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The Complete Works of Johann Wolfgang von Goethe - Part 3
THE COMPLETE W O R K S OF
Johann WolfGang von Goethe
IN TEN VOLUMES
^3Q . .J ^. VOLUME 111
3
THE SORROWS OF WERTHER
THE ELECTIVE AFFINITIES
THE GOOD WOMEN
TRANSLATED BY
BAYARD TAYLOR
juy
NEW rORK : P, F. COLLIER ^ SON : PUBLISHERS
THE LIBRARY
BRIGHAM YOUNG UNIVERSITY
PROVO. UTAH
CONTENTS.
PAGE
Sorrows of Werther ..•••• 9
Elective Affinities , • • • • .111
The Good Woman • • • • • •34*
A Tale . . * 3^3
Vol 8 ' Goetlie-1
Sorrows of Werther.
;.
THE SOEKOWS OF YOUNG WEETHER.
I HATE carefully collected whatever I have been able to
learn of the story of poor Werther, and here present it to
you, knowing that you will thank me for it. To his spirit
and character you cannot refuse your admiration and love :
to his fate you will not deny your tears.
And thou, good soul, who sufferest the same distress as he
endured once, draw comfort from his sorrows ; and let this
little book be thy friend, if, owing to fortune or through thine
own fault, thou canst not find a dearer companion.
BOOK I.
May 4.
How happy I am that I am gone ! My dear friend, what
a thing is the heart of man ! To leave you, from whom I
have been inseparable, whom I love so dearly, and yet to
feel happy ! I know joii will forgive me. Have not other
attachments been specially appointed by fate to torment a
head like mine? Poor Leonora ! and yet I was not to blame.
Was it my fault, that, whilst the peculiar charms of her sister
afforded me an agreeable entertainment, a passion for me
was engendered in her feeble heart? And yet am I wholly
blameless ? Did I not encourage her emotions ? Did I not
feel charmed at those truly genuine expressions of nature,
which, though but little mirthful in reality, so often amused
us? Did I not — but oh ! what is man, that he dares so to
accuse himself? My dear friend, I promise you I will im-
prove ; I will no longer, as has ever been my habit, continue
to ruminate on every petty vexation which fortune may dis-
pense ; I will enjoy the present, and the past shall be for
9
10 SORROWS OF WERTHER.
me the past. No doubt you are right, my best of friends,
there would be far less suffering amongst mankind, if men —
and God knows why the}^ are so fasliioned — ■ did not employ \
their imaginations so assiduously in recalling the memory of
past sorrow, instead of bearing their present lot with equa- j
nimity.
Be kind enough to inform my mother that I shall attend to
her business to the best of my abilit}', and shall give her the
earliest information about it. I have seen my aunt, and find
that she is very far from being the disagreeable person our
friends allege her to be. She is a lively, cheerful woman,
with the best of hearts. I explained to her m}' mother's
wrongs with regard to that part of her portion which has
been withheld from her. She told me the motives and
reasons of her own conduct, and the terms on which she is
willing to give up the whole, and to do more than we have
asked. In short, I cannot write further upon this subject at
present ; only assure my mother that all will go on well.
And I have again observed, my dear friend, in this trifling
affair, that misunderstandings and neglect occasion more N
mischief in the world than even malice and wickedness. At )
all events, the two latter are of less frequent occurrence.
In other respects I am verj^ well off here. Solitude in
this terrestrial paradise is a genial balm to my mind, and
the young spring cheers with its bounteous promises my
oftentimes misgiving heart. Every tree, every bush, is full
of flowers ; and one might wish himself transformed into a
butterfly, to float about in this ocean of perfume, and find
his whole existence in it.
The town itself is disagreeable ; but then, all around, j^ou
find an inexpressible beauty of nature. This induced the
late Count M to lay out a garden on one of the sloping
hills which here intersect each other with the most charming
variety, and form the most lovely vallej^s. The garden is
5 simple; and it is easy to perceive, even upon your first
I entrance, that the plan was not designed by a scientific
gardener, but by a man who wished to give himself up here to
the enjoj'ment of his own sensitive heart. Man}^ a tear have
1 alread3" shed to the memory of its departed master in a
summer-house which is now reduced to ruins, but was his
favorite resort, and now is mine. I shall soon be master of
the place. The gardener has become attached to me within
aiie last few days, and he will lose nothing thereby.
SORROWS OF WERTHER. 11
Mat 10.
A wonderful serenity has taken possession of my entire
soul, like these sweet mornings of spring which I enjoy with
my whole heart. I am alone, and feel the charm of existence
in this spot, which was created for the bliss of souls like
mine. I am so happy, my dear friend, so absorbed in the
exquisite sense of mere tranquil existence, that I neglect my
talents. I should be incapable of drawing a single stroke at
the present moment ; and yet I feel that I never was a greater
artist than now. When, while the lovely valley teems with
vapor around me, and the meridian sun strikes the upper
surface of the impenetrable foliage of my trees, and but a
few stray gleams steal into the inner sanctuar}^, I throw
myself down among the tall grass b}' the trickling stream ;
and, as I lie close to the earth, a thousand unknown plants
are noticed by me : when I hear the buzz of the little world
among the stalks, and grow familiar with the countless inde-
scribable forms of the insects and flies, then I feel the pres-1
ence of the Almighty, who formed us in his own image, and *
the breath of that universal love which bears and sustains us,l
as it floats around us in an eternity of bliss ; and then, my
friend, when darkness overspreads my e3'es, and heaven and
earth seem, to dwell in my soul and absorb its power, like
the form of a beloved mistress , — then I often think with
longing, Oh, would I could describe these conceptions, could
impress upon paper all that is living so full and warm within »
me, that it might be the mirror of my soul, as my soul is the
mirror of the infinite Godl O my friend — but it is too
much fol' my strength — I sink under the weight of the
splendor of these visions !
May 12.
I know not whether some deceitful spirits haunt this spot,
or whether it be the warm, celestial fancy in my own heart
which makes every thing around me seem like paradise. In
front of the house is a fountain, — a fountain to w^hich I am
bound by a charm like Melusina and her sisters. Descend-
ing a gentle slope, you come to an arch, where, some twenty
steps lower down, water of the clearest crystal gushes from
the marble rock. The narrow wall which encloses it above,
the tall trees which encircle the spot, and the coolness of the
place itself, — every thing imparts a pleasant but sublime im-
pression. Not a day passes on which I do not spend an hour
there. The young maidens come from the town to jfetch
12 SORROWS OF WERTHER.
water, — innocent and necessar}'^ employment, and formerly
the occupation of the daughters of kings. As I take my
rest there, the idea of the old patriarchal life is awakened
around me. I see them, our old ancestors, how they formed
their friendships and contracted alliances at the fountain-
side ; and I feel how fountains and streams were guarded
by beneficent spirits. He who is a stranger to these sensa-
tions has never really enjoyed cool repose at the side of a
fountain after the fatigue of a weary summer day.
May 13.
You ask if you shall send me books. My dear friend, I
beseech you, for the love of God, relieve me from such a
yoke ! I need no more to be guided, agitated, heated. My
heart ferments sufficiently of itself. I want strains to lull
me, and I find them to perfection in my Homer. Often do I
strive to allay the burning fever of m}' blood ; and j^ou have
never witnessed any thing so unsteady, so uncertain, as my
heart. But need I confess this to 3^ou, my dear friend, who
have so often endured the anguish of witnessing my sudden
transitions from sorrow to immoderate jo}^, and from sweet
melancholy to violent passions ? I treat my poor heart like a
sick child, and gratify its every fancy\ Do not mention this
again : there are people who would censure me for it.
May 15.
The common people of the place know me already, and
love me, particularly the children. When at first I associated
with them, and inquired in a friendly tone about their various
trifles, some fancied that I wished to ridicule them, and
turned from me in exceeding ill-humor. I did not allow that
circumstance to grieve me : I only felt most keenly what I
have often before observed. Persons who can claim a certain
rank keep themselves coldly aloof from the common people,
as though the}^ feared to lose their importance by the contact ;
whilst wanton idlers, and such as are prone to bad joking,
affect to descend to their level, onl}^ to make the poor people
feel their impertinence all the more keenly.
V I know ver}^ well that we are not all equal, nor can be so;
but it is my opinion that he who avoids the common people,
in order not to lose their respect, is as much to blame as a
coward who hides himself from his enemy because he fears
defeat.
The other day I went to the fountain, and found a young
SORROWS OF AVERTHER. 13
servant-girl, who had set her pitcher on the lowest step, and
looked round to see if one of her companions was approach-
ing to place it on her head. I ran down, and looked at her.
"Shall I help 3'ou, pretty lass?" said I. She blushed
deeply. "Oh, sir!" she exclaimed "No ceremony 1" I
replied. She adjusted her head-gear, and I helped her. She
thanked me, and ascended the steps.
May 17.
I have jnade all sorts of acquaintances, but have as yet
found no society. I know not what attraction I possess for
the people, so many of them like me, and attach themselves
to me ; and then I feel sorry when the road we pursue
together goes only a short distance. If 3'ou inquire what
the people are like here, I must answer, "The same as
everywhere." The human race is but a monotonous affair.
Most of them labor the greater part of their time for mere sub-
sistence ; and the scanty portion of freedom which remains
to them so troubles them that they use every exertion to get
rid of it. Oh, the destiny of man !
But they are a right good sort of people. If I occasion-
ally forget myself, and take part in the innocent pleasures
which are not yet forbidden to the peasantry, and enjoy
myself, for instance, with genuine freedom and sincerity,
round a well-covered table, or arrange an excursion or a
dance opportunely, and so forth, all this produces a good
eifect upon my disposition ; only I must forget that there lie
dormant within me so many other qualities which moulder
uselessly, and -which I am obliged to keep carefully con-
cealed. Ah ! this thought affects my spirits fearfully. And
yet to be misunderstood is the fate of the like of us.
Alas, that the friend of my youth is gone ! Alas, that I
ever knew her ! I might say to myself, ' ' You are a dreamer
to seek what is not to be found here below." But she has
been mine. I have possessed that heart, that noble soul, in
whose presence I seemed to be more than I really was,
because I was all that I could be. Good heavens ! did then
a single power of my soul remain unexercised? In her
presence could I not display, to its full extent, that mysteri-
ous feeling with which my heart embraces nature ? Was not
our intercourse a perpetual web of the finest emotions, of the
keenest wit, the varieties of which, even in their very eccen-
tricity, bore the stamp of genius? Alas! the few years by
which she was my senior brought her to the grave before
14 SORROWS OF WERTHER.
me. Never can I forget her firm mind or her heavenly
patience.
A few da3^s ago I met a certain young Y- , a fran"k,
open fellow, with a most pleasing countenance. He has just
left the university, does not deem himself overwise, but
"believes he knows more than other people. He has worked
hard, as I can perceive from many circumstances, and, in
short, possesses a large stock of information. When lie
heard that I am drawing a good deal, and that I know Greek
(two wonderful things for this part of the country) , he came
to see me, and displayed his whole store of learning, from
Batteaux to Wood, from De Piles to Winkelmann : he assured
me he had read through the first part of Sultzer's theory, and
also possessed a manuscript of Heyne's work on the study of
the antique. I allowed it all to pass.
I have become acquainted, also, with a very worthy per-
son, the district judge, a frank and open-hearted man. I am
told it is a most delightful thing to see him in the midst of
his children, of whom he has nine- His eldest daughter
especially is highly spoken of. He has invited me to go and
see him, and I intend to do so on the first opportunity. He
lives at one of the royal hunting-lodges, which can be reached
from here in an hour and a half by walking, and which he
obtained leave to inhabit after the loss of his wife, as it is so
painful to him to reside in town and at the court.
There have also come in my way a few other originals of
a questionable sort, who are in all respects undesirable, and
most intolerable in their demonstrations of friendship. Good-
by. This letter will please you : it is quite historical.
May 22.
That the life of man is but a dream, many a man has sur-
mised heretofore ; and I, too, am everywhere pursued by this
feeling. When I consider the narrow limits within which our
active and inquiring faculties are confined ; when I see how
all our energies are wasted in providing for mere necessi-
ties, which again have no further end than to prolong a
wretched existence ; and then that all our satisfaction con-
cerning certain subjects of investigation ends in nothing
better than a passive resignation, whilst we amuse ourselves
painting our prison-walls with bright figures and brilliant
landscapes, — when I consider all this, Wilhelm, I am silent.
I examine my own being, and find there a world, but a world
rather of imagination and dim desires, than of distinctness
SORROWS OF WERTHER. 15
and living power. Then every thing swims before my senses,
and I smile and dream while pursuing my way through the
world.
