Part 15 (2/2)
”Full of misery is the present,” cried Philip, angrily, ”and filled with despair I glance at the future. You do not see it with your divine eyes, you do not perceive it, poet with the sympathetic soul. You, too, thought that Philip Moritz had only a head for the sciences, and forgot that he had a heart to love. I tell you that he has a warm, affectionate heart, torn with grief and all the tortures of jealousy; that disappointed happiness maddens him. I was not created to be happy, and my whole being longs for happiness. Oh! I would willingly give my life for one day by the side of the one I love.”
”Do not trifle,” said Goethe, angrily. ”He who has striven and struggled as you have, dare not offer, for any woman, however beautiful and seductive, to yield his life, which has been destined to a higher aim than mere success in love. Perhaps you think that G.o.d has infused a ray of His intelligence into the mind of man, created him immortal, and breathed upon him with His world-creating breath only, to make him happy, and find that happiness in love! No! my friend, G.o.d has given to man like faculties with Himself, and inspired him, that he might be a worthy representative of Him upon the earth; that he should prove, in his life, that he is not only the blossom, but the fruit also, of G.o.d's creation. Love is to man the perfume of his existence. She may intoxicate him for a while, may inspire him to poetical effusions, to great deeds, even; but he should hesitate to let her become his mistress, to let her be the tyrant of his existence. If she would enchain him, he must tear himself away, even if he tear out his own heart. Man possesses that which is more enn.o.bling than mere feeling; he has intellect--soul.”
”Ah!” cried Moritz, ”it is easy to see that you have never loved madly, despairingly. You have never seen the woman whom you adore, and who perhaps reciprocates your pa.s.sion, forced to marry another.”
A shadow flitted over Goethe's brow, and the flas.h.i.+ng brilliancy of his eyes was changed to gloomy sadness. Gently, but quickly, he laid his hand upon Moritz's shoulder, saying: ”In this hour, when two souls are revealed to each other, will I acknowledge to you that which I have never spoken of. I, too, love a woman, who loves me, and yet can never be mine, for she is married to another. I love this sweet woman as I have never loved a mortal being. For years my existence has belonged to her, she has been the centre of all my thoughts. It would seem to me as if the earth were without a sun, heaven without a G.o.d, if she should vanish from life. I even bless the torture which her prudery, her alternate coldness and friendliness cause me, as it comes from her, from the highest bliss of feeling. This pa.s.sion has swept through my soul, as if uniting in itself all my youthful loves, till, like a torrent, ever renewing itself, ever moving onward, it has become the highway of my future. Upon this stream floats the bark laden with all my happiness, fame, and poetry. The palaces which my fancy creates rise upon its sh.o.r.e. Every zephyr, however slight, makes me tremble. Every cloud which overshadows the brow of my beloved, sweeps like a tempest over my own.
I live upon her smile. A kind word falling from her lips makes me happy for days; and when she turns away from me with coldness and indifference, I feel like one driven about as Orestes by the Furies.”
”You really are in love!” cried Moritz. ”I will take back what I have said. You, the chosen of the G.o.ds, know all the human heart can suffer, even unhappy love.”
Almost angry, and with hesitation, Goethe answered him: ”I do not call this pa.s.sion of mine an unhappy one, for in the very perception of it lies happiness. We are only wretched when we lose self-control. To this point Love shall never lead me. She yields me the highest delight, but she shall never bring me to self-destruction. Grief for her may, like a destructive whirlwind, crush every blossom of my heart; but she shall never destroy me. The man, the poet, must stand higher than the lover; for where the latter is about to yield to despair, the former will rise, and, with the defiance of Prometheus, challenge the G.o.ds to recognize the G.o.dlike similitude, that man can rise superior to sorrow, never despairing, never cursing Fate if all the rosy dreams of youth are not realities, but with upturned gaze stride over the waste places of life, consoling himself with the thought that only magnanimous souls can suffer and conquer magnanimously. Vanquished grief brings us nearer to the immortal, and gradually bears us from this vale of sorrow up to the brighter heights, nearer to G.o.d--the earth with her petty confusion lying like a worthless tool at our feet!”
”It is heavenly to be able to say that, and divine to perceive it,”
cried Moritz, bursting into tears. ”The miseries of life chain me to the dust, and do not permit me to mount to the heights which a hero like Goethe reaches victorious. It is indeed sublime to conquer one's self, and be willing to resign the happiness which flees us. But see how weak I am--I cannot do it! I can never give up the one I love. It seems as if I could move heaven and earth to conquer at last, and that I must die if I do not succeed--die like Werther.”
