimes parched by the too great warmth of the sun!"
"I do not understand you, Charlotte," said Schiller, in a little more
confusion than was entirely compatible with his "not understanding."
"And I," cried she, with sparkling eyes, "I wish I did not understand
you! Tell me, Frederick, is your heart really mine? Are your feelings
toward me unchanged?"
He raised his eyes, and gazed into her agitated countenance earnestly
and thoughtfully. "Charlotte, you ask a question which God alone can
answer. Who can say of himself that he has a true and exact knowledge
of his own feelings? All is subject to change; the sea has its ebb and
flow, the sun rises and sets. But the sea ever and again returns to
the beach it had before deserted, and the sun ever rises again after
the dark night. As the sea and sun, with all their changes, are still
eternally constant, so it is also with true love. At times it would
seem as though it were withdrawing, and leaving a bleak, sandy desert
behind; in the next hour its mighty waves surge back impetuously over
the barren strand, chanting, in holy organ-tones, the song that love is
eternal."
"Wondrous words!" cried Charlotte; "the paraphrase to a glorious song
which I hope the poet Frederick Schiller will one day sing to the
world! But I ask the poet, whether these are also the words of the man
Frederick Schiller? Did the hymn to love, just uttered by the poet's
lips, also resound in the heart of the man, and was it addressed to
me?"
"And why these questions, my dearest? The poet and the man are one, and
the utterances of the poet's lips are the thoughts of the man; when
he consecrates an enthusiastic hymn to love, while at your side, be
assured that it is addressed to you!"
He laid his arm around her neck, and drew her head to his breast, as
he had so often done before in hours of tenderness. But Charlotte
felt that there was, nevertheless, a difference between then and now:
the arm that embraced her did not rest on her neck with the same warm
pressure as of yore. She, however, repressed the sigh that had nearly
escaped her lips, nestled closer to his bosom, and whispered in low
tones: "Frederick, your hymn has found an echo in my heart; Frederick,
I am very grateful to God for your love!"
He was silent, his only response was a warmer pressure of the arm
entwined around her neck. Then both were silent. Deep stillness
reigned; it seemed as though Nature were holding divine service in her
green halls under the dome of heaven; at first with silent prayer, then
a joyous song of praise resounded from the hidden chorus in the foliage
of the tall trees, until the breeze rustled through the leaves in holy
organ-tones, and silenced the feathered songsters.
To these deep organ-tones, to this rustling of the wind in the foliage,
listened the two lovers, who sat there on the little rustic bench in a
trance of delight and devotion. Both were silent, and yet so eloquent
in their silence. He, with his pale countenance turned upward, gazing
intently at the blue dome of heaven, as though seeking to fathom its
mysteries; she, with her head resting on his bosom, seeking no other,
now that she had found this heaven. But the wind now rustled through
the trees in deeper and more solemn tones, and awakened Charlotte
from her sweet repose. A leaf torn from the branches by the wind was
borne against her cheek; it glided over her face like the touch of a
ghostly finger, and fell into her hands, which lay folded in her lap.
She started up in alarm, and looked down at this gift of the wind and
trees.
They had given her a withered, discolored leaf. Like the harbinger
of coming autumn had this withered leaf touched her face, and rudely
awakened her from her heavenly summer dream.
"A bad omen," she murmured, tearing the leaf to pieces with her
trembling fingers.
"What does this murmuring mean, Charlotte?" asked Schiller, who had
been completely absorbed in his own thoughts, and had not observed this
little by-play in the great tragedy of the heart. "What alarmed you so
suddenly?"
"Nothing, it is nothing," said she, rising. "Come, my friend, let us
go; I fear that a storm is gathering in the heavens."
He looked up at the clear blue sky in amazement. "I do not see a single
cloud."
"So much the better, Frederick!" rejoined Charlotte, quickly, "so much
the better! Nothing will therefore prevent our taking the contemplated
drive to Rudolstadt."
Her large eyes fastened a quick, penetrating glance on his countenance
while uttering these words, and she saw that he colored slightly, and
avoided encountering her gaze.
"We will carry out our intention of driving to Rudolstadt to-morrow,
will we not, my friend? I have been promising to pay Madame von
Lengefeld a visit for a long time, and it will afford me great
pleasure to see her two daughters again. Caroline von Beulwitz is a
noble young woman, and bears the cruel fate entailed upon her by her
unfortunate marriage with true heroism. At the side of this matured
summer-rose stands her sister Charlotte, like a fair young blossom of
the spring-time."
Schiller, his countenance radiant with pure joy, gave Charlotte a
tender, grateful look; and this look pierced her heart, and kindled the
consuming flames of jealousy. Poor Charlotte! The wind had dashed a
withered autumn-leaf against her face, and but now she had called the
woman who was henceforth to be her rival "a fair young blossom of the
spring-time."
"How beautifully you paint with a few strokes of the brush, Charlotte!"
said Schiller, gayly. "Your portrait is an excellent one, and portrays
Madame von Lengefeld's daughters as they really are. Caroline, as the
full-blown rose, and Charlotte as a lovely, fragrant violet."
"And which of these flowers do you most admire?"
"It is hard to choose between them," replied Schiller, laughing. "It is
best to admire them together; I can scarcely conceive of their being
separated; separation would destroy the harmony of the picture!"