All learned professors and doctors are agreed that children
do not comprehend the cause of their desires ; but that the
grown-up should wander about this earth like children, with-
out knowing whence they come, or whither they go, influenced
as little by fixed motives, but guided like them by biscuits,
sugar-plums, and the rod, — this is what nobody is willing to
acknowledge ; and yet I think it is palpable.
■~I know what you will say in reply ; for I am ready to
admit that they .are happiest, who, like children, amuse
themselves with their playthings, dress and undress their
dolls, and attentive^ watch the cupboard, where mamma has
locked up her sweet things, and, when at last they get a
delicious morsel, eat it greedily, and exclaim, ''More!"
These are certainl}' happy beings ; but others also are objects
of envy, who dignify their paltr}' employments, and some-
times even their passions, with pompous titles, representing
them to mankind as gigantic achievements performed for
their welfare and glory. But the man who humbly acknowl-
edges the vanit}' of all this, who observes with what pleasure
the thriving citizen converts his little garden into a paradise,
and how patiently even the poor man pursues his weary way
under his burden, and how all wish equally to behold the
light of the sun a little longer, — yes, such a man is at peace,
and creates his own world within himself; and he is also
happy, because he is a man. And then, however limited his
sphere, he still preserves in his bosom the sweet feeling of
liberty, and knows that he can quit his prison whenever he
-Jikfia._„
May 26.
You know of old my ways of settling anywhere, of select-
ing a little cottage in some cosey spot, and of putting up in it
with every inconvenience. Here, too, I have discovered such
a snug, comfortable place, which possesses peculiar charms
for me.
About a league from the town is a place called Walheizn,/
It is delightfully situated on the side of a hill ; and, by pro-
ceeding along one of the footpaths which lead out of the
village, you can have a view of the whole valley. A good
* The reader need not take the trouhle to look for the place thus deBignated.
We have found it necessary to change the names given in the original.
16 SORROWS OF WERTIIER.
old woman lives there, who keeps a small inn. She sells
wine, beer, and coffee, and is cheerful and pleasant notwith-
standing her age. The chief charm of this spot consists in
two linden-trees, spreading their enormous branches over the
little green before the church, which is entirely surrounded
b}'' peasants' cottages, barns, and homesteads. I have sel-
dom seen a place so retired and peaceable ; and t5.ere oilen
have my table and chair brought out from the littlejnn, and
drink my coffee there, and read my Homer. Accident brought
me to the spot one fine afternoon, and I found it perfectly
deserted. Everybod}^ was in the fields except a little boy
about four years of age, who was sitting on the ground, and
held between his knees a child about six months old : he
pressed it to his bosom with both arms, which thus formed a
sort of arm-chair ; and, notwithstanding the liveliness which
sparkled in its black eyes, it remained perfectly still. The
sight charmed me. I sat down upon a plough opposite, and
sketched with great delight this little picture of brotherly
tenderness. I added the neighboring hedge, the barn-door,
and some broken cart-wheels, just as the}^ happened to lie ;
and I found in about an hour that I had made a very correct
and interesting drawing, without putting in the slightest
thing of my own. This confirmed me in m}' resolution of
adhering, for the future, entirely to nature. She alone is
inexhaustible, and capable of forming the greatest masters.
Much may be alleged in favor of rules, as much may be like-
wise advanced in favor of the laws of society : an artist
formed upon them will never produce any thing absolutely
bad or disgusting ; as a man who obsei*ves the laws, and
.obeys decorum, can never be an absolutely intolerable neigh-
bor, nor a decided villain : but yet, say what you will of
rules, they destroy the genuine feeling of nature, as well as
its true expression. Do not tell me " that this is too hard,
that they only restrain and prune superfluous branches,
etc." My good friend, I will illustrate this by an analogy.
These things resemble love. A warm-hearted youth becomes
strongly attached to a maiden : he spends every hour of the
day in her company, wears out his health, and lavishes his
fortune, to afford continual proof that he is wholly devoted
to her. Then comes a man of the world, a man of place
and respectability, and addresses him thus : " M}' good
young friend, love is natural ; but 3'ou must love within
bounds. Divide 3'our time : devote a portion to business,
and give the hours of recreation to your mistress. Calculate
SOEROWS OP WERTKER. 17
your fortune ; and out of the superfluity you may make her a
present, only not too often, — ou Iilt birthday, and such
occasions." Pursuing this advice, he may become a useful
member of society, and I should advise every prince to give
him an appointment ; but it is all up with his love, and with
his genius if he be an artist. O my friend ! why is it that
the torrent of genius so seldom bursts forth, so seldom rolls
in full-flowing stream, overwhelming your astounded soul?
Because, on either side of this stream, cold and respectable
persons have taken up their abodes, and, forsooth, their
summer-houses and tulip-beds would suffer from the torrent ;
wherefore they dig trenches, and raise embankments betimes,
in order to avert the impending danger.
May 27.
I find I have fallen into raptures, declamation, and sun-
iles, and have forgotten, in consequence, to tell you what
became of the children. Absorbed in my artistic contem-
plations, which I briefly described in my letter of yesterday,
I continued sitting on the plough for two hours. Towards
evening a young woman, with a basket on her arm, came
running towards the children, who had not moved all that
time. She exclaimed from a distance, "You are a good
boy, Philip!" She gave me greeting: I returned it, rose,
and approached her. I inquired if she were the mother of
those prett}" children. ''Yes," she said; and, giving the
eldest a piece of bread, she took the little one in her arms
and kissed it with a mother's tenderness. " I left my child
in Philip's care," she said, "whilst I went into the town
with my eldest boy to bu}^ some wheaten bread, some sugar,
and an earthen pot." I saw the various articles in the bas-
ket, from which the cover had fallen. " I shall make some
broth to-night for my little Hans (which was the name of the
youngest) : that wild fellow, the big one, broke my pot yes-
terday, whilst he was scrambling with Philip for what re-
mained of the contents." I inquired for tlie eldest ; and she
had scarcely time to tell me that he was driving a couple of
geese home from the meadow, when he ran up, and handed
Philip an osier- twig. I talked a little longer with the woman,
and found that she was the daughter of the schoolmaster, and
that her husband was gone on a journe}^ into Switzerland
for^some money a relation had left him. "They wanted to
cheat him," she said, " and would not answer his letters ; so
he is gone there himself. I hope he has met with no acci-
18 SORROWS OF WERTHER.
dent, as I have heard nothing of him since his departure."
I left the woman with regret, giving each of the children a
kreutzer, with an additional one for the youngest, to buy
some wheaten bread for his broth when she went to town
next ; and so we parted.
I assure you, my dear friend, when my thoughts are all in
tumult, the sight of such a creature as this tranquillizes my
disturbed mind. She moves in. a happy thoughtlessness
within the confined circle of her existence ; she supplies her
wants from day to da}^ ; aud, when she sees the leaves fall,
they raise no other idea in her mind than that winter is
approaching.
Since that time I have gone out there frequently. The
children have become quite familiar with me ; and each gets
a lump of sugar when 1 drink my coffee, and they share my
milk aud bread and butter in the evening. They always
receive their kreutzer on Sundays, for the good woman has
orders to give it to them when I do not go there after even-
ing service.
They are quite at home with me, tell me every thing ; and
I am particularly amused with observing their tempers, and
the simplicity of their behavior, when some of the other
village children are assembled with them.
It has given me a deal of trouble to satisfy the anxiety of
the mother, lest (as she says) *' they should inconvenience
the gentleman."
May 30.
What I have lately said of painting is equally true with
respect to poetry. It is only necessary for us to know what
is really excellent, and venture to give it expression ; and that
is saying much in few words. To-day I have had a scene,
which, if literally related, would make the most beautiful
idyl in the world. But why should I talk of poetry and
scenes and idyls? Can we never take pleasure in nature
without having recourse to art?
If you expect any thing grand or magnificent from this in-
troduction, you will be sadl}' mistaken. It relates merely to
a peasant-lad, who has excited in me the warmest interest.
As usual, I shall tell my story badly ; and you, as usual, will
think me extravagant. It is Walheim-once more — always
Walheim — which produces these wonderful phenomena.
A party had assembled outside the house under the lin-
den-trees, to drink coffee. The company did not exactly
SORROWS OF WERTHER. 19
please me ; and, under one pretext or another, I lingered
behind.
A peasant came from an adjoining hoase, and set to work
arranging some part of the same plough which I had lately
sketched. His appearance pleased me ; and I spoke to him,
inquired about his_circumshmces, made his acquaintance, and,
as is iny wont with persons of that class, was soon admitted
into his confidence. He said he was in the service of a young
widow, who set great store by him. He spoke so much of
his mistress, and praised her so extravagantly, that I could
soon see he was desperately in love with her. " She is no
longer young," he said : " and she was treated so badly by
her former husband that she does not mean to marry again."
From his account it was so evident what incomparable charms
she possessed for him, and how ardently he wished she would
select him to extinguish the recollection of her first hus-
band's misconduct, that I should have to repeat his own
words in order to describe the depth of the poor fellow's
attachment, truth, and devotion. It would, in fact, require
the gifts of a great poet to convey the expression of his
features, the harmony of his voice, and the heavenly fire of
his eye. No words can portra}" the tenderness of his every
movement arid of every feature : no effort of mine could do
justice to the scene. His alarm lest I should misconceive
his position with regard to his mistress, or question the pro-
priety of her conduct, touched me particularly. The charm-
ing manner with which he described her form and person,
which, without possessing the graces of youth, won and
attached him to her, is inexpressible, and must be left to the
imagination. I have never in m}^ life witnessed or fancied
cr conceived the possibility of such intense devotion, such
ardent aflfections, united with so much purity. Do not blame
me if I say that the recollection of this innocence and truth
is deeply impressed upon my very soul ; that this picture of
fidelity and tenderness haunts me everywhere ; and that my
own heart, as though enkindled by the flame, glows and
burns within me.
I mean now to tr}- and see her as soon as I can : or per-
haps, on second thoughts, I had better not ; it is better I
should behold her through the eyes of her lover. To my
sight, perhaps, she would not appear as she now stands
before me ; and why should I destroy so sweet a picture ?
20 SORROWS OF WERTHER.
June 16.
"Why do I not write to you?" You lay claim to learn-
ing, and ask such a question. You should have guessed
that I am well — that is to sa}^ — in a word, I have made an
acquaintance who has won my heart : I have — I know not.
To give you a regular account of the manner in which I
have become acquainted with the most amiable of women
would be a difficult task. I am a happy and contented mor-
tal, but a poor historian.
An angel ! Nonsense ! Everybody so describes his mis-
tress ; and yet I find it impossible to tell you how perfect
she is, or why she is so perfect : suffice it to say she has cap-
tivated all my senses.
So much simplicity with so much understanding — so
mild, and yet so resolute — a mind so placid, and a life so
active.
But all this is ugly balderdash, which expresses not a
single character nor feature. Some other time — but no,
not some other time, now, this very instant, will I tell you
all about it. Now or never. Well, between ourselves, since
I commenced my letter, I have been three times on the point
of throwing down my pen, of ordering my horse, and riding
out. And yet I vowed this morning that I would not ride
to-day, and yet every moment I am rushing to the window
to see how high the sun is.
• • • . • •• • • •
I could not restrain myself — go to her I must, I have
just returned, AVilhelm ; and whilst I am taking supper I will
write to you. What a delight it was for my soul to see her
in the midst of her dear, beautiful children, — eight brothers
and sisters !
But, if I proceed thus, you will be no wiser at the end of
my letter than you were at the beginning. Attend, then,
and I will compel myself to give you the details.
I mentioned to you the other day that I had become
acquainted with S , the district judge, and that he had
invited me to go and visit him in his retirement, or rather
in his little kingdom. But I neglected going, and perhaps
should never have gone, if chance had not discovered to me
the treasure which lay concealed in that retired spot. Some
of our 3'oung people had proposed giving a ball in the coun-
try, at which I consented to be present. I offered my hand
for the evening to a pretty and agreeable, but rather com-
monplace, sort of girl from the immediate neighborhood ; and
SORROWS OF WERTHER. 21
it was agreed that I should engage a carriage, and call upon
Charlotte, with my partner and her aunt, to convey them to
the ball. My companion informed me, as we drove along
through the park to the hunting-lodge, that I should make
the acquaintance of a very charming young lady. " Take
care," added the aunt, "that you do not lose your heart." —
"Why?" said I. "Because she is already engaged to a
very worthy man," she replied, " who is gone to settle his
affairs upon the death of his father, and will succeed to a
very considerable inheritance." This information possessed
no interest for me. When we arrived at the gate, the sun
was setting behind the tops of the mountains. The atmos-
phere was heavy ; and the ladies expressed their fears of an
approaching storm, as masses of low black clouds were gath-
ering in the horizon. I relieved their anxieties by pretending
to be weather-wise, although I myself had some apprehen-
sions lest our pleasure should be interrupted. .
