Goethe and Schiller. L. Muhlbach

farewell!”

      “Oh, Frederick,” she sobbed, “was this thy parting kiss?”

      “Yes, Charlotte, I must go! But you will be present with me in my every thought.”

      “And yet you go, Frederick?”

      “Destiny so ordains, and I must obey! The world demands of me the use of my talent—I demand of the world its favor.”

      “And when you have achieved this favor,” she said, plaintively, “then you will no longer care for love, or me!”

      “You should not say so, Charlotte, for you do not believe it,” said Schiller, angrily. “Why these painful words? I lose all in you, but you lose nothing in me! You are so wayward—ah, not like the woman I pictured to myself in the days of my youth.”

      “Oh, Frederick,” she murmured, “do you not know that I love you, and you only?”

      “I have hoped so in many moments of torment when you treated me coldly; but only for the last few days have I felt assured of it, and, on that account, loved, adored woman, the words must be spoken, therefore I flee from you!”

      “You know that I love you,” she cried, plaintively; “you know it, and yet you flee!”

      “Yes, Charlotte, I do, because the waves of passion are surging high in my breast, and will destroy me if I remain. Peaceful love is the only atmosphere suited to the poet. Stormy passion distracts his thoughts and casts a shade on the mirror of his soul.”

      He arose and walked restlessly to and fro. It had grown dark in the mean while, and the figure of her friend flitted before Charlotte’s vision like a shadow, but her eyes were fixed intently on the shadow which was nevertheless the only light of her being.

      The figure now stopped before her, and when he laid his hand on her shoulder she felt the electric touch thrill her whole being. They could not see each other’s faces on account of the darkness.

      “Charlotte,” said Schiller, deeply moved, “I owe you a great deal, and I can never forget it. My youth was dreary; I became familiar with error and sorrow at an early day, and this clouded my understanding and embittered my heart! And then my genius found your voice to utter my thoughts. You were my inspired Muse, and I loved you, and would be yours forever if I had the courage requisite for such a love!—the courage to permit myself to be absorbed in this passion; to desire nothing more, to be nothing more, than your creature, Charlotte; the vase only in which the boundless stream of your love empties itself. But this cannot remain so! My soul must be peaceful and independent of this power which terrifies and delights me at the same time. He only is free who elevates himself above passion, and the man who aspires to bend Nature to his will must be free.”

      “You are governed by pride,” sighed Charlotte, “and pride has no confidence, no repose. You are not familiar with the sorrow and coldness of the world, or you would remain here with her who feels and sympathizes with you! Nothing is more terrible in its self-inflicted revenge than the determination to disregard the promptings of the heart in life.”

      “I do not disregard them, Charlotte, but the heart must not be the only axis on which my life revolves, and it would be, if I remained near you, you divine woman, to whom my heart and soul will ever lovingly incline, forgetting all else, and yet—I desire your friendship only!”

      As he said this he threw his arms around her, raised her up from the sofa, and covered her face with kisses.

      “Oh, Frederick, you are crying! I feel your tears falling on my forehead!”

      “Be still, Charlotte, be still, and—love me! For a single blissful moment love me, and let yourself be loved!”

      “I love you, Frederick,” she cried, passionately. “You fill my soul with anguish and delight, alternately. You love as I do! Only love alarms you; you will not accord to a mortal that which is divinely beautiful! Oh, Schiller, the essence of Divinity is within us; then wherefore should our love not be divinely beautiful, joyfully renouncing hope and desire in humility and resignation?”

      He did not reply, but only drew her closer to his heart, bowed down his head on her shoulder, and sobbed.

      The silence which now reigned in the dark room was unbroken save by the sobs of the weeping lovers. After a long and painful pause, Schiller raised her head and withdrew his arms from Charlotte’s figure.

      “Let us have light,” said he, and his voice now had a harsh sound—“light, that I may once more see your beloved countenance before I leave!”

      “No, Frederick, when you leave, I will no longer require light; a cheerless life is more endurable in the dark. No light! Let us part in darkness, for in darkness I am doomed to grope my way hereafter, but the light of your countenance will always be reflected in my soul. Good-night, Frederick! You take with you all that is dear to me, even my beautiful dreams. The most lovely visions have heretofore surrounded my bed at night; but now they will follow you, for they came from you, and were the thoughts of your soul. Your thoughts fly from me, and my dreams follow them. You rob my day of its sun, and my night of its dream. Let us therefore separate in darkness!”

      “Charlotte,” said he, deeply agitated, “your words sound like tones from a spirit-world, and the past seems already to be leaving me! Oh, do not go; stay with me, sweet past, happy present! Stay with me, soul of my soul, beloved being! Where are you, Charlotte—where are you?”

      She did not reply. Longingly he stretched out his arms toward her, but did not find her; he found empty space only.

      “Charlotte, come for the last time to my heart! Come!—let me inhale from your lips the atmosphere of paradise!”

      No reply. He seemed to see a shadow flit through the darkness, and then the words, “Good-night, Schiller!” struck his ear like the low, vibrating tones of an Æolian harp.

      The noise of an opening and closing door could be heard, and then all was still.

      A groan escaped Schiller’s breast; he felt that Charlotte had left him—that he was alone.

      For a moment he stood still and listened, hoping she would return; but the silence remained unbroken.

      “Ah,” murmured Schiller, “parting is like death! Ah, Charlotte, I have loved you dearly! I—be still, my heart, no more complaints! It must be so!”

      He turned slowly and walked toward the door. “Farewell, Charlotte, farewell!”

      No reply. It seemed to be only the echo which responded from out the dark space, “Farewell!”

      Schiller opened the door and rushed out into the still night, and through the lonely streets, unconscious that he was bareheaded, oblivious of having left his hat in Charlotte’s room. He rushed on, heedless of the raw night air and cutting wind.

      At length he was aroused by the heavy drops of rain which were falling on his forehead. The cold rain awakened him from a last painful struggle with his passion, and cooled his head and heart at the same time.

      “O God, I thank Thee for sending down the waters of heaven to cleanse my heart from passion and slavish love, and making me free again! And now I am free!—am once more myself! am free!”

      Schiller entered Streicher’s apartment with a cheerful countenance, and greeted his friend heartily; but Andrew regarded his wet clothing and dripping hair with dismay.

      “Where in the world do you come from, Fritz? You look as if you had been paying the Maid of the Rhine a visit, and had just escaped from her moist embrace!”

      “You are, perhaps, right, Andrew! I have just taken leave of the fair maid who had bewitched me.”

      “But what have you done with your hat, Fritz? Did you leave it with the maid as a souvenir?”

      “You are, perhaps, right again, Andrew. I left my hat with the maid as a souvenir, and only