Goethe's eyes flashed with anger, and with heightened color he exclaimed: ”You all repeat the same litany--do not make me answerable for all your weaknesses, and blame poor Werther for the creations of your own imagination. I, who am the author of Werther, am free from this abominable sentimentality. Why cannot others be, who only read what I have conceived? But pardon my violence,” he continued, with a milder voice and gentler manner. ”Never did an author create a work which brought him at the same time so great fame and bitter reproach as this work has brought to me. 'The Sorrows of Young Werther' have indeed been transformed into the sorrows of young Goethe, and I even fear that old Goethe will have to suffer for it. I have spoken to you as a friend to a friend: cherish my words, take them to heart, and arise from the dust; shake off the self-strewn ashes from your head. Enter again as a brave champion the combat of life--summon to your aid cunning, power, prudence, and audacity, to conquer your love. Whether you succeed or not, then you aim at the greatest of battles--that of mind over matter--then remember my farewell words. From the power which binds all men he frees himself who conquers himself.--Farewell! If ever you need the encouragement of a friend, if ever a sympathizing soul is necessary to you, come to Weimar; sympathy and appreciation shall never fail you there.”
”Oh! I will surely go,” answered Moritz, deeply moved, and pressing heartily Goethe's offered hand.
”One thing more I have to say to you: Live much with Nature; accustom yourself to regard the sparrow, the flower, or the stone, as worthy of your attention as the wonderful phoenix or the monuments of the ancients with their illegible inscriptions. To walk with Nature is balsam for a weary soul; gently touched by her soft hands, the recovery is most rapid. I have experienced it, and do experience it daily. Now, once more, farewell; in the true sense of the word fare-thee-well! I wish that I could help you in other ways than by mere kind words. It pains me indeed that I can render you no other aid or hope. You alone can do what none other can do for you.--Farewell!”
He turned, and motioning to Moritz not to follow him, almost flew down the stairs into the street. Drawing a long breath, he stood leaning against the door, gazing at the crowd--at the busy pa.s.sers-by--some merrily chatting with their companions, others with earnest mien and in busy haste. No one seemed to care for him, no one looked at him. If by chance they glanced at him, Johann Wolfgang Goethe was of no more consequence to them than any other honest citizen in a neighboring doorway.
Without perhaps acknowledging it to himself, Goethe was a little vexed that no one observed him; that the weather-maker from Weimar, who was accustomed to be greeted there, and everywhere, indeed, with smiles and bows, should here in Berlin be only an ordinary mortal--a stranger among strangers. ”I would not live here,” said he, as he walked slowly down the street. ”What are men in great cities but grains of sand, now blown together and then asunder? There is no individuality, one is only a unit in the ma.s.s! But it is well occasionally to look into such a kaleidoscope, and admire the play of colors, which I have done, and with a glad heart I will now fly home to all my friends--to you, beloved one--to you, Charlotte!”
CHAPTER XI. THE INNER AND THE MIDDLE TEMPLE.
Wilhelmine Enke had pa.s.sed the day in great anxiety and excitement, and not even the distraction of her new possession had been able to calm the beating of her heart or allay her fears. Prince Frederick William had arrived early in the morning, to bid her farewell, as he was to march in the course of the day with his regiments from Potsdam. With the tenderest a.s.surances of love he took leave of Wilhelmine, and with tears kissed his two children, pressing them to his heart. As he was about to enter his carriage he returned to the house to embrace his weeping mistress, and rea.s.sure her of his fidelity, and make her promise him again and again that she would remain true to him, and never love another.
It was not alone the farewell to her beloved prince which caused Wilhelmine such anxiety and made her so restless. Like a dark cloud the remembrance of Cagliostro's mysterious appearance arose in her mind, overshadowing her every hour more and more, filling her soul with terror. In vain did she seek refuge near her children, trying to cheer and forget herself in their innocent amus.e.m.e.nt--one moment running about the garden with them, then returning to the house to reexamine it. Her thoughts would revert to Cagliostro, and the solemnities which were to take place at her house that night. The thought terrified her that at nightfall she was obliged to send away all her servants, and not even be permitted to lock herself in the lonely, deserted house. For the great magician had commanded her to let the doors of her house stand open; he would place sentinels at every entrance, and none but the elect would be allowed to enter. Wilhelmine had not the courage to resist this command.