I alighted ; and a maid came to the door, and requested
us to wait a moment for her mistress. I walked across the
court to a well-built house, and, ascending the flight of steps
in front, opened the door, and saw before me the most
charming spectacle I had ever witnessed. Six children, from
eleven to two years old, were running about the hall, and
surrounding a lady of middle height, with a lovely figure,
dressed in a robe of simple white, trimmed with pink ribbons.
She was holding a rye loaf in her hand, and was cutting slices
for the little ones all round, in proportion to their age and
appetite. She performed her task in a graceful and affec-
tionate manner ; each claimant awaiting his turn with out-
stretched hands, and boisterously shouting his thanks. Some
of them ran away at once, to enjoy then' evening meal ; whilst
others, of a gentler disposition, retired to the courtyard to
see the strangers, and to survey the carriage in which their
Charlotte was to drive away. " Pray forgive me for giving
you the trouble to come for me, and for keeping the ladies
waiting : but dressing, and arranging some household duties
before I le^ve, had made me forget my children's supper ; and
they do not like to take it from any one but me." I uttered
some indifferent compliment : but my whole soul was absorbed
by her air, her voice, her manner ; and I had scarcely recov-
ered myself when she ran into her room to fetch her gloves
and fan. The young ones threw inquiring glances at me
from a distance ; whilst I approached the youngest, a most
delicious little creature. He drew back ; and Charlotte, enter-
22 SORROWS OF WERTHER.
ing at the very moment, said, *' Louis, shake hands with yom*
cousin." The little fellow obeyed willingly ; and I could, not
resist giving him a hearty kiss, notwithstanding his rather
dirty face. " Cousin," said I to Charlotte, as I handed her
down, " do you think I deserve the happiness of being re-
lated to you?" She replied, with a ready smile, "Oh! I
have such a number of cousins, that I should be sorry if you
were the most undeserving of them." In taking leave, she
desired her next sister, Sophy, a girl about eleven years old,
to take great care of the children, and to say good-by to
papa for her when he came home from his ride. She enjoined
to the little ones to obey their sister Sophy as they would
herself, upon which some promised that they would ; but a
little fair-haired girl, about six 3^ear!s old, looked discontented,
and said, "But Sophy is not you, Charlotte; and we like
you best." The two eldest bo3^s had clambered up the car-
riage ; and, at m}^ request, she permitted them to accompany
us a little wa}" through the forest, upon their promising to sit
very still, and hold fast.
We were hardly seated, and the ladies had scarcely ex-
changed compliments, making the usual remarks upon each
other's dress, and upon the company they expected to meet,
when Charlotte stopped the carriage, and made her brothers
get down. They insisted upon kissing her hands once more ;
which the eldest did with all the tenderness of a youth of
fifteen, but the other in a lighter and more careless manner.
She desired them again to give her love to the children, an(J: >'
we drove off.
The aunt inquired of Charlotte whether she had finished
the book she had last sent her. " No," said Charlotte ; " I
did not like it : you can have it again. And the one before
was not much better." I was surprised, upon asking the
title, to hear that it was ^ . I found penetration and
character in every, thing she said : ever}' expression seemed
to brighten her features with new charms,— with new rays
of genius, — which unfolded by degrees, as she felt herself
understood.
" When I was j^ounger," she observed, " I loved nothing
so much as romances. Nothing could equal my delight when,
on some holiday, I could settle down quietly in a corner, and
enter with my whole heart and soul into the joys or sorrows
1 We feel obliged to suppress the passage in the letter, to prevent any one from
feeling aggrieved; although no author need pay much attention to the opinion of a
mere girl, or that of an unsteady young man.
SORROWS OF WERTHER. 23
of some fictitious Leonora. I do not deny that they even
possess some charms for me yet. But I read so seldom, that
I prefer books suited exactly to m}^ taste. And I like those
authors best whose scenes describe my own situation in life,
— and the friends wlio are about me, whose stories touch me
with interest, from resembling my own homely existence, —
which, without being absolutelj^ paradise, is, on the whole, a
source of indescribable happiness."
I endeavored to conceal the emotion which these words
occasioned, but it was of slight avail ; for, when she had ex-
pressed so truly her opinion of " The Vicar of A^akefield,"
and of other works, the names of which I omit,^ I could no
longer contain myself, but gave full utteraii'ce to what I
thought of it : and it was not until Charlotte had addressed
herself to the two other ladies, that I remembered their pres-
ence, and observed them sitting mute with astonishment.
The aunt looked at me several times with an air of raillery,
which, however, I did not at all mind.
y We talked of the pleasures of dancing. "If it is a fault
//fo love it," said Charlotte, "I am ready to confess that I
prize it above all other amusements. If any thing disturbs
me, I go to the piano, play an air to which I have danced,
anxi till goes right again directly."
You, who know me, can fancy how steadfastly I gazed upon
her rich dark eyes during these remarks, how my very soul
gloated over her warm lips and fresh, glowing cheeks, how
I became quite lost in the delightful meaning of her words,
so much so, that I scarcely heard the actual expressions. In
short, I alighted from the carriage like a person in a dream,
and was so lost to the dim world around me, that I scarcely
heard the music which resounded from the illuminated ball-
room.
The two Messrs. Andran and a certain N. N. (I cannot
trouble myself with the names), who were the aunt's and
Charlotte's partners, received us at the carriage-door, and
took possession of their ladies, whilst I followed with mine.
We commenced with a minuet. I led out one lady after
another, and precisely those who were the most disagreeable
could not bring themselves to leave Qff. Charlotte and her
partner began an English cou^tiy aance, and you must im-
agine my delight when it was their turn to dance the figure
1 Though the names are omitted, yet the authors mentioned deserve Charlotte's
approbation, and will feel it in their hearts when they read this passage. It concerns
no other person.
24 SORROWS OF WERTHER.
with us. You should see Charlotte dance. She dances with
her whole heart and soul : her figure is all harmony, elegance,
and grace, as if she were conscious of nothing else, and had
no other thought or feeling ; and, doubtless, for the moment,
every other sensation is extinct.
She was engaged for the second country dance, but prom-
ised me the third, and assured me, with the most agreeable
freedom, that she was very fond of waltzing. "It is the
custom here," she said, " for the previous partners to waltz
together ; but my partner is an indifferent waltzer, and will
feel delighted if I save him the trouble. Your partner is
not allowed to waltz, and, indeed, is equally incapable : but
I observed during the country dance that you waltz well ; so,
if you will waltz with me, I beg you would propose it to my
partner, and I will propose it to yours." We agreed, and it
was arranged that our partners should mutually entertain each
other.
We set off", and, at first, delighted ourselves with the usual
graceful motions of the arms. With what grace, with what
ease, she moved ! When the waltz commenced, and the dan-
cers whirled round each other in the giddy maze, there was
some confusion, owing to the incapacity of some of the dan-
cers. We judiciously remained still, allowing the others to
weary themselves ; and, when the awkward dancers had with-
drawn, we joined in, and kept it up famously together with
one other couple, — Andran and his partner. Never did I
dance more lightl3\ I felt myself more than mortal, holding
this loveliest of creatures in my arms, flyitig with her as
rapidly as the wind, till I lost sight of every other object ;
and O Wilhelm, I vowed at that moment, that a maiden
whom I loved, or for whom I felt the slightest attachment,
never, never should waltz with any one else but with me, if
I went to perdition for it ! — you will understand this.
We took a few turns in the room to recover our breath.
Charlotte sat down, and felt refreshed by partaking of some
oranges which I had had secured, — the only ones that had
been left ; but at every slice which, from politeness, she
offered to her neighbors, I felt as though a dagger went
through my heart.
We were the second couple in the third country dance. As
we were going down (and Heaven knows with what ecstasy
I gazed at her arms and eyes, beaming with the sweetest
feeling of pure and genuine enjoyment), we passed a lady
whom I had noticed for her charming expression of counte-
SORROWS OF WERTHER. 25
nance ; although she was no longer young. She looked at
Charlotte with a smile, then, holding up her finger in a
threatening attitude, repeated twice in a very significant tone
of voice the name of " Albert.'*
" Whojs Albert,'' said I to 'Charlotte, " if it is not imper-
tinent to ask ? ' ' She was about to answer, when we were
obliged to separate, in order to execute a figure in the dance ;
and, as we crossed over again in front of each other, I per-
ceived she looked somewhat pensive. " Why^eed I conceal
it from you?" she said, as she gave me her hand for the
promenade. " Albert is a worthy man^ to whom I am en-
gaged.'* Now, there was nothing new to meiii this (for the
girls had told me of it on the way) ; but it was so far new
that I had not thought of it in connection with her whom, in
so short a time, I had learned to prize so highly. Enough, I
became confused, got out in the figure, and occasioned gen-
eral confusion ; so that it required all Charlotte's presence of
mind to set me right by, pulling and pushing me into my
proper place.
The dance was not yet finished when the lightning which
had for some time been seen in the horizon, and which I had
asserted to proceed entirely from heat, grew more violent ;
and tlxe thunder was heard above the music. When any
distress or terror surprises us in the midst of our amuse-
ments, it naturally makes a deeper impression than at other
times, either because the contrast makes us more keenly sus-
ceptible, or rather perhaps because our senses are then more
open to impressions, and the shock is consequently stronger.
To this cause I must ascribe the fright and shrieks of the
ladies. One sagaciously sat down in a corner with her back
to the window, and held her fingers to her ears ; a second
knelt down before her, and hid her face in her lap ; a third
threw herself between them, and embraced her sister with a
thousand tears ; some insisted on going home ; others, un-
conscious of their actions, wanted sufficient presence of mind
to repress the impertinence of their young partnei*s, who
sought to direct to themselves those sighs which the lips of
our agitated beauties intended for heaven. Some of the gen-
tlemen had gone down stairs to smoke a quiet cigar, and the
rest of the company gladly embraced a happy suggestion of
the hostess to retire into another room which was provided
with shutters and curtains. We had hardly got there, when
Charlotte placed the chairs in a circle ; and, when the com-
pany had sat down in compliance with her request, she forth-
with proposed a round ^amtt«.
26 SORROWS OF WERTHER.
I noticed some of the company prepare their mouths and
draw themselves up at the prospect of some agreeable forfeit.
''Let us pla}^ at counting," said Charlotte. "Now, pay-
attention : I shall go round the circle from right to left ; and
each person is to count, one after the other, the number that
comes to him, and must count fast ; whoever stops or mis-
takes is to have a box on the ear, and so on, till we have
counted a thousand." It was delightful to see the fun. She
went round the circle with upraised arm. " One," said the
first; "two," the second; "three," the third; and so on,
till Charlotte went faster and faster. One made a mistake, in-
stantly a box on the ear ; and, amid the laughter that ensued,
came another box ; and so on, faster and faster. I myself
came in for two. I fancied they were harder than the rest,
and felt quite delighted. A general laughter and confusion
put an end to the game long before we had counted as far as
a thousand. The party broke up into little separate knots :
the storm had ceased, and I followed Charlotte into the ball-
room. On the way she said, "The game banished their
fears of the storm." I could make no reply. " I myself,"
she continued, "was as much frightened as any of them;
but by affecting courage, to keep up the spirits of the others,
I forgot my apprehensions." We went to the window. It
was still thundering at a distance : a soft rain was pouring
down over the countr}'-, and filled the air around us with
delicious odors. Charlotte leaned forward on her arm ; her
eyes wandered over the scene ; she raised them to the sk^^,
and then turned them upon me ; they were moistened with
tears ; she placed her hand on mine and said, ' ' Klopstock ! ' '
at once I remembered the magnificent ode which was in her
thoughts : I felt oppressed with the weight of my sensations,
and sank under them. It was more than I could bear. I
bent over her hand, kissed it in a stream of delicious tears,
and again looked up to her eyes. Divine Klopstock ! why
didst thou not see thy apotheosis in those eyes? And thy A
name, so often profaned, would that I never heard it r- ^^
peated !
June 19.
I no longer remember where I stopped in my narrative : I
only know it was two in the morning when I went to bed ;
and if you had been with me, that I might have talked instead
of writing to you, I should, in all probability, have kept you
up till daylight.
