Old Fritz and the New Era Part 30

"I was not thinking of that," said the baron, astonished.

"You never think that every one knows; but did you not do it so soon as you understood the Countess Werther should lead blind Oedipus as Antigone?"

Before the count could answer, the court lady turned again to the duke.

"What did your highness bring me? I hope you have not forgotten that you promised me a handsome present."

"No, I have not forgotten it; I have brought my Thusnelda a souvenir--such a gift!"

"What is it, your highness?"

"A surprise which, if Thusnelda is clever, she must think about all night.--But, Goethe, is it not time to leave the ladies?"

"Wait, I command you both," said the d.u.c.h.ess Amelia, extending her hand to her son, who pressed it to his lips most affectionately. "I have given out invitations for a soiree, for this evening. My daughter-in-law, the d.u.c.h.ess Louisa, has accepted, duke, and Frau von Stein also, Goethe. I hope to see you at Belvedere, gentlemen. The poet Gleim is in town, and will read his late 'Muse Almanach.' May I not expect both of you?"

They joyfully consented, gazing after the merry society as it drove away. "This is a good bite for the poisonous tongues of the honorable,"

cried the duke. "My mother in a farm-wagon, with Wieland's green overcoat on, and the reigning duke, with his Goethe, entering his capital on foot like a journeyman mechanic, after a long journey!"

"I wish we were there, my dearest friend," sighed Goethe.

"Oh, love makes you impatient! Come on, then. But listen, we must play Gochhausen a trick; I have promised her a surprise. Will you help me, Wolf?"

"With pleasure, duke."

"I have thought of something very droll, and your servant Philip must help us; he is a clever fellow, and can keep his own counsel."

"He is silent as the grave, duke."

"That is necessary for such a gentleman as the women all run after. Let us skip down the mountain, and then forward where our hearts incline us.

This afternoon I will go for you and bring you to Belvedere, and then we can talk over the surprise." They ran down the declivity into the suburb, to the terror of the good people, who looked after them, saying that the young duke had returned with his mad protege. The "mad favorite" seemed more crazy than ever to-day, for after a brief farewell to the duke, he bounded through the streets across the English park, to the loved house, the roof of which he had so longingly greeted from the hillside. The door stood open, as is customary in small towns, and the servant in the vestibule came to meet him, and respectfully announced that her master had gone to his estate at Hochberg, but that Frau von Stein was most probably in the pavilion, in the garden, as she had gone thither with her guitar. "Is she alone?" asked Goethe. The servant answered in the affirmative, and through the court hastened the lover--not through the princ.i.p.al entrance, as he would surprise her, and read in her sweet face whether she thought of him. Softly he opened the little garden gate, and approached the pavilion by a side-alley. Do his feet touch the ground, or float over it? He knew not; he heard music, accompanied by a sweet, melodious voice. It was Charlotte's. Goethe's face beamed with delight and happiness. He gazed at her unseen, not alone with his eyes, but heart and soul went forth to her. She sat sideways to the door; upon a table lay her notes, and the guitar rested upon her arm. She sang, in a rich, sweet voice, Reinhardt's beautiful melody:

"I'd rather fight my way through sorrows Than bear so many joys in life; All this affinity of heart to heart, How strangely it causes us to suffer!"

She ceased, as if overpowered with her own thoughts, the guitar sank upon her lap, and her fingers glided over the chords, so that the tones died away imperceptibly. Her deep-blue eyes gazed pensively in the distance, and the sweet lips repeated softly, "How strangely it causes us to suffer!" Near the garden entrance, through which the odor of sweet flowers and the song of birds was wafted with every gentle zephyr, stood Goethe, looking at the woman whom he had so pa.s.sionately loved for three years, so absorbingly, that to her were consecrated all his thoughts.

He could contain himself no longer; he rushed forward and threw himself at her feet. "Oh, Charlotte, I love you, only you, and once more I am by your side!"

A shriek! was it a cry of surprise or delight? Who let the guitar fall to the floor, he or she? Who embraced the other in affectionate haste, he or she? Who pressed the lips so lovingly to the other lips, he or she? And who said, "I love you? What bliss to again repose in your affection, I would fain die now. In this moment a whole life has been consecrated, for love has revealed to us our other self."