As evening approached, she sent the cook, with other servants, to her apartment at Berlin, ordering them to pack her furniture and other effects, and send them by a hired wagon to Charlottenburg the following morning. An hour previous to this she had sent the nurse and two children to Potsdam with a similar commission, ordering them to return early the next day. Alone she now awaited with feverish anxiety Cagliostro's appearance. Again and again she wandered through the silent, deserted rooms frightened at the sound of her own footsteps, and peering into each room as if an a.s.sa.s.sin or robber were lurking there.
She had many enemies--many there were who cursed her, and, alas! none loved her--she was friendless, save the prince, who was far away. The tears which the princess had shed on her account weighed like a heavy burden upon her heart, burning into her very soul in this hour of lonely, sad retrospection. She tried in vain to excuse herself, in the fact that she had loved the prince before his marriage; that she had sacrificed herself to him through affection, and that she was not ent.i.tled to become his wife, as she was not born under the canopy of a throne.
From the depths of her conscience there again rose the tearful, sad face of the princess, accusing her as an adulteress--as a sinner before G.o.d and man! Terrified, she cried: ”I have truly loved him, and I do still love him; this is my excuse and my justification. She is not to be pitied who can walk openly by the side of her husband, enjoying the respect and sympathy of all to whom homage is paid, and who, one day, will be queen! I am the only one, I alone! I stand in the shade, despised and scorned, avoided and shunned by every one. Those who recognize me, do so with a mocking smile, and when I pa.s.s by they contemptuously shrug their shoulders and say to one another, 'That was Enke, the mistress of the Prince of Prussia!' All this shall be changed,” she cried aloud; ”I will not always be despised and degraded!
I will be revenged on my crushed and scorned youth! I will have rank and name, honor and position, that I will--yes, that I will, indeed!”
Wilhelmine wandered on through the silent rooms, all brilliantly illuminated, a precaution she had taken before dismissing her servants.
The bright light was a consolation to her, and, at least, she could not be attacked by surprise, but see her enemy, and escape. ”I was a fool,”
she murmured, ”to grant Cagliostro this reception to-night. I know that he is a charlatan! There are no prophets or wizards! Yet, well I remember, though a stranger to me, in Paris, how truthfully he brought before me my past life; with what marvellous exactness he revealed to me secrets known only to my Maker and myself. Cagliostro must be a wizard, then, or a prophet; he has wonderful power over me also, and reads my most secret thoughts. He will a.s.sist me to rise from my shame and degradation to an honored position. I shall become a rich and influential woman! I will confide in him, never doubting him--for he is my master and savior! Away with fear! He has said that the house should be guarded, and it will be! Onward then, Wilhelmine, without fear!”
She hastened to the large drawing-room, in order to see the effect of the numerous wax-lights in the superb chandeliers of rock crystal.
The great folding-doors resisted all her efforts to open them. ”Who is there?” cried a loud, threatening voice. Trembling and with beating heart Wilhelmine leaned against the door, giddy with fear, when a second demand, ”Who is there? The watchword! No one can pa.s.s without the countersign!” roused her, and she stole back on tiptoe to her room. ”He has kept his word, the doors are guarded!” she whispered. ”I will go and await him in my sitting-room.” She stepped quickly forward, when suddenly she thought she heard footsteps stealing behind her; turning, she beheld two men wrapped in black cloaks, with black masks, stealthily creeping after her. Wilhelmine shrieked with terror, tore open the door, rushed across the next room into her own boudoir. As she entered a glance revealed to her that the two masks approached nearer and nearer.
She bolted the door quickly, sinking to the floor with fright and exhaustion. ”What are they going to do? Will they force open the door and murder me? How foolish, how fearfully foolish to have sent away all my servants. Now I understand it: Cagliostro is not only an impostor--a charlatan, but he is a thief and an a.s.sa.s.sin. I have been caught in the trap set for me, like a credulous fool! He and his a.s.sociates will rob me and plunder my beautiful villa, but just given to me, and, when they have secured all, murder me to escape betrayal.” With deep contrition, weeping and trembling, Wilhelmine accused herself of her credulity and folly. For the first time in her life she was dismayed and cowardly, for it was the first time that she had had to tremble for her possessions.
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