SORROWS OF WERTHER. 27
I think I have not yet related what happened as we rode
home from the ball, nor have I time to tell yoa now. It
was a most magnificent sunrise : the whole country was re-
freshed, and the rain fell drop by drop from the trees in the
forest. Our companions were dsleep. Chailotte asked me
if I did not wish to sleep also, andl)egged of me not to make
any ceremony on her account. Looking steadfastly^ at her, I
answered, " As long as I see those eyes open, there is no fear
of my falling asleep." We both continued awake till we
reached her door. The maid opened it softly, and assured
her, in answer to her inquiries, that her father and the chil-
dren were well, and still sleeping. I left her, asking permis-
sion Jto visit her in. the course of the day. She consented,
and I went, and, since that time, sun, moon, and stars maj^
pursue their course : I know not whether it is day or night ;
the whole world is nothing to me.
June 21.
My days are as happy as those reserved by God for his
elect ; and, whatever be my fate hereafter, I can never say that
I have not tasted joy, — the purest joy of life. You know
"Walheim. I am now completely settled there. In that spot
I am only half a league from Charlotte ; and there I enjoy
myself, and taste all the pleasure which can fall to the lot of
man.
Little did I imagine, when I selected Walheim for my
pedestrian excursions, that all heaven lay so near it. How
often in my wanderings from the hill-side or from the
meadows across the river, have I beheld this hunting-lodge,
which now contains within it all the joy Df my heart !
I have often, my dear Wilhelm, reflected on the eagerness
men feel to wander and make new discoveries, and upon
that secret impulse which afterwards inclines them to return
to their narrow circle, conform to the laws of custom, and
embarrass themselves no longer with what passes around
them.
It is so strange how, when I came here first, and gazed
upon that lovely valley from the hill-side, I felt charmed with
the entire scene surrounding me. The little wood opposite,
— how delightful to sit under its shade ! How fine the view,
from that point of rock ! Then, that delightful chain of hills,
and the exquisite valleys at their feet ! Could I but wander
and lose myself amongst them ! I went, and returned with'
out finding what I wished. Distance, my friend, is like
28 SOKROWS OF WERTHER.
futurity. A dim vastness is spread before our souls : the
perceptions of our mind are as obscure as those of our vision ;
and we desire earnestly to suri'ender up our whole being,
that it may be filled with the complete and perfect bliss of
one glorious emotion. But alas ! when we have attained our
object, when the distant there becomes the present here^ all
is changed : we are as poor and circumscribed as ever, and
our souls still languish for unattainable happiness.
/ So does the restless traveller pant for his native soil, and
find in his own cottage, in the arms of his wife, in the affec-
tions of his children, and in the labor necessary for their
support, that happiness which he had sought in vain through
the wide world.
"When, in the morning at sunrise, I go out to Walheim, and
with my own hands gather in the garden the pease which are
to serve for my dinner, when I sit down to shell them, and
read m}'' Homer during the intervals, and then, selecting a
saucepan from the kitchen, fetch my own butter, put my mess
on the fire, cover it up, and sit down to stir it as occasion
requires, I figure to myself the illustrious suitors of Penelope,
killing, dressing, and preparing their own oxen and swine.
Nothing fills me with a more pure and genuine sense of
happiness than those traits of patriarchal life which, thank
Heaven ! I can imitate' without affectation. Happy is it,
indeed, for me that my heart is capable of feeling the same
simple and innocent pleasure as the peasant whose table is
covered with food of his own rearing, and who not only
enjoys his meal, but remembers with delight the happy days
and sunny mornings when he planted it, the soft evenings
when he watered it, and the pleasure he experienced in
watching its daily growth.
June 29.
The day before yesterday, the physician came from the town
to pa}?^ a visit to the judge. He found me on the floor play-
ing with Charlotte's children. Some of them were scram-
bling over me, and others romped with me ; and, as I caught
iand tickled them, the}^ made a great noise. The doctor is a
[formal sort of personage : he adjusts the plaits of his rufiles,
(and continually settles his frill whilst he is talking to you;
land he thought my conduct beneath the dignity of a sensible
man. I could perceive this by his countenance. But I did
not suffer myself to be disturbed. I allowed him to continue
his wise conversation, whilst I rebuilt the children's card-
68781
SORROWS OF WERTHER. 29
houses for them as fast as they threw them down. He went
about the town afterwards, complaining that the judge's
children were spoiled enough before, but that now Weilher
was completely ruining them. .
Yes, my dear Wilhelm, nothing on this earth affects my
heart so much as children. When I look on at their doings ;
when I mark in the little creatures the seeds of all those
virtues and qualities which they will one day find so indis-
pensable ; when I behold in the obstinate all the future firm-
ness and constancy of a noble character ; in the capricious,
that levity and.gayety of temper which will carr}^ them lightly
over the dangers and troubles of life, their whole natui'e sim-'
pie and unpolluted, — then I call to mind the golden words of
the Great Teacher of mankind, "•' Unless ye become like one
of these t '^ And now, my friend, these children, who are
our equals, "whom we ought to consider as our models, we
treat them as though they were our subjects. They are
allowed no will of their own. And have we, then, none our-
selves ? Whence comes our exclusive right ? - Is it because
we are older and more experienced ? Great God ! from the
height of thy heaven thou beholdest great children and little
children, and no others ; and thy Son has long since declared
which afford thee greatest pleasure. But they believe in
him, and hear him not, — that, too, is an old story; and
they train their children after their own image, etc.
Adieu, Wilhelm : I will not further bewilder myself with
this subject.
July 1.
The consolation Charlotte can bring to an invalid I expe-
rience from my own^huart, which suffers more from her
absence than many a poor creature lingering on a bed of
sickness. She is gone to spend a few days in the town with
a very worthy woman, who is given over by the physicians,
and wishes to have Charlotte near her in her last moments.
I accompanied her last week on a visit to the vicar of S— — ,
a small village in the mountains, about a league hence. We
arrived about four o'clock: Charlotte had taken her little
sister with her. When we entered the vicarage court, we
found the good old man sitting on a bench before the door,
under the shade of two large walnut-trees. At the sight of
Charlotte he seemed to gain new life, rose, forgot his stick,
and ventured to walk towards her. She ran to him, and
made him sit down again ; then, placing herself by his sidcj
30 SORROWS OF WERTHER.
she gave him a number of messages from her father, and
then caught up his youngest child, a dirty, ugly little thing,
the joy of his old age, and kissed it. I wish you could have
witnessed her attention to this old man, — how she raised her
voice on account of his deafness ; how she told him of healthy
young people, who had been carried off when it was least
expected ; praised the virtues of Carlsbad, and commended
his determination to spend the ensuing summer there ; and
assured him that he looked better and stronger than he did
when she saw him last. I, in the mean time, paid attention
to his good lady. The old man seemed quite in spirits ; and
as I could not help admiring the beauty of the walnut-trees,
which formed such an agreeable shade over our heads, he
began, though with some little difficulty, to tell us their
history. ''As to the oldest," said he, " we do not know
who planted it, — some say one clergyman, and some another :
but the 3"ouuger one, there behind us, is exactly the age of.
my wife, fiftj^ years old next October ; her father planted it
in the morning, and in the evening she came into the world.
My wife's father was my predecessor here, and 1 cannot tell
3^ou how fond he was of that tree ; and it is full}' as dear to
me. Under the shade of that very tree, upon a log of wood,
my wife was seared knitting, when I, a poor student, came
into this court for the first time, just seven and tweut}^ years
ago." Charlotte inquired for his daughter. He said she
was gone with Herr Schmidt to the meadows, and was with
the haymakers. The old man then resumed his story, and
told us how his predecessor had taken a fancy to him, as
had his daughter likewise ; and how he had become first his
curate, and subsequently his successor. J^e had scarcely
finished his story when his daughter returned" tbroirgh the
garden, accompanied by the above-mentioned Herr Schmidt.
She welcomed Charlotte affectionately, and I confess I
was much taken with her appearance. She was a lively-
looking, good-humored brunette, quite competent to amuse
one for a short time in the country. Her lover (for such
Herr Schmidt evidently appeared to be) was a polite, re-
served personage, and w,©uld not join our conversation^
notwithstanding all Charlotte's endeavors to draw him out.
I was much annoyed at observing, b}' his coiuitenance, that
his silence did not arise from want of talent, but from caprice
and ill-humor. This subsequently l^^came very evident, when
we set out to take a walk, and ^sK^^ed^ic^ joining Charlotte,
with whom I was talking, the wortliy gentleman's face, which
SORROWS OF WERTHER. 31
was naturall}' rather sombre, became so dark and angi-y that
Charlotte was obliged to touch my arm, and remind me that
I was talkins^ too much to Frederica. Nothing distresses
me more than to see men torrnent each other; x^articularly
when in the flower of their age, *in the very season of pleas-
ure, they waste their few short days of sunshine in quarrels
and disputes, ai^d only perceive their error when it is too
late to repair \t.j/ This thought dwelt upon my mind ; and
in the evening,^ when we returned to the vicar's, and were
sitting round the table with our bread and milk, the con-
versation turned on the joys and sorrows of the world, I
could not resist the temptation to inveigh bitterly against
ill-humor. "We are apt," said I, "to complain, but with
very little cause, that our happy days are few, and our evil
days many. If our hearts w^ere always disposed to receive
the benefits Heaven sends us, we should acquire strength to
support evil when it comes." — " But," observed the vicar's
wife, "we cannot always command our tempers, so much
depends upon the constitution : when the body suffers, the
mind is ill at ease." — "I acknowledge that," I continued ;
' ' but we must consider such a disposition in the light of a
disease, and inquire whether there is no remedy for it."
— "I should be glad to hear one," said Charlotte: "at
least, I think ver}^ much depends upon ourselves ; I know it
is so with me. When any thing anno^^s me, and disturbs my
temper, I hasten into the garden, hum a couple of country
dances, and it is all right with me directly." — "That is
what I meant," I replied ; " ill-humor resembles indolence :
it is natural to us ; but if once we have courage to exert
ourselves, we find our work run fresh from our hands, and
we experience in the activity from which we shrank a real
enjoyment." Frederica listened very attentively; and the
young man objected, that we were not masters of ourselves,
and still less so of our feelings. " The question is about a
disagreeable feeling," I added, "from which every one
would willingly escape, but none know their own power
without trial. Invalids are glad to consult physicians, and
submit to the most scrupulous regimen, the most nauseous
medicines, in order to recover their health." I observed
that the good old man inclined his head, and exerted himself
to hear our discourse ; so I raised my voice, and addressed
myself directly to him. ' ' We preach against a ^reat many
crimes," I observed, " bu^lT never rerhember a^sermon
delivered against iU-humor." — " That may do very well for
32 SORROWS OF WERTHER.
your town clergymen," said he : " country people are nevei
ill-humored ; though, indeed, it might be useful occasionally,
to my wife for instance, and the judge." We all laughed,
as did he likewise very cordially, till he fell into a fit of
coughing, which interrupted our conversation for a time.
Herr Schmidt resumed the subject. "You call ill-humor
a crime," he remarked, "but I think you use too strong a
term." — "Not at all," I replied, "if that deserves the
name which is so pernicious to ourselves and our neighbors.
Is it not enough that we want the power to make one another
happy, — must we deprive each other of the pleasure which
we can all make for ourselves ? Show me the man who has
the courage to hide his ill-humor, who bears the whole bur-
den himself, without disturbing the peace of those around
him. No : ill-humor arises from an inward consciousness
of our own want of merit, — from a discontent which ever
accompanies that envy which foolish vanity engenders. We
see people happy, whom we have not made so, and cannot
endure the sight." Charlotte looked at me with a smile;
she observed the emotion with which I spoke : and a tear
in the eyes of Frederica stimulated me to proceed. " Woe
unto those," I said, "who use their power over a human
heart to destroy the simple pleasures it would naturally
enjoy ! All the favors, all the attentions, in the world can-
not compensate for the loss of that happiness which a cruel
tyranny has destroyed." My heart was full as I spoke. A
recollection of many things which had happened pressed
upon my mind, and filled my eyes with tears. " We should
daily repeat to ourselves," I exclaimed, " that we should not
interfere with our friends, unless to leave them in possession
of their own joys, and increase their happiness by sharing
it with them ! But when their souls are tormented by a
violent passion, or their hearts rent with grief, is it in your
power to afford them the slightest consolation ?
' ' And when the last fatal malady seizes the being whose
untimely grave you have prepared, when she lies languid and
exhausted before j^ou, her dim eyes raised to heaven, and the
damp of death upon her pallid brow, then you stand at her
bed-side like a condemned criminal, with the bitter feeling
that your whole fortune could not save her ; and the agonizing
thought wrings you, that all your efforts are powerless to im-
part even a moment's strength to the departing soul, or
quicken her with a transitor}' consolation."
At these words the rememt)rance of a similar scene at
SORROWS OF WERTHER. 33
which I had been once present fell with full force upon my
heart. I buried my face in my handkerchief, and hastened
from the room, and was only recalled to my recollection by
Charlotte's voice, who reminded me that it was time to return
home. With what tenderness she chid me on the way for
the too eager interest I took in every thing ! She declared it
would do me injury, and that I ought to spare myself. — Yes,
my angel ! I will do so for your sake.
July 6.
She^ js^till^ with her dying friend, and is still the same
bright, beautiful creature whose presence softens pain, and
sheds happiness around whichever way she turns. She went
out yesterday with her little sisters : I knew it, and went to
meet them ; and we walked together. In about an hour and
a half we returned to the town. We stopped at the spring
I am so fond of, and which is now a thousand times dearer
to me than ever. Charlotte seated herself upon the low wall,
and we gathered about her. I looked round, and recalled
the time when my heart was unoccupied and free. "Dear
fountain ! " I said, " since that time I have no more come to
enjoy cool repose by thy fresh stream : I have passed thee
with careless steps, and scarcely bestowed a glance upon
thee." I looked down, and observed Charlotte's little sister,
Jane, coming up the" steps with a glass of water. I turned
towards Charlotte, and I felt her influence over me. Jane at
the moment approached with the glass. Her sister, Mari-
anne, wished to take it from her. " No ! " cried the child,
with the sweetest expression of face, " Charlotte must drink
first."
The affection and simplicity with which this was uttered
so charmed me, that I sought to express my feelings by catch-
ing up the child and kissing her heartily. She was frightened,
and began to cry. "You should not do that," said Char-
lotte: I felt perplexed. "Come, Jane," she continued,
taking her hand, and leading her down the steps again, " it
is no matter : wash yourself quickly in the fresh water." I
stood and watched them ; and when I saw the little dear rub-
bing her cheeks with her wet hands, in full belief that all the
impurities contracted from my ugly beard would be washed
off by the miraculous water, and how, though Charlotte said
it would do, she continued still to wash with all her might,
as though she thought too much were better than too little, I
assure you, Wilhelm, I never attended a baptism with greater
34 SORROWS OF WERTHER.
reverence ; and, when Charlotte came up from the well, I
could have prostrated myself as before the prophet of an
Eastern nation.
In the evening I could not resist telling the story to a
person who, I thought, jwssessed some natural feeling, be-
cause he was a man of understanding. But what a mistake
I made. He maintained it was very wrong of Charlotte, —
that we should not deceive children, — that such things occa-
sioned countless mistakes and superstitions, from which we
were bound to protect the 3'oung. It occurred to me then,
that this very man had been baptized only a week before ; so I
said nothing further, but maintained the justice of my own
iconvictions. We should deal with children as God deals
■with us, — we are happiest under the influence of innocent
[delusions.
July 8.
What a child is man that he should be so solicitous about
a look ! What a child is man ! We had been to Walheim :
the ladies went in a carriage ; but during our walk I thought
I saw in Charlotte's dark eyes — 1 am a fool — but forgive
me ! you should see them, — those eyes. — However, to be
brief (for my own eyes are weighed down with sleep) , you
must know, when the ladies stepped into their carriage again,
young W. Seldstadt, Andran, and I were standing about the
door. They are a merry set of fellows, and they were all
laughing and joking together. I watched Charlotte's e3'es.
They wandered from one to the other ; but they did not light
on me, — on me, who stood there motionless, and who saw
nothing but her ! My heart bade her a thousand times
adieu, but she noticed me not. The carriage drove off, and
my e3'es filled with tears. I looked, after her : suddenly I
saw Charlotte's bonnet leaning out of the window, and she
turned to look back, — was it at me? My dear friend, I
know not; and in this uncertainty I find consolation. Per-
haps she turned to look at me. Perhaps ! Good-night —
what a child I am !
July 10.
You should see how foolish I look in company when her
name is mentioned, particularly when I am asked plainly
how I like her. How I like her ! — I detest the phrase.
What sort of creature must lie be who merely liked Charlotte,
whose whole heart and senses were not entirely absorbed by
SORROWS OF WERTHER. 35
her. Like her! Some one asked me lately how I liked
Ossian.
July 11.
Madame M is very ill. I pray for her recovery, be-
cause Charlotte shares my sufferings. I see her occasionally
at my friend's house, and to-day she has told me the strangest
circumstance. Old M is a covetous, miserly fellow, who
has long worried and annoyed the poor lady sadly ; but she
has borne her afflictions patiently. A few days ago, when
the'physieian informed us that her recovery was hopeless, she
sent for her husband (Charlotte was present) , and addressed
him thus: " I_have something to confess, which, after my
decease, may occasTdfTtrouble and confusion. I have hitherto
conducted your household as frugally "and "economically as
possible, but you must pardon me for having defrauded j^ou
for thirty years. At the commencement of our married life,
you allowed a small sum for the wants of the kitchen, and
the other household expenses. When our establishment
increased and our property grew larger, I could not persuade
you to increase the weekly allowance in proportion : in short,
you know, that, when our wants were greatest, you required
me to supply every thing with seven florins a week. I took
the money from you without an observation, but made up"
the weekly deficiency from the money-chest ; as nobody
would suspect your wife of robbing the household bank. But
I have wasted nothing, and should have been content to meet
my eternal Judge without this confession, if she, upon whom
the management of your establishment will devolve after my
decease, would be free from embarrassment upon your insist-
ing that the allowance made to me, your former wife, was
sufficient."
I talked with Charlotte of the inconceivable manner in
which men allow themselves to be blinded ; how any one could
avoid suspecting some deception, when seven florins only
were allowed to defray expenses twice as great. But I have
myself known people who believed, without any visible aston-
ishment, that their house possessed the prophet's never-fail-
ing cruse of oil.
July 13.
No, I am not deceived. In her dark eyes I read a genuine
interest in me and in my fortunes. Yes, I feel it ; and 1
may believe my own heart which tells me — dare I say it? —
dare I pronounce the divine words? — that she loves ^ae.!
36 SORROWS OF WERTHER.
That she loves me ! How the idea exalts me in my own
eyes ! And, as you can understand my feelings, I may say
to you, how I honor myself since she loves me !
Is this presumption, or is it a consciousness of the truth?
I do not know a man able to supplant me in the heart of
Charlotte ; and yet when she speaks of her betrothed with
so much wai'mth and affection, I feel like the soldier who has
been stripped of his honors and titles, and deprived of his
sword.
July 16.
How my heart beats when by accident I touch her finger,
or my feet meet hers under the table ! I draw back as if
from a furnace ; but a secret force impels me forward again,
and my senses become disordered. Her innocent, uncon-
scious heart never knows what agony these little familiarities
inflict upon me. Sometimes when we are talking she lays
her hand upon mine, and in the eagerness of conversation
comes closer to me, and her balmy breath reaches my lips,
— when I feel as if lightning had struck me, and that I
could sink into the earth. And yet, Wilhelm, with all this
heavenly confidence, — if I know myself, and should ever
dare — you understand me. No, no! my heart is not so
corrupt, — it is weak, weak enough — but is not that a
degree of corruption?
She is to me a sacred being. All passion is still in her
presence : I cannot express my sensations when I am near
her. I feel as if my soul beat in every nerve of my body.
There is a melody which she plays on the piano with angelic
skill, — so simple is it, and yet so spiritual ! It is her favor-
ite air ; and, when she plays the first note, all pain, care, and
sorrow disappear from me in a moment.
I believe every word that is said of the magic of ancient
music. How her simple song enchants me ! Sometimes,
when I am read}' to commit suicide, she sings that air ; and
instantly the gloom and madness which hung over me are
dispersed, and I breathe freely again.
JULT 18.
"Wilhelm, what is the world to our hearts without love?
What is a magic-lantern without light? You have but to
kindle the flame within, and the brightest figures shine on
the white wall ; and, if love only show us fleeting shadows,
we are yet happy, when, like mere children, we behold them,
SORROWS OF WERTHER. 37
and are transported with the splendid phantoms. I have
not been able to see Charlotte to-day. I was prevented by
company from which I could not disengage myself. What
was to be done? I sent my servant to her house, that I
might at least see somebody to-day who had been near her.
Oh, the impatience with which I waited for his return ! the
joy with which I welcomed him ! I should certainly have
caught him in my arms, and kissed him, if I had not been
ashamed.
It is said that the Bonona stone, when placed in the sun,
attracts the rays, and for a time appears luminous in the
dark. So was it with me and this servant. The idea that
Charlotte's eyes had dwelt on his countenance, his cheek, his
very apparel, endeared them all inestimably to me, so that
at the moment I would not have parted from him for a thou-
sand crowns. His presence made me so happy ! Beware
of laughing at me, Wilhelm. Can that be a delusion which
makes us happy?
July 19.
" I shall see her to-day ! " I exclaim with delight, when I
rise in the morning, and look out with gladness of heart at
the bright, beautiful sun. " I shall see her to-day ! '' And
then I have no further wish to form : all, all is included in
that one thought.
July 20.
I cannot assent to your proposal that I should accom-^
pany the ambassador to . I do not love subordination ;
and we all know that he is a rough, disagreeable person to
be connected with. You say my mother wishes me to be
employed. I could not help laughing at that. Am I not
sufficiently employed? And is it not in reality the same,
whether I shell pease or count lentils ? The world runs on
from one folly to another ; and the man who, solely from
regard to the opinion of others, and without any wish or
necessity of his own, toils after gold, honor, or any other
phantom, is no better than a fooL
July 24.
You insist so much on my not neglecting my drawing, that
it would be as well for me to say nothing as to confess how
little I have lately done.
I never felt happier, I never understood nature better^
Vol 3 Goethe-— a
38 SORROWS OF WERTHER.
even down to the veriest stem or smallest blade of grass ;
and yet I am unable to express myself: my powers of execu-
tion aiViso'^e^, every thing seems to swim and float before
me, so that I cannot make a clear, bold outline. But I fanc}''
I should succeed better if I had some cla}- or wax to model.
I shall try, if this state of mind continues much longer, and
will take to modelling, if I onl}' knead dough. ~
I have commenced Charlotte's portrait three times, and
have as often disgraced myself. This is the more annoying,
as I was formerly very happy in taking likenesses. I have
since sketched her profile, and must content myself with
that.
July 25.
Yes, dear Charlotte ! I will order and arrange ever}^ thing.
Only give me more commissions, the more the better. One^
thing, however, I must request : use no more writing-sand
with the dear notes you send me. To-day I raised your
letter hastily to my lips, and it set my teeth on edge.
July 26.
I have often determined not to see her so frequently. But
who could keep such a resolution ? Every da}'^ I am exposed
to the temptation, and promise faith full}' that to-morrow I
will reall}'' stay away : but, when to-morrow comes, I find
some irresistible reason for seeing- her ; and, before I can
account for it, I. am with her agait. Either she has said on
the previous evening, " You will be sure to call to-mcrrow,'*
— and who could stay awa}' then ? — or she gives me some
commission, and I find it essential to take her the answer in
person ; or the day is fine, and I walk to Walheim ; and,
when I am there, it is only half a league farther to her. I
am within the charmed atmosphere, and soon find m^'self at
her side. M}^ grandmother used to tell us a story of a
mountain "of loadstone. When an}' vessels came near it,
they were instantly deprived of their ironwork : the nails
flew to the mountain, and the unhappy crew perished amidst
the disjointed planks.
July SO.
Albert is arrived, and I must take my departure. Were
he the best and noblest of men, and I in every respect his
inferior, I could not endure to see him in possession of such
a perfect being. Possession ! — enough, Wilhelm : her be-
SORROWS OF WERTHER. 89
trothed is here, — a fine^^j^Qxth^ fellow, whom one cannot
iielj> Uking, Fortunatelylwas not present at their meeting.
It woiiltl have broken my heart ! And he is so considerate :
he has not given Charlotte one kiss in my prcsciiee.. Heaven
reward him for it ! I must love him for the respect with
which he treats her. He shows a regard for me, but for
this I suspect I am more indebted to Charlotte than to his
own fancy for me. WiHEgn havea delicate tact in .such
matters, and it should be so. They cannot always succeed
in keeping two rivals on terms with each other ; but, when
they do, they are the only gainers.
I cannot help esteeming Albert. The coolness of his
temper contrasts strongl3' with the impetuosity of mine,
which I cannot conceal. He has a great deal of feeling, and
is fully sensible of the treasure he possesses in Charlotte.
He is free from ill-humor, which you know is the fault I
detest most.
He regards me as a man of sense ; and my attachment to
Charlotte, and the interest I take in all that concerns her,
augment his triumph and his love. I shall not inquire
whether he may not at times tease her with some little jeal-
ousies ; as I know, that, were I in his place, I should not be
entirely free from such sensations.
But, be that as it ma}', my pleasure with Charlotte is over.
Call it folly or infatuation, what signifies a name? The
thing speaks for itself. Before Albert came, I knew all that
I know now. I knew I could make no pretensions to her,
nor did I offer any, — that is, as far as it was possible, in
the presence of so much loveliness, not to pant for its enjoy-
ment. And now beliold me, like a sill}' fellow, staring with
astonishment when another comes in, and deprives me of my
love.
I bita-my lips, and feel infinite scorn for those who tell_me
to be resigned, because there is no help for it. Let me escape
from the yoke of such silly subterfuges ! I ramble through
the woods ; and when I return to Charlotte, and find Albert
sitting by her side in the summer-house in the garden, I a,m
unable to bear it, behave like a fool, and commit a thousand
extravagances. "For Heaven's sake," said Charlotte to-
day, " let us have no more scenes hlcir"thi5se~x)f'ia§t7n^^
You terrify me when you are so violent.*' Between our-
selves, I am always away now when he visits her ; and I fed.
delighted when I find her alone.
40 JSORROWS OF WERTHER.
Aug. 8.
•Believe me, dear Wilhelm, I did not allude to you when I
spoke so severely of those who advise resignation to inevit-
able fate. I did not think it possible for you to indulge such
a sentiment. But in fact you are right. I only suggest one
objection. In this world one is seldom reduced to make a
selection between two alternatives. There are as many
varieties of conduct and opinion as there are turns of feature
between an aquiline nose and a flat one.
You will, therefore, permit me to concede your entire
argument, and yet contrive means to escape your dilemma.
Your position is this, I hear you say : " Either you have
hopes of obtaining Charlotte, or you have none. Well, in
the first case, pursue your course, and press on to the fulfil-
ment of your wishes. In the second, be a man, and shake
off a miserable passion, which will enervate and destroy
you.'* My dear friend, this is well and easily said.
But would you require a wretched being, whose life is
slowly wasting under a lingering disease, to despatch himself
at once by the stroke of a dagger ? Does not the very dis-
order which consumes his strength deprive him of the courage
to effect his deliverance ?
You may answer me, if you please, with a similar analogy.
*' Who would not prefer the amputation of an ann to the
perilling of life by doubt and procrastination ? ' ' But I know
not if I am right, and let us leave these comparisons.
Enough ! There are moments, Wilhelm, when I could rise
up and shake it all off, and when, if I only knew where to
go, I could fly from this place.
The same evening.
My diary, which I have for some time neglected, came
before me to-day ; and I am amazed to see how deliberately I
have entangled mj^self step by step. To have seen my posi-
tion so clearl}^ and yet to have acted so like a child ! Even
still I behold the result plainly, and yet have no thought of
acting with greater prudence.
Aug. 10.
If I were not a fool, I could spend the happiest and most
delightful life here. So many agreeable circumstances, and
of a kind to insure a worth}' man's happiness, are seldom
united. Alas ! I feel it too sensibly, — the heart alone makes
QUr__happiness ! To be admitted into this most charming
I
SORROWS OF WERTHER. 41
family, to be loved by the father as a son, by the children as
a father, and by Charlotte! — then the noble Albert, who
never disturbs my happiness by any appearance of ill-humor,
receiving me with the heartiest affection, and loving me, next
to Charlotte, better than all the world ! Wilhelm, you would
be delighted to hear us in our rambles, and conversations
about Charlotte. Nothing in the world can be more absurd
than our connection, ajQd^^^_the__though^o^ it often moves
me to tears. ' ^" — —.<-
f He tells me sometimes of her excellent mother ; how, upon
/her death-bed, she had committed her house and children to
/ Charlotte, and had given Charlotte herself in charge to him;
/ how, since that time, a new spirit had taken possession of
her ; how, in care and anxiety for their welfare, she became
I a real mother to them ; how every moment of her time was
[ devoted to some labor of love in their behalf, — and yet her
^mirth and cheerfulness had never forsaken her. I walk by
his side, pluck flowers b}^ the way, arrange them carefully
into a nosegay, then fling them into the first stream I pass,
and watch them as they float gently away. I forget whether
I told you that Albert is to remain here. He has received a
government appointment, with a very good salary; and I
understand he is in high favor at court. I have met few
persons so punctual and methodical in business.
Auo. 12.
Certainly Albert is the best fellow in the world. I had a
strange scene with him yesterday. I went to take leave of
him ; for I took it into my head to spend a few days in these
mountains, from where I now write to you. As I was walk-
ing up and down his room, my eye fell upon his pistols.
"Lend me those pistols," said I, " for my journey." — " By
all means," he replied, " if you will take the trouble to load
them ; for they only hang there for form." I took down one
of them ; and he continued, " Ever since I was near suflfering
for my extreme caution, I will have nothing to do with such
things." I was curious to hear the story. '' I was staying,"
said he, " some three months ago, at a friend's house in the
country. I had a brace of pistols with me, unloaded ; and I
slept without any anxiety. One rainy afternoon I was sitting
by myself, doing nothing, when it occurred to me— rl do
not know how — that the house might be attacked, that we
might require the pistols, that we might — in short, you know
how we go on fancying, when we have nothing better to do»
42 SORROWS OF WERTHER.
I gave the pistols to the servant, to clean and load. He was
playing with the maid, and trying to frighten her, when the
pistol weiit off — God knows how ! — the ramrod was in the
baiTclTand it went straight through her right hand, and shat-
tered the thumb. I had ta. endure all the lamentation, and
to pay the surgeon's bill ; so, since that time, I have kept
all my weapons unloaded. But, my dear friend, what is the
use of prudence ? We can never be on our guard against all
possible dangers. However," — now, jou must know I can
tolerate all men till they come to ' ' however ; " for it is self-
evident that every universal rule must have its exceptions.
But he is so exceedingly accurate, that, if he only fancies he
has said a word too precipitate, or too general, or only half
true, he never ceases to qualify, to modify, and extenuate,
till at last he appears to have said nothiug at all. Upon this
occasion, Albert was deeply imjiiereedin^ his subject: I
ceased to listgn"i:o MnT, and became lost in revery. With
a sudden motion, I poihted the mouth of the pistol to my
forehead, over the right aye. " What do you mean? " cried
Albertr turning back tlie pi stol . * ' It J,sjQ0.OpMeclj^'^_said
L__ " And everi if flot J' he answered with impatience,
"what can you mean? I cannot comprehend how a man
can be so mad as to shoot himself, and the bare idea of it
shocks me."
" But why should an}^ one," said I, "in speaking of an
action, venture to pronounce it mad or wise, or good or
bad ? What is the meaning of all this ? Have you carefully
studied the secret motives of our actions? Do you under-
stand— can you explain the causes which occasion them, and
make them inevitable? If you can, you will be less hasty
with your decision."
" But you will allow," said Albert, " that some actions
are criminal, let them spring from whatever motives they
may." I granted it, and shrugged my shoulders.
"But still, my good friend," I continued, "there are
some exceptions here too. Theft is a crime ; but the man
who commits it from extreme poverty, with no design but to
save his family from perishing, is he an object of pity, or of
punishment? Who shall throw the first stone at a husband,
who, in the heat of just resentment, sacrifices his faithless
wife and her perfidious seducer? or at the young maiden,
who, in her weak hour of rapture, forgets herself in the
impetuous joys of love ? Even^^air- laws, cold and cruel as
they are^^_j;elen.t.. ill __su_ch cases, .and withhold thcir^unish-
ment." , — —
SORROWS OF WERTHEK. 43
'*That is quite another tiling," said Albert; "because a
man under the influence of violent passion loses all power
of reflection, and is regarded as intoxicated or insane."
"Oh! you people of sound understandings," I replied,
smiling, "are ever ready to exclaim 'Extravagance and
madness, and intoxication ! ' You moral men are so calm .
and so subdued ! You abhor the drunken man, and detest
the extravagant ; you pass by, like the Levite, and thank
God, like the Pharisee, that you are not like one of them. I
have been more than once intoxicated, my passions have
always bordered on extravagance : I am not ashamed to
confess it; for I have learned, by my own" experience, that
all extraordinary men, who have accomplished great and
astonishing actions, have ever been decried by the world as
drunken or insane. And in private life, too, is it not in-
tolei'able'that no one can undertake the execution of a noble
or generous deed, without giving rise to the exclamation that
the doer is intoxicated or mad? Shame upon you, ye
sages ! "
"This is another of j^our extravagant humors," said
Albert: "you always exaggerate a case, and in this matter
you are undoubtedly wrong ; for we were speaking of suicide, r
which you compare with great actions, when it is impossible
to regard it as any thing but a weakness. It is much easier
to die than to bear a life of misery with fortitude."
I was on the point of breaking off the conversation, for
nothing puts me so completely out of patience as the utter-
ance of a wretched commonplace when I am talking from
my inmost heart. However, I composed myself, for I had
often heard the same observation with sufficient vexation ;
and I answered him, therefore, with a little warmth, "You
call this a weakness — beware of being led astray by appear-
ances. When a nation, which has long groaned under the
intolerable yoke of a tyrant, rises at last and throws off its
chains, do you call that weakness ? The man who, to rescue
his house from the flames, finds his physical strength re-
doubled, so that he lifts burdens with ease, which, in the
absence of excitement, he could scarcely move ; he who, under
the rage of an insult, attacks and puts to flight half a score of
his enemies, — are such persons to be called weak ? My good
friend, if resistance be strength, how can the highest degree
of resistance be a weakness ? ' '
Albert looked steadfastly at me, and said, " Pray forgive
me, but I do not see that the examples you have adduced bear
44 SORROWS OF WERTHER.
any relation to the question." — *' Very likely/' I answered ;
" for I have often been told that my style of illustration
borders a little on the absurd. But let us see if we cannot
place the matter in another point of view, by inquiring what
can be a man's state of mind who resolves to free himself
from the burden of life, — a burden often so pleasant to
bear, — for we cannot otherwise reason fairly upon the
subject.
"Human nature," I continued, "has its limits. It is
able to endure a certain degree of jo}^ sorrow, and pain, but
becomes annihilated as soon as this measure is exceeded.
The question, therefore, is, not whether a man is strong or
weak, but whether he is able to endure the measure of his
sufferings. The suffering may be moral or physical ; and in
my opinion it is just as absurd to call a man a coward who
destroys himself, as to call a man a coward who dies of a
hmalignant fever."
"Paradox, all paradox!" exclaimed Albert. "Not so
paradoxical as you imagine," I replied. " You allow that
we designate a disea&e as mortal when nature is so severely
attacked, and her strength so far exhausted, that she cannot
possibly recover her former condition under any change that
may take place.
" Now, my good friend, apply this to the mind ; observe a
man in his natural, isolated condition ; consider how ideas
work, and how impressions fasten on him, till at length a
violent passion seizes him, destroying all his powers of calm
reflection, and utterly ruining him.
"It is in vain that a man of sound mind and cool temper
understands the condition of such a wretched being, in vain
he counsels him. He can no more communicate his own
wisdom to him than a healthy man can instil his strength
into the invalid, by whose bedside he is seated."
Albert thought this too general. I reminded him of a girl
who had drowned herself a short time previously, and I
related her history.
She was a good creature, who had grown up in the narrow
sphere of household industry and weekly-appointed labor ;
one who knew no pleasure beyond indulging in a walk on
Sundays, arrayed in her best attire, accompanied by her
friends, or perhaps joining in the dance now and then at
some festival, and chatting away her spare hours with a
neighbor, discussing the scandal or the quarrels of the vil-
lage, — trifles sufficient to occupy her heart. At length the
SORROWS OF WERTHER. 45
warmth of her nature is influenced by certain new and
unknown wishes. Inflamed by the flatteries of men, her
former pleasures become by degrees insipid, till at length
she meets with a youth to whom she is attracted by an
indescribable feeling ; upon him she now rests all her hopes f
she forgets the world around her ; she sees, hears, desires
nothing but him, and him only. He alone occupies all her
thoughts. Uncorrupted by the idle indulgence of an enervat-
ing vanity, her affection moving steadily towards its object,
she hopes to become his, and to realize, in an everlasting
union with him, all that happiness which she sought, all that
bliss for which she longed. His repeated promises confirm
her hopes : embraces and endearments, which increase the
ardor of her desires, overmaster her soul. She floats in a
dim, delusive anticipation of her happiness ; and her feelings
become excited to their utmost tension. She stretches out
her arms finally to embrace the object of all her wishes —
and her lover forsakes her. Stunned and bewildered, she
stands upon a precipice. All is darkness around her. No
prospect, no hope, no consolation — forsaken by him in whom
her existence was centred ! She sees nothing of the wide
world before her, thinks nothing of the many individuals
who might supply the void in her heart ; she feels herself
deserted, forsaken by the world ; and, blinded and impelled
by the agony which wrings her soul, she plunges into the
deep, to end her suflTerings in the broad embrace of death.
See here, Albert, the history of thousands ; and tell me, is
not this a case of physical infirmity ? Nature has no way to
escape from the labyrinth : her powers are exhausted ; she
can contend no longer, and the poor soul must die.
" Shame upon him who can look on calmly, and exclaim,
' The foolish girl ! she should have waited ; she should have
allowed time to wear off the impression ; her despair would
have been softened, and she would have found another lover
to comfort her.' One might as well say, 'The fool, to die
of a fever ! why did he not wait till his strength was restored ^
till his blood became calm ? all would then have gone well,
and he would have been alive now.' "
Albert, who could not see the justice of the comparison,
off"ered some further objections, and, amongst others, urged
that I had taken the case of a mere ignorant girl. But how
any man of sense, of more ' enlarged views and experience,
could be excused, he was unable to comprehend. "My
friend ! " I exclaimed, " man is but man ; and, whatever bQ
<
46 SORROWS OF WERTHER.
the extent of his reasoning powers, they are of little avail
when passion rages within, and he feels himself confined by
the narrow limits of nature. It were better, then — but we
will talk of this some other time," I said, and caught up my
hat. Alas ! my heart was full ; and we parted without con-
viction on either side. How rarely in this world do men
understand each other !
V^
Aug. 15.
There can be no doubt that in this world nothing is so in-
dispensable as love. I observe that Charlotte could not lose
me without a pang, and the very children have but one wish ;
that is, that I should visit them again to-morrow. I went this
afternoon to tune Charlotte's piano. But I could not do it,
for the little ones insisted on my telling them a story ; and
Charlotte herself urged me to satisfy them. I waited upon
them at tea, and they are now as fully contented with me as
with Charlotte ; and I told them m}' ver}^ best tale of the
princess who was waited upon by dwarfs. I improve mj'self
by this exercise, and am quite surprised at the impression my
stories create. If I sometimes invent an incident which I
forget upon the next narration, they remind me directly that
the story was different before ; so that I now endeavor to
relate with exactness the same anecdote in the same monot-
onous tone, which never changes. I find by this, how much
an author injures his works by altering them, even though
they be improved in a poetical point of view. The first
impression is readily received. We are so constituted that
we believe the most incredible things ; and, once they are
engraved upon the memory, woe to him who would endeavor
to eflface them.
Aug. 18.
Must it ever be thus, — that the source of our happiness
must also be the fountain of our misery ? The full and ardent
sentiment which animated my heart with the love of nature,
overwhelming me with a torrent of delight, and which brought
all paradise before me, has now become an insupportable
torment, — a demon which perpetually pursues and harasses
me. When in by-gone da^'s I gazed from these rocks upon
yonder mountains across the river, and upon the green, flowery
valley before me, and saw all nature budding and bursting
around ; the hills clothed from foot to peak with tall, thick
forest trees ; the valleys in all their varied windings, shaded
SORROWS OF WERTHER. 47
with the loveliest woods ; and the soft river gliding along
amongst the lisping reeds, mirroring the beautiful clouds
which the soft evening breeze wafted across the sky, — when I
heard the groves about me melodious with the music of birds,
and saw the million swarms of insects dancing in the last
golden beams of the sun, whose setting rays awoke the
humming beetles from their grassy beds, whilst the subdued
tumult around directed my attention to the ground, and I
there observed the arid rock compelled to yield nutriment to
the dry moss, whilst the heath flourished upon the barren
isands below me, — all this displayed to me the inner warmth
which animates all nature, and filled and glowed within my'
heart. I felt myself exalted by this overflowing fulness to
the perception of the Godhead, and the glorious forms of an
infinite universe became visible to my soul ! Stupendous
mountains encompassed me, abysses yawned at my feet, and
cataracts fell headlong down before me ; impetuous rivers
rolled through the plain, and rocks and mountains resounded
from afar. In the depths of the earth I saw innumerable
powers in motion, and multiplying to infinity ; whilst upon its
surface, and beneath the heavens, there teemed ten thousand
varieties of living creatures. Every thing around is alive with
an infinite number of forms ; while mankind fly for security
to their petty houses, from the shelter of which they rule in
their imaginations over the wide-extended universe. Poor
fool ! in whose petty estimation all things are little. FroiiA»
the inaccessible mountains, across the desert which no mortal | y
foot has trod, far as the confines of the unknown ocean, y
breathes the spirit of the eternal Creator ; and every atom to l
which he has given existence finds favor in his sight. Ah, |
how often at that time has the flight of a bird, soaring above
my head, inspired me with the desire of being transported to
the shores of the immeasurable waters, there to quaff the
pleasures of life from the foaming goblet of the Infinite, and
to partake, if bui" for a moment even, with the confined powers
of my soul, the beatitude of that Creator who accomplishes
all things in himself, and through himself ! „. — |
My dear friend, the bare recollection of those hours still
consoles me. Even this effort to recall those ineffable sen-
sations, and give them utterance, exalts my soul above itself,
and makes me doubly feel the intensity of my present
anguish.
It is as if a curtain had been drawn from before my eyes,
and, instead of prospects of eternal life, the abyss of an-evei-
48 SORROWS OF WERTHER.
open grave yawned before me. Can we say of any thing that
it exists when all passes away, — when time, with the speed of
a storm, carries all things onward, — and our transitory exist-
ence, hurried along by the torrent, is either swallowed up by
the waves or dashed against the rocks ? There is not a mo-
ment but preys upon you, and upon all around you, — not a
moment in which you do not yourself become a destroyer.
The most innocent walk deprives of life thousands of poor
insects : one step destroys the fabric of the industrious ant,
and converts a little world into chaos. No : it is not the
great and rare calamities of the world, the floods which sweep
away whole villages, the earthquakes which swallow up our
towns, that affect me. My heart is wasted by the thought
of that destructive power which lies concealed in every part of
universal nature. Nature has formed nothing that does not
consume itself, and every object near it : so that, surrounded
by earth and air, and all the active powers, I wander on my
way with aching heart ; and the universe is to me a fearful
monster, forever devouring its own offspring.
Aug. 21.
In vain do I stretch out my arms towards her when I
awaken in the morning from my weary slumbers. In vain
do I seek for her at night in my bed, when some innocent
dream has happily deceived me, and placed her near me in
the fields, when I have seized her hand and covered it with
countless kisses. And when I feel for her in the half con-
fusion of sleep, with the happy sense that she is near me,
tears flow from my oppressed heart ; and, bereft of all com-
fort, I weep over my future woes.
Aug. 22.
What a misfortune, Wilhelm ! My active spirits have
degenerated into contented indolence. I cannot be idle, and
yet I am unable to set to work. I cannot think: I have
no longer any feeling for the beauties of nature, and books
are distasteful to me. Once we give ourselves up, we are
totally lost. Many a time and oft I wish I were a common
laborer ; that, awakening in the morning, I might have but
one prospect, one pursuit, one hope, for the day which has
dawned. I often envy Albert when I see him buried in a heap
of papers and parchments, and I fancy I should be happy were
I in his place. Often impressed with this feeling, I have been
on the point of writing to you and to the minister, for the
SORROWS OF WERTHER. 49
appointment at the embassy, which you think I* might obtain.
I believe I might procure it. The minister has long shown a
regard for me, and has frequently urged me to seek employ-
ment. It is the business of an hour only. Now and then
the fable of the horse recurs to me. Weary of liberty, he
suffered himself to be saddled and bridled, and was ridden to
death for his pains. I know not what to determine upon.
For is not this anxiety for change the consequence of that
restless spirit which would pursue me equally in every situa-
tion of life ?
Aug. 28.
If my ills would admit of any cure, they would certainly
be cured here. This is my birthday, and early in the morn-
ing I received a packet from Albert. Upon opening it, I
found one of the pink ribbons which Charlotte wore in hei
dress the first time I saw her, and which I had several times
asked her to give me. With it were two volumes in duo-
decimo of Wetstein's Homer, a book I had often wished for,
to save me the inconvenience of carrying the large Ernestine
edition with me upon my walks. You see how they antici-
pate my wishes, how well they understand all those little
attentions of friendship, so superior to the costly presents of
the great, which are humiliating. I kissed the ribbon a
thousand times, and in every breath inhaled the remem-
brance of those happy and irrevocable days which filled me
with the keenest joy. Such, Wilhelm, is our fate. I do not
murmur at it : the flowers of life are but visionary. How
many pass away, and leave no trace behind — how few yield
any fruit — and the fruit itself, how rarely does it ripen !
And yet there are flowers enough ! — and is it not strange,
my friend, that we should suffer the little that does really
ripen, to rot, decay, and perish unenjoyed? Farewell! This
is a glorious summer. I often climb into the trees in Char-
lotte's orchard, and shake down the pears that hang on the
highest branches. She stands bel®w, and catches them as
they fall.
Aug. 30.
Unhappy being that I am ! Why do I thus deceive my
self? What is to come of all this wild, aimless, endless
passion ? I cannot pray except to her. My imagination
sees nothing but her : all surrounding objects are of no ac-
count, except as they relate to her. In this dreamy state I
50 SORROWS OF WERTllER.
enjoy many happy hours, till at length I feel compelled to
tear myself awa}^ from her. Ah, Wilhelm, to what does not
my heart often compel me ! When I have spwit several hours
in her company, till I feel completely absorbed by her figure,
her grace, the divine expression of her thoughts, my mind
becomes gradually excited to the highest excess, my sight
grows dim, my hearing confused, my breathing oppressed as
if by the hand of a murderer, and my beating heart seeks to
obtain relief for my aching senses. I am sometimes uncon-
scious whether I really exist. If in such moments I find no
sympathy, and Charlotte does not allow me to enjoy the
melancholy consolation of bathing her hand with my tears, I
feel compelled to tear myself from her, when I either wander
through the country, climb some precipitous cliff, or force a
path through the trackless thicket, where I am lacerated and
torn by thorns and briers ; and thence I find relief. Some-
times I lie stretched on the ground, overcome with fatigue
and dying with thirst ; sometimes, late in the night, when
the moon shines above me, I recline against an aged tree in
some sequestered forest, to rest my wear}' limbs, when, ex-
haustea and worn, I sleep till break of day. O Wi lhelm I.
the Jiermit's cell, his sackcloth, and girdle of thorns would
be luxury and indulgence compared with what I suffer.
Adieu ! I see no end to this wretchedness except the grave.
Sept. 3.
I must away. Thank you, Wilhelm, for determining my
wavering purpose. For a whole fortnight I have thought of
leaving her. I must away. She has returned to town, and
is at the house of a friend. And then, Albert — ^'^es, I must
go.
Sept. 10.
Oh, what a night, Wilhelm ! I can henceforth bear any
thing. I shall never see her again. Oh, why cannot I fall
on your neck, and, with floods of tears and raptures, give
utterance to all the passions which distract my heart ! Here
I sit gasping for breath, and struggling to compose myself.
I wait for day, and at sunrise the horses are to be at the
door.
And she is sleeping calml}', little suspecting that she has
seen me for the last time. I am free. I have had the
courage, in an intei'view of two hours' duration, not to be-
tray my intention. And O Wilhelm, what a conversation it
was I
SORROWS OF WERTHER. 51
Albert had promised to come to Charlotte. in the garden
immediately after supper. I was upon the terrace under the
tall chestnut- trees, and watched the setting sun. I saw him
sink for the last time beneath this delightful valley and silent
stream. I had often visited the same spot with Charlotte,
and witnessed that glorious sight ; and now — I was walking
up and down the very avenue which was so dear to me. A
secret sympathy had frequently drawn me thither before I
knew Charlotte ; and we were delighted when, in our early
acquaintance, we discovered that we each loved the same
spot, which is indeed as romantic as any that ever captivated
the fancy of an artist.
From beneath the chestnut- trees, there is an extensive
view. But I remember that I have mentioned all this in a
former letter, and have described the tall mass of beach-trees
at the end, and how the avenue grows darker and darker as
it winds its way among them, till it ends in a gloomy recess,
which has all the charm of a mysterious solitude. I still
remember the strange feeling of melancholy which came over
me the first time I entered that dark retreat, at bright mid-
day. I felt some secret foreboding that it would, one day,
be to me the scene of some happiness or misery.
