THE FIRST MEETING.
On the next morning Schiller and Madame von Kalb drove to Rudolstadt
to pay the Lengefeld family a visit. Charlotte did not fail to observe
that Schiller's countenance grew brighter and brighter the nearer they
approached the little Thuringian village, that was so beautifully
situated in the midst of wooded hills.
Madame von Lengefeld received her welcome guests, at the door of her
pretty little house, with dignity and kindness. Behind her stood her
two lovely daughters; the eyes of both fastened on Frederick Schiller,
to whom they extended their hands, blushingly bidding him welcome.
Charlotte von Kalb, although conversing in an animated manner with
Madame von Lengefeld, nevertheless listened to every word Schiller
uttered, and observed his every glance. She heard him greet the two
sisters with uniform cordiality, and she saw that his gaze rested on
both with the same kindliness. Madame von Kalb's countenance assumed a
more joyous expression, and a voice in her heart whispered, exultingly:
"He does not love her, he has no preference for either one of them. He
told me the truth, he entertains a brother's affection for _them_, but
his tenderness and love are for _me_!" And now that her heart had come
to this joyful conclusion, Charlotte von Kalb's whole manner was gay
and animated; she laughed and jested with the two young ladies, was
devoted in her attentions to Madame von Lengefeld, and treated Schiller
with the most tender consideration. Her conversation was very gay and
witty, and the most piquant and brilliant remarks were constantly
falling like sparkling gems from her smiling lips.
"How intelligent and amiable this lady is!" said the elder of the
two sisters, Caroline von Beulwitz, to Schiller, with whom they were
walking in the flower-garden, behind the house, while dame von Kalb
remained with Madame von Lengefeld in the parlor.
Schiller walked between the sisters, a pretty snow-white hand resting
on either arm. His countenance shone with happiness, and his step was
light and buoyant. "I should like to ascend straightway into Heaven
with you two," said he, joyously; "and I think it highly probable that
I will do so directly. Nothing would be impossible for me to-day, and
it seems to me as though Heaven had descended to earth, so that I would
have no obstacles to overcome, and could walk right in, with you two
ladies on my arms."
"Then let us return to the house at once, in order to guard against any
such ascension," said Caroline von Beulwitz, smiling.
"Oh, Caroline," exclaimed Charlotte, laughing joyously, "I wish we
could take this flight to Heaven! How surprised they would be, and how
they would look for us, while we three were taking a walk up there in
the clouds!"
"And how angry Madame von Kalb would be with us, for having enticed her
dear friend away!" said Caroline, ironically.
"I would enjoy it all the more on that very account," rejoined
Charlotte, laughing.
"And I, too," protested Schiller. "It would be very pleasant if we
could sometimes cast aside all earthly fetters and rise, like the bird,
high above the noisy, sorrowing earth, and float in the sunbright ether
with the loved one in our arms. My dear friends, why not make this
ascension to-day?"
"To-day! no, not to-day," said Charlotte, exchanging a meaning glance
with her sister. "It will not do to leave the earth to-day, will it,
Caroline? We expect to have too pleasant a time here below to think of
making the ascension to-day!"
"What does this mystery--what do these sly glances mean?" asked
Schiller. "Something extraordinary is about to occur. Tell me, Lolo,
what does all this mean?"
"I will tell nothing," said Charlotte, laughing merrily, and shaking
her brown locks. "It is useless to ask me."
"But you, dear Caroline, on whose sweet lips the truth and goodness
are ever enthroned, you, at least, will tell me whether I am wrong in
supposing that a mystery exists that will be unravelled to-day."
"Yes, my dear friend," said she, smiling, "there is a little surprise
in store for you, but I hope you are satisfied that we would never do
any thing that--"
"And I believe," said her younger sister, interrupting her, "I believe
that the solution of this mystery is at hand, for I hear a carriage
approaching. Listen, it has stopped at our door! Yes, this is the
mystery! Come, my friend, the solution awaits you!"
She was about to lead Schiller to the house, when Caroline gently
drew her back. "One moment, Lolo! Tell me, my friend, do you place
sufficient confidence in us, to follow without question and without
uneasiness, even when we confess that we are leading you to the
solution of a mystery?"
Schiller clasped the right hands of the two sisters and pressed them
to his heart. "I will gladly and proudly follow you wherever you may
choose to lead me. I place such confidence in you both that I could lay
my life and eternal happiness in your dear hands, and bid defiance to
all the mysteries of the world!"
"But yet you would like to know what this mystery is, would you not?"
asked Lolo.