Charlotte felt relieved. Then he loved neither. His heart had not
chosen between them.
"I am so glad," said she, "that my friends chance to be yours also! How
did you become acquainted with the Von Lengefeld family?"
"We are old acquaintances!" replied Schiller, smiling. "I made the
acquaintance of these ladies four years ago while residing in Madame
von Wollzogen's house, soon after my flight from Stuttgart, and it was
her son, my friend, William von Wollzogen, who took me to see them in
Rudolstadt."[47]
"Rumor says that Mr. William von Wollzogen loves his cousin Caroline
devotedly."
"And for once, rumor has, as I believe, told the truth. Wollzogen loves
his beautiful cousin passionately."
"And Caroline, does she love him?"
"Who can fathom the heart of this noble woman! Her lips are sealed by
the solemn vow which united her with her unloved husband, and Caroline
von Beulwitz is too noble and chaste a woman to become untrue even to
an unloved husband, and--" Schiller hesitated; he now felt how deeply
his words must have wounded the woman who stood at his side--the woman
over whom be had just pronounced judgment. But women have a wonderful
knack of not hearing what they do not wish to hear, and of smiling even
when stabbed to the heart.
Charlotte von Kalb smiled on Schiller as though his words had not
wounded her in the slightest degree.
"And has Charlotte, has this poor child, at last recovered from her
unhappy love? Have the bleeding wounds of her young heart at last been
healed?"
Madame von Kalb, her countenance wreathed in smiles, had drawn the
dagger from her own heart and plunged it into her lover's. "Paete,
Paete, non dolet!"
He felt the blow and found it impossible to force a smile to his lips.
"What do you mean?" asked he, gloomily. "Who has dared to wound the
heart of this fair girl?"
"I am surprised, indeed, that you should have heard nothing of this
affair, my dear friend," said Charlotte, the smile on her lips
becoming more radiant as she felt that the dagger was entering
deeper and deeper. "Charlotte von Lengefeld was affianced to a noble
young man whom she loved devotedly, and it was the most ardent wish
of both to be united for life. But, unfortunately, the wealth of
their feelings formed a cutting contrast to the poverty of their
outward circumstances. Madame von Lengefeld, a lady of experience
and discretion, informed the lovers that their union was out of the
question, as they were both poor. Yielding to stern necessity they
separated, although with many tears and bleeding hearts. The young man
entered the Hessian army and went to America, never to return. The
young girl remained behind in sorrow and sadness, and, as it is said,
took a solemn vow never to marry another, as fate had separated her
from the man she loved."
And after Charlotte, with the cruelty characteristic of all women when
they love and are jealous, had dealt this last blow, she smiled and
gave her lover a tender glance. But his countenance remained perfectly
composed, and Charlotte's narrative seemed rather to have appealed to
the imagination of the poet than to the heart of the man.
"It is true," said he, softly, "each human heart furnishes material
for a tragedy. All life is, in reality, nothing more than a grand
tragedy, whose author is the Eternal Spirit of the universe. We, little
children of humanity, are nothing more than the poor actors to whom
this Eternal Spirit has given life for no other purpose than that we
might play the rôles which He has assigned us. We poor actors fancy
ourselves independent beings, yes, even the lords of creation, and talk
of free agency and of the sublime power of the human will. This free
agency is nothing more than the self-worship of the poor slave.--Come,
Charlotte," cried Schiller, suddenly awakening from his thoughtful
contemplation; "come, my dear friend, let us go. Thoughts are burning
in my heart and brain, the poet is being aroused within the man. I must
write; work only can restore me to peace and tranquillity!"
"Do you no longer find peace and tranquillity with me, Frederick? Have
they ceased to ring the festive bells of our union of hearts? Do they
no longer call our souls together, that they may impart light and
warmth to each other like two rays of sunshine?"
"Charlotte, souls too are untuned at times, although the accord of love
is ever the same. Remember this, and do not be angry if storms should
sometimes break in upon the harmony of our souls."
"I am never angry with you," said she, in tones of mingled sadness and
tenderness. "Your peace and your happiness is all I desire, and to
give you this shall be the sole endeavor of my whole life. I believe
that this is the holy mission with which fate has entrusted me, and
for which I have been placed in the world. To do my utmost to add to
your happiness and to give joyousness to your heart and gayety to your
soul. Yes, you shall be gay! Your good genius smiles on your labors
and relieves the laurel-crowned head of the poet of all care, giving
him honor and glory. But I--I will give you happiness and gayety, for
I love you; and you, you have told me a thousand times that you loved
me, and that my heart was the home of your happiness. I will believe
this sweet assurance, Frederick, and will hold fast to it forever
and evermore. I will look into the future with a glad heart, hoping
that we may, at last, overcome all obstacles and belong to each other
wholly. You say that my husband always avoids this subject, refusing
to understand you. I will compel him to understand us. I, myself, will
tell him of our hopes and wishes!"
"No, Charlotte," said he, "this duty devolves upon me! A time will come
when all his endeavors to avoid this subject will be futile, and I will
avail myself of this moment to speak for us both. Do not look at me
so doubtingly, Charlotte. You have instructed me in the trying art of
patience! Be patient yourself, and never forget that the stars of our
love will shine forever!"