She sat upon the tabouret, and Goethe still knelt before her, clasping her feet and pressing them to his bosom. His eyes beamed with inexpressible delight as he regarded the face, usually so calm and indifferent--today glowing as sunrise.

"Oh, tell me, Charlotte, have you thought of me? But rather speak to me with your eyes, and may they be more than the cruel lips which refuse to confess. Oh, shade not those loved orbs, which are my stars shining upon me, whithersoever I wander. They are my light, my spring-time, and my love. They will never cease to beam upon me, as light and love never grow old. Let me read eternal youth in those eyes, and the secrets which rest as pearls in the depths of your heart. Only tell me, is the pearl of love to be found there, and is it mine?"

"It would be a misfortune if it were there," she whispered, with a sweet smile. "Pearls are the result of a malady, and my heart would be ill if the pearl of love were found there. No, no, rise, Wolf, dear Wolf, we have given away at the first moment of meeting; let us now be reasonable, and speak in a dignified manner with each other, as it becomes a married woman and her friend."

"Friend?" repeated Goethe, impetuously; "forever must I listen to this hated, hypocritical word, which, like a priest's robe, shall cover the sacred glow in my heart? I have told you, Charlotte, that I am not your friend, and I never shall be. There is not the least spark of this still, calm fire of the earthly moderation in me, by which one could cook his potatoes, or his daily vegetables, but by which one could never prepare food for the G.o.ds, or that which could refresh a poet's heart or quicken his soul. No, in me burns the fire which Prometheus stole from the G.o.ds, originating in heaven and glowing upon earth. This heavenly and earthly love unites in one flame. Again, I say, Charlotte, banish this hypocritical word 'friendship!' It is only love which I feel for you, let this sentiment enter at every avenue of your heart, and do not feign ignorance of it, sweet hypocrite. Surprise has torn away the mask!

The pa.s.sionate kiss, which still burns upon my lips, was not given by a friend or sister; but overcome by joy, the truth has been acknowledged!"

"Do you wish that the kiss of meeting should be that of parting also?"

said Charlotte, sadly, as she raised her blue eyes with a languishing look to the handsome, ardent face of the man who stood before her.

"Do you wish to separate forever? I must recall to you our last conversation: 'Only when you are resolved to moderate this impetuous manner, and curb this overflow of feeling, which reason and custom imposes upon us, shall I be able to receive you and enjoy your society.'"

"Yes, with these unmeaning phrases you banished me. Cruel and hard-hearted were you to the last. Oh, Charlotte! you know what I suffered at our last walk, with your reasoning remonstrances and cold-hearted reproaches; they pierced my heart like poisoned arrows. If the duke and d.u.c.h.ess had not been walking before us, I should have wept myself weary. My whole being cried within me: 'Oh! cruel and inexorable woman, to beg of me, who so unutterably loves her, to call her friend and sister!' I repeated the words daily during my absence, and sought to clothe your beloved image with meaning. They disfigured you, and the angel whom I adore was no longer recognizable. I cannot call you friend or sister."

"Then I can be nothing to you, dear Wolfgang," sighed Charlotte. "In this hour of meeting we will part, and to avoid a chance encounter even, I will go to my husband at Kochberg, and remain there the whole summer."

Goethe seized her, holding her fast in his strong arms, staring her in the face with a fierce, angry look. "Are you in earnest? Would you really do it?"

"Goethe, I beg you to loosen your hold; you hurt my arms."

"Do you not also hurt me? With your cold indifference do you not pierce my heart with red-hot daggers, and then smile and rejoice at my torture, which is a proof to you of my unbounded love? While you only play with me, and attach me to your triumphal car, to display to the world that you have succeeded in taming the lion, and have changed him into a good-natured domestic animal. Go! you do not deserve that I should love you, cold-hearted, cruel woman!"

He threw her arms from him, with tears in his eyes. Charlotte von Stein regarded him with anger and indifference.

"Farewell, secretary of legation. It seems to please you to insult and offend a poor woman, who has no other protection than her honor and virtue. Farewell! I will not expose myself to such offences; therefore I will retire."