"No," replied Schiller, with an expression of abiding faith; "no, the
solution of the mystery which my fair friends have in store for me will
unquestionably be agreeable. Let us go."
"We are much obliged to you for your confidence, Schiller," said
Caroline. "We will, however, not permit you to be surprised, as the
other ladies had determined you should be. It will depend upon your own
free-will whether you enter into the plans agreed upon by your friends,
or not. Schiller, you heard a carriage drive up to our door a few
moments since? Do you know who were in that carriage? Madame von Stein
and Goethe!"
"Is not that a surprise?" cried Lolo, laughing.
"Yes," he said, with an expression of annoyance, "yes, a surprise, but
not an agreeable one. The Privy-Councillor Goethe showed no desire
to cultivate my acquaintance, and I would not have him think that I
desire to intrude myself on his notice. If he deems my acquaintance
undesirable, the world is wide enough for us both, and we can easily
avoid each other. As much as I admire Goethe's genius, I am not humble
enough to forget that I too am a poet to whom some consideration is
due. Nothing could be less becoming than for Schiller to advance while
Goethe recedes, or even stands still."
"But this is not so, Schiller; it could not be!" exclaimed Charlotte
earnestly, while Caroline gazed at him with sparkling eyes as though
rejoicing in his proud bearing and energetic words. "Join with me,
Caroline, in assuring him that is not the case! Tell him how it is."
"My friend," said Charlotte, in a low voice, "Goethe knew as little of
your presence here as you of his. The two ladies, Madame von Stein
and Madame von Kalb, arranged the whole affair, and we were only too
glad to assist them in bringing together the two greatest poets of our
day, the two noblest spirits of the century, in order that they might
become acquainted, and lay aside the prejudices they had entertained
concerning each other. While we are conversing with you here, this
same explanation is being made to Goethe by the ladies in the house.
Charlotte von Stein is also there, and, as you will readily believe,
holds the honor of her beloved friend Schiller in too high estimation
to permit Goethe to suppose for a moment that you had connived at this
meeting, or were anxious to make an acquaintance which he might deem
undesirable."
"Come, my friends, let us return to the house," said Schiller, smiling
sadly. "It is but proper that I should make the first advances to my
superior in rank and ability, and--"
He ceased speaking, for at this moment Goethe and the two Charlottes
appeared on the stairway.
"You see," whispered Caroline, "Goethe thinks as you do, and he, too,
is willing to make the first advances."
In the meantime Goethe had walked down into the garden, still
accompanied by the two ladies, with whom he was engaged in an animated
conversation. But when he saw Schiller approaching, Goethe hastened
forward to meet him.
"Madame von Kalb has reproached me for having withdrawn so abruptly
when we met in the park a few days since," said Goethe, in kindly
tones. "I admit that I was wrong, but, at the same time, I must confess
that it did not seem appropriate to me that we should make each other's
acquaintance under such circumstances--as it were by the merest chance."
"And yet it is chance again that enables me to greet the poet Goethe,
to-day," replied Schiller, quickly.
"But this time it has been brought about by fair hands," cried Goethe,
bowing gracefully to the ladies, "and, with the ancients, I exclaim:
'What the great gods vouchsafe can only be good and beautiful!'"
But, as though he had conceded enough to his friends' wishes, and
shown Schiller sufficient consideration, Goethe now turned again to
the ladies, and resumed the conversation in which he had been engaged
on entering the garden. They had been questioning him about Madame
Angelica Kaufmann, the painter, and Goethe was telling them of her
life, her genius, and her nobility of mind, with great animation and
in terms of warm approval. Afterward, when the company were assembled
around the table at dinner in the garden pavilion, Goethe, at Charlotte
von Stein's request, told them of his travels, of the Eternal City, and
of that charming life in Italy which he considered the only one worthy
of an artist, or of any really intellectual man. Carried away with
enthusiasm, his countenance shone with manly beauty, originating rather
from his inward exaltation than from any outward perfection of form and
feature.
The ladies were fascinated by this handsome countenance, these lustrous
eyes, and the eloquent lips which described sunny Italy, the land of
promise, of art and poetry, in such glowing colors.
Schiller sat there in silence, listless, his eyes cast down, rarely
adding a low word of approval to the enthusiastic applause of the
ladies, and never addressing a question or remark to Goethe; nor did
the latter ever address himself directly to Schiller, but spoke to
all with the air of a great orator who feels assured that _all_ are
listening to his words with deference and admiration.