I had spent half an hour struggling between the contending
thoughts of going and returning, when I heard them coming
up the terrace. I ran to meet them. I trembled as I took
her hand, and kissed it. As we reached the top of the
terrace, the moon rose from behind the wooded hill. We
conversed on many subjects, and, without perceiving it, ap-
proached the gloomy recess. Charlotte entered, and sat
down. Albert*seated himself beside her. I did the same,
but my agitation did not suffer me to remain long seated. I
got up, and stood before her, then walked backwards and
forwards, and sat down again. I was restless and miserable.
Charlotte drew our attention to Ihe beautiful effect of the;
moonlight, which threw a silver hue over the terrace in front
of us, beyond the beech-trees. It was a glorious sight, and
was rendered more striking by the darkness which surrounded
the spot where we were. We remained for some time silent,
when Charlotte observed, " Whenever I walk by moonlight,
it brings to m}' remembrance all my beloved and departed
friends, and I am filled with thoughts of death and futurity.
We shall live again, Werther!" she continued, with a firm
but feeling voice ; " but shall we know one another again —
what do you think? what do you say? '*
52 SORROWS OF WERTHER.
" Charlotte," I said, as I took her hand in mine, and my
eyes filled with tears, " we shall see each other again — here
and hereafter we shall meet again." I could say no more.
Why, Wilhelm, should she put this question to me, just at
the moment when the fear of our cruel separation filled my
heart ?
' ' And oh ! do those departed ones know how we are em-
ployed here ? do they know when we are well and happy ? do
they know when we recall their memories with the fondest
love ? In the silent hour of evening the shade of my mother
hovers round me ; when seated in the midst of my children,
I see them assembled near me, as they used to assemble near
her ; and then I raise my anxious eyes to heaven, and wish
she could look down upon us, and witness how I fulfil the
promise I made to her in her last moments, to be a mother
to her children. With what emotion do I then exclaim,
' Pardon, dearest of mothers, pardon me, if I do not ade-
quately supply your place ! Alas ! I do my utmost. They
are clothed and fed ; and, still better, they are loved and
educated. Could you but see, sweet saint ! the peace and
harmony that dwells amongst us, you would glorify God with
the warmest feelings of gratitude, to whom, in your last
hour, you addressed such fervent prayers for our happi-
ness.'" Thus did she express herself; but O Wilhelm!
who can do justice to her language ? how can cold and pas-
sionless words convey the heavenly expressions of the spirit?
Albert interrupted her gently. " This affects you too deeply^
my dear Charlotte. I know your soul dwells on such recol-
lections with intense delight; but I implore" — "O Al-
bert!" she continued, "I am sure you do not forget the
evenings when we three used to sit at the little round table,
when papa was absent, and the little ones had retired. You
often had a good book with you, but seldom read it : the
conversation of that noble being was preferable to every
thing, — that beautiful bright, gentle, and yet ever-toiling
woman. God alone knows how I have supplicated with tears
on my nightl}'^ couch, that I might be like her."
I threw m3^self at her feet, and, seizing her hand, bedewed it
with a thousand tears. " Charlotte ! " I exclaimed, " God's
blessing and your moth r's spirit are upon you." — "Oh!
that you had known her,'- she said, with a warm pressure of
the hand. " She was worthy of being known to you." I
thought I should have fainted : never had I received praise
so flattering. She continued, " And yet she was doomed to
SORROWS OF WERTHER. 53
die in the flower of her youth, when her youngest child was
scarcely six months old. Her illness was but short, but she
was calm and resigned ; and it was only for her children,
especially the youngest, that she felt unhappy. When her
end drew nigh, she bade me bring them to her. I obeyed.
The younger ones knew nothing of their approaching loss,
while the elder ones were quite overcome with grief. They
stood around the bed ; and she raised her feeble hands to
heaven, and prayed over them ; then, kissing them in turn,
she dismissed them, and said to me, ' Be you a mother to
them.' I gave her my hand. ' You are promising much, my
child,' she said : ' a mother's fondness and a mother's care !
I have often witnessed, by your tears of gratitude, that you
know what is a mother's tenderness : show it to your broth-
ers and sisters, and be dutiful and faithful to your father
as a wife ; you will be his comfort. ' She inquired for him.
He had retired to conceal his intolerable anguish, — he was
heartbroken.
r "Albert, you were in the room. She heard some one
I moving : she inquired who it was, and desired you to ap-
\proach. She surveyed us both with a look of composure
jand satisfaction, expressive of her conviction that we should
be happy, — happy with one another." Albert fell upon her
neck, and kissed her, and exclaimed, "We are so,' and we
shall be so ! " Even Albert, generally so tranquil, had quite
lost his composure'; and I was excited beyond expression.
"And such a being," she contirued, "was to leave us,
Werther ! Great God, must we thr.s part with every thing
we hold dear in this world ? Nobody felt this more acutely
than the children : they cried and lamented for a long time
afterwards, complaining that black men had carried away
their dear mamma."
Charlotte rose. It aroused me ; but I continued sitting,
and held her hand. "Let us go,"* she said: "it grows
late." She attempted to withdraw her band : I held it still.
"We shall see each other again," I exx^laimed: "we shall
recognize each other under every possible change ! I am
going," I continued, "going willingly; but, should I say
forever, perhaps I may not keep my word. Adieu, Char-
lotte ; adieu, Albert. We shall meet )gain." — "Yes: to-
morrow, I think," she answered with a smile. To-morrow!
how I felt the word ! Ah ! she little thought, when she drew
her hand away from mine. They walked down the avenue.
I stood gazing after them in the moonlight. "I threw myself
54 SORROWS OF WERTHER.
upon the ground, and wept : I then sprang up, and ran out
upon the terrace, and saw, under the shade of the linden-
treeis, her white dress disappearing near the garden-gate. I
stretched out my arms, and she vanished.
BOOK n.
Oct. 20.
We arrived here yesterday. The ambassador is indis-
posed, and will not go out for some days. If he were less
peevish and morose, all would be well. I see but too plainly
that Heaven has destined me to severe trials ; but courage !
a light heart may bear any thing. A light heart ! I smile
to find such a word proceeding from my pen. A little more
light-heartedness would render me the happiest being under
the sun. But must I despair of my talents and faculties,
whilst others of far inferior abilities parade before me with
the utmost self-satisfaction? Gracious Providence, to whom
I owe all my powers, why didst thou not withhold some of
those blessings I possess, and substitute in their place a feel-
ing of self-confidence and contentment?
I But patience ! all will yet be well ; for I assure you, my
/ dear friend, you were right : since I have been obliged to
I associate continually with other people, and observe what
I they do, and how they employ themselves, I have become
\ far better satisfied with mj^self. For we are so constituted by
^ nature, that we are ever prone to compare ourselves with
\ others ; and our happiness or misery depends very much on
"Sthe objects and persons around us. On this account, noth-
ing is more dangerous than solitude : there our imagination,
always disposed to rise, taking a new flight on the wings of
fancy, pictures to us a chain of beings of whom we seem the
most inferior. All things appear greater than they really
are, and all seem superior to us. This operation of the
mind is quite natural : we so continually feel our own imper-
fections, and fancy we perceive in others the qualities we do
1 not possess, attributing to them also all that we enjoy our-
\ selves, that by this process we form the idea of a perfect,
\ happy man, — a man, however, who only exists in our own
\imagination.
^^ut when, in spite of weakness and disappointments, we
SORROWS OF WERTHER, 65
set to work in earnest, and persevere steadily, we often find,
that, though obliged continually to tack, we make more way
than others who have the assistance of wind and tide ; and,
in truth, there can be no greater satisfaction than to keep
pace with others or outstrip them in the race.
Nov. 26.
I begin to find my situation here more tolerable, consider-
ing all cu'cumstances. I find a^great advantage in being
much occupied ; and the number of persons I meet, and their
different pursuits, create a varied entertainment for me. I
have formed the acquaintance of the Count C , and
ir~esteem him more and more every day. He is a man of
strong understanding and great discernment ; but, though he
sees farther than other people, he is not on that account coldl
in his manner, but capable of inspiring and returning the
warmest affection. He appeared interested in me on one
occasion, when I had to transact some business with him.
He perceived, at the first word, that we understood each
other, and that he could converse with me in a different tone
from what he used with others. I cannot sufficiently esteem
his frank and open kindness to me. fit is the greatest and
most genuine of pl^sures to observe it great mind in sym-
pathy with our oWm
Dec. 24.
As I anticipated, the ambassador occasions me infinite
annoyance. He is the'most punctilious blockhead under
heaven. He does ever^^ thing step by step, with the trifling
minuteness of an old woman ; and he is a man whom it is
impossible to please, because he is never pleased with him-
self.^^I like to do business regularly and cheerfully, and.
wHen it is finished, to leave it. But he constantly returns
my papers to me, saying, *' They will do," but recommending
me to look over them again, as "one may always improve
by using a better word or a more appropriate particle." I
then lose all patience, and wish myself at the Devil's. Not
a conjunction, not an adverb, must be omitted: he has a
deadly antipathy; to all those transpositions of which I am so
fond ; and, if the music of our periods is not tuned to the
established official key, he cannot comprehend our meaning.
It is deplorable to be connected with such a fellow.
My acquaintance with the Count C is the only com-
pensation for such an evil. He told me frankly, the othet
56 SORROWS OF WERTHER.
day, that he was much displeased with the difficulties and
delays of the ambassador ; that people like him are obsta-
cles, both to themselves and to others. '* But," added he,
"one must submit, like a traveller who has to ascend a
mountain : if the mountain was not there, the road would
be both shorter and pleasanter ; but there it is, and he must
get over it."
The old man perceives the count's partiality for me : this
annoys him, and he seizes every opportunity to depreciate
the count in my hearing. I naturally defend him, and that
only makes matters worse. Yesterday he made me indig-
nant, for he also alluded to me. "The count," he said,
" is a man of the world, and a good man of business ; his
style is good, and he writes with facility ; but, like other
geniuses, he has no solid learning." He looked at me with
an expression that seemed to ask if I felt the blow. But it
did not produce the desired effect : I despise a man who can
think and act in such a manner. However, I made a stand,
and answered with not a little warmth. The count, I said,
was a man entitled to respect, alike for his character and his
acquirements. I had never met a person whose mind was
stored with more useful and extensive knowledge, — who had,
in fact, mastered such an infinite variety of subjects, and
who yet retained all his activity for the details of ordinary
business. This was altogether beyond his comprehension ;
and I took my leave, lest my anger should be too highly
excited by some new absurdity of his.
And you are to blame for all this, you who persuaded me
to bend my neck to this yoke by preaching a life of activity
to me. If the man who plants vegetables, and carries his
corn to town on market-days, is not more usefully employed
than I am, then let me work ten years longer at the galleys
to which I am now chained.
Oh the brilliant wretchedness, the weariness, that one is
doomed to witness among the silly people whom we meet in
society here ! The ambition of rank ! How they watch,
how they toil, to gain precedence ! What poor and con-
temptible passions are displayed in their utter nakedness !
We have a woman here, for example, who never ceases to
entertain the company with accounts of her family and her
estates. Any stranger would consider her a silly being,
whose head was turned by her pretensions to rank and
property ; but she is in reality even more ridiculous, — the
daughter of a mere magistrate's clerk from this neighbor-
SORROWS OF WERTHER. 57
hood. I cannot understand how human beings 'can so debase
themselves.
Every day I observe more and more the folly of judgingN
of others by ourselves ; and I have so much trouble with {^^
myself, and my own heart is in such constant agitation, that
I am well content to let others pursue their own course, if
they only allow me the same privilege.
What provokes me most is the unhappy extent to which
distinctions of rank are carried. I know perfectly well how
necessary are inequalities of condition, and I am sensible
of the advantages I myself derive therefrom ; but I would
not have these institutions prove a barrier to the small
chance of happiness which I may enjoy on this earth.
I have lately become acquainted with a Miss B , a
very agreeable girl, who has retained her natural manners in
the midst of artificial life. Our first conversation pleased us
both equally ; and, at taking leave, I requested permission
to visit her. She consented in so obliging a manner, that I
waited with impatience for the arrival of the happy moment.
She is not a native of this place, but resides here with her
aunt. The countenance of the old lady is not prepossessing.
I paid her much attention, addressing the greater part of my
conversation to her ; and, in less than half an hour, I discov-
ered what her niece subsequently acknowledged to me, that
her aged aunt, having but a small fortune, and a still smaller
share of understanding, enjoys no satisfaction except in the
pedigree of her ancestors, no protection save in her noble
birth, and no enjoyment but in looking from her castle over
the heads of the humble citizens. She was, no doubt, hand-
some in her youth, and in her early years probably trifled
away her time in rendering many a poor youth the sport of
her caprice : in her riper years she has submitted to the yoke
of a veteran officer, who, in return for her person and her
small independence, has spent