She turned slowly toward the door, but Goethe bounded forward like a tiger, interrupted her path, falling upon his knees, imploring pity and begging for pardon. "Oh, Charlotte, I will be gentle as a child, I will be reserved, I know that I am a sinner! It is warring against one's own heart to seek comfort in offending what is dearest to it in a moment of ill-humor. But I have again become a child, with all my thoughts, scarcely recognizable for the moment, quite lost to myself, as I consent to the conditions of others with this fire raging within me. Oh, beloved Charlotte, forgive me! I submit to all that you wish." [Footnote: Goethe's words.--See "Letters to Charlotte von Stein," roll., p. 358.]

"Will you be satisfied to love me as your friend and sister?"

"I will be," he sighed. "Only in the future you must endeavor to persuade yourself into such a sisterly way that you will be indulgent to my rudeness, otherwise I shall have to avoid you when I need you most.

Oh, Charlotte, it seems terrible to me that I should mar through anguish the best hours of my life, the blissful moments of meeting with you, for whom I would pluck every hair from my head if it would make you happy.

And yet to be so blind, so hardened! Have pity upon me. Again I promise you that I will be reasonable. Do not banish me from your presence.

Extend to me your hand, and promise me that you will be my friend and sister!" [Footnote: Goethe's words.--See "Letters to Charlotte von Stein," roll., p. 358.]

"Then here is my hand," said she, with a charming smile.

"I will be your friend and sister, and--"

"What now, my Charlotte? do finish--what is it?"

She laid her hand gently upon his shoulder, and her words fell on his ear like soft music. "When my dear friend and much-beloved brother has conducted himself very prudently for two or three happy weeks, I will send him a ringlet of my hair, which he has so long begged for, and a kiss with it."

Goethe spoke not, but pressed her blushing face to his bosom, and laid his hand gently upon her head. A smile of delight--of perfect happiness--played around his lips.

CHAPTER XXII. THE READING.

This happy smile still beamed upon Goethe's face as he walked with the duke late in the evening toward Belvedere to soiree of the d.u.c.h.ess Amelia, who was inspired with a love for the fine arts, and particularly literature. The two gentlemen had busily occupied themselves in preparing them for the lady of honor, Fraulein von Gochhausen, and, although aided by Goethe's servant, Philip, and workmen, it was late when they arrived.

As they entered, the ladies and gentlemen were seated in a large circle around the centre-table. At one end sat the d.u.c.h.esses Amelia and Louisa, the mother and wife of Charles Augustus and near the former her friend and favorite the poet Wieland, once the tutor of her son the duke. Near the poet sat an elderly gentleman of cheerful, good-natured mien, who, with the exception of Wieland, was the only one who did not present himself, like the duke and Goethe, in Werther costume. He wore a white, silver-embroidered coat, with a dark-blue satin vest, and breeches of the same, shoes with buckles, and bosom and wrist ruffles of lace.

This gentleman, with the bright, sparkling eyes, and pleasant face, was the poet Gleim, who looked very comfortable and stately in the circle of powdered perukes. His admiration for Frederick the Great had inspired him to write some beautiful military songs, and his love of poetry and literature made him an enthusiastic admirer of all those devoted themselves to literary pursuits. Besides, he was rich and liberal, and it was very natural that the poets, and authors exerted themselves with marked a.s.siduity to please Father Gleim. They were gratified to have him print their works for a small remuneration in an annual which he ent.i.tled the "Almanach of the Muses." He was just reading aloud at the d.u.c.h.ess's soiree from the late edition of the almanach, and the society listened with earnest and kind attention, occasionally interrupted with an enthusiastic "Bravo!" or "Excellent!" from the d.u.c.h.ess, followed by a murmur of a.s.sent around the table, which caused the poet's face to brighten with joy and satisfaction, and him to read on with increased energy.

The entrance of the duke and Goethe was un.o.bserved, as it was understood that the former wished no notice to be taken of his going or coming, and the d.u.c.h.ess had also waved her hand, not to interrupt Father Gleim. The poet has just finished the new poem of melodious rhythm of imprisoned Shubart. As he paused to wipe the perspiration from his brow and sip a little raspberry water, a tall, slender young man, in the Werther costume, approached, bowing, and regarding the poet so kindly, that the glance of his fine black eyes fell like a sunbeam on the heart of the old man. "You appear somewhat fatigued, my good sir," said the unknown, in a sweet, sonorous voice. "Will you not permit me to relieve you, and read in your stead from this glorious book of yours?"