"I am not satisfied with our success to-day," sighed Madame von Kalb,
while returning with Schiller to Weimar in the evening. "I had promised
myself such glorious results from this meeting with Goethe. I hoped
that you would become friends, learning to love each other, but now
you seem to have passed like two stars that chance to meet on their
heavenly course, yet journey on without attracting each other. Tell me,
at least, my dear friend, how you were pleased with Goethe."
"Ask me how I am pleased with a glacier, and whether I feel warm
and cheerful in its vicinity. Yes, this Goethe is a glacier, grand,
sublime, and radiant, like Mount Blanc, but the atmosphere that
surrounds him is cold, and the little flowers of attachment that
would so gladly blossom are frozen by his grandeur. To be in Goethe's
society often, would, I confess, make me unhappy. He never descends
from this altitude, even when with his most intimate friends. I believe
him to be egotistic in an eminent degree. He possesses the gift of
enchaining men, and of placing them under obligations to himself, by
little as well as great attentions, while he always manages to remain
unfettered himself. He manifests his existence in a beneficent manner,
but only like a god, without revealing himself--this, it seems to me,
is a consistent and systematic rule of action, based on the highest
enjoyment of self-love. Men should not permit such a being to spring
into existence in their midst. This, I confess, makes me detest
him, although I love his intellect, and have a high opinion of his
ability."[48]
"But you will yet learn to love him as a man, Frederick."
"It is quite possible that I may," said Schiller, thoughtfully. "He has
awakened a feeling of mingled hatred and love in my bosom--a feeling,
perhaps, not unlike that which Brutus and Cassius may have entertained
toward Cæsar. I could murder his spirit, and yet love him dearly."[49]
While "Brutus" was giving utterance to this feeling of mingled hatred
and love, "Cæsar" was also pronouncing judgment over "Brutus;" this
judgment was, however, not a combination of hatred and love, but rather
of pride and contempt. The hero who had overcome all the difficulties
of the road, and whose brow was already entwined with the well-deserved
laurel, may have looked down, from the sublime height which he had
attained, with some proud satisfaction and pitying contempt upon him
who had not yet overcome these difficulties, who had not yet vanquished
the demons who opposed his ascent.
"My dear Wolf," said Madame von Stein to Goethe, while returning to
Weimar, "I had hoped that you would meet Schiller in a more cordial
manner. You scarcely noticed him."
"I esteem him too highly to meet him with a pretence of cordiality
when I really dislike him," replied Goethe, emphatically. "I have an
antipathy to this man that I neither can nor will overcome."
"But Goethe is not the man to be influenced by antipathies for which he
has no good reasons."
"Well, then," cried Goethe, with an outburst of feeling, such as he had
rarely indulged in since his return from Italy, "well, then, I have
good reasons. Schiller destroys what I have toiled to create; he builds
up what I fancied I had overthrown--this abominable revolution in the
minds of men, this heaven-storming conviviality, this wild glowing, and
reeling, so very indistinct and cloudy, so replete with tears, sighs,
groans, and shouts, and so antagonistic to lucid, sublime thought, and
pure enthusiasm. His 'Robbers' I abhor--this Franz Moor is the deformed
creation of powerful but immature talent. I found, on my return from
Italy, that Schiller had flooded Germany with the ethic and theatrical
paradoxes of which I had long been endeavoring to purify myself. The
sensation which these works have excited, the universal applause given
to these deformed creations of an intoxicated imagination, alarm me.
It seems to me as though my poetic labors were all in vain, and had
as well be discontinued at once. For, where lies the possibility of
stemming the onward tide impelled by such productions--such strange
combinations of genuine worth and wild form? If Germany can be inspired
by the robber, Charles Moor, and can relish a monstrous caricature like
the brutal Franz Moor, then it is all over with the pure conceptions of
art, which I have sought to attain for myself and my poems--then my
labors are useless and superfluous, and had best be discontinued."[50]
"But you are speaking of Schiller's first works only, my dear friend;
his later writings are of a purer and nobler nature. Have you not yet
read his 'Don Carlos?'"
"I have, and I like it no better than 'The Robbers.' It is useless
to attempt to reconcile us to each other. Intellectually, we are two
antipodes, and more than one diameter of the earth lies between and
separates us. Let us then be considered as the two poles that, in the
nature of things, can never be united."[51]
"How agitated you are, my dear friend!" sighed Charlotte. "It seems
there is still something that can arouse you from your Olympian repose
and heartless equanimity, and recall you to earth."
"'_Homo sum, nihil humani a me alienum puto_,'" rejoined Goethe,
smiling. "Yes, Charlotte, I learned in Italy to appreciate the vast
distance between myself and the great gods of Olympus, and I say with
all humility: 'I am a man, and a stranger to nothing that is human.'"
"I wish you had never been in Italy," sighed Charlotte.
"And I," rejoined Goethe, "I wish I had never left Italy to return to
Germany, and to exchange a bright sky for a gloomy one."
"How cruel you are, Goethe!" cried Charlotte, bursting into tears.
"Cruel!" repeated he, in dismay. "Good heavens! are we never to
understand each other again! Does Charlotte no longer sympathize with
me in my sorrows, as in my joys? Can you not comprehend the deep
sadness that fills my heart when I think of Italy?"
"Certainly I can," cried Charlotte. "Since you told me of your
love-affair with the beautiful Leonora, I comprehend and understand
all. I know that you left your heart in Italy, and that it is the
longing of love that calls you back to the sunny land from the bleak
north."
He gave her a lingering, reproachful look. "Charlotte, it is now my
turn to call _you_ cruel, and I can do so with perfect justice. That
which you should consider the best proof of my love and friendship--the
unreserved and complete confession I made when I told you of this
affair--this same confession seems rather to have made you doubt me,
than to have carried the conviction to your heart that you are the
being I love most dearly on earth!"
"I thank God that I have no confession to make to you," cried
Charlotte. "I have not forgotten you for a moment. My soul and heart
were ever true to you, and, while you were kneeling at the feet of the
beautiful Leonora, I knelt at the feet of God, and entreated Him to
bless and preserve the faithless man who was perhaps betraying me at
that very hour, and who now carries his cruelty so far that he dares
to complain and lament over his lost Italian paradise in my presence,
and--"
"Charlotte, do not speak so, I conjure you," cried Goethe, interrupting
her. "You cannot know what incalculable pain your words inflict.
My friend, my beloved, is nothing sacred? is every temple to be
overthrown? is every ideal to be destroyed? Charlotte, be yourself once
more; do not give way to this petty jealousy. Be the noble, high-souled
woman once more, and lay aside these petty weaknesses. Know that the
holy bond of love in which we are united is indestructible, and still
exists even when fair blossoms of earth spring into life beside it. Be
indulgent with me and with us both, and do not desire that I, at forty
years of age, should be an ascetic old man, dead to all the little
fleeting emotions of the heart."
"These sophistries are incomprehensible to me," said she, sharply, "and
it seems to me that what you call fleeting emotions of the heart are
simply infidelity and a desecration of the love which you vowed would
be eternal and unchangeable."
Goethe bowed his head sadly. "It really looks as though we could no
longer understand each other," said he, gently. "I admit, however, that
I am to blame, and beg you to pardon me. In the future I will be more
cautious. I will make no more communications calculated to offend you."
"That is, you will withdraw your confidence, but you will not cease to
do that which must offend me."
His countenance quivered, his eyes sparkled with anger, and his cheeks
turned pale, but he struggled to repress the indignant words that
trembled on his lips.
Charlotte turned pale with alarm. Goethe looked sternly on his beloved
for the first time. She read indifference in his features for the first
time. A loud cry of anguish escaped her lips, and the tears gushed from
her eyes.
Goethe did not attempt to console her, but sat at her side in silence,
his gaze resting gloomily on her countenance. "It is a cruel destiny
that women should be compelled to give vent to their grief in tears,
for their beauty is seldom enhanced thereby," said he to himself.
"The tears of offended love are becoming in youthful faces only, and
Charlotte's is not youthful enough. She looks old and ugly when she
cries!"
Poor Charlotte!
Late in the evening of this day Goethe left his house through a side
door that led from his garden into a narrow little street. His hat was
pressed down over his forehead, and a long cloak enveloped his figure.
In former days, before his trip to Italy, he had often slipped through
this small door in the early hours of the morning, and in the twilight,
to take the most direct and quiet route to his beloved Charlotte; the
side door had also been often opened to admit the beautiful Madame von
Stein when she came to visit her dear friend Goethe. To-day, Goethe had
waited until it grew so dark that it was impossible that his curious
neighbors could observe his departure, and on this occasion he did
not direct his footsteps toward the stately house in which madame the
Baroness von Stein resided. He took an entirely different direction,
and walked on through streets and alleys until he came to a poor,
gloomy, little house. But a light was still burning in one window, and
the shadow of a graceful, girlish figure flitted across the closed
blind. Goethe tapped twice on the window, and then the shadow vanished.
In a few moments the door was cautiously opened. Had any one stood
near he would soon have observed two shadows on the window-blind--two
shadows in a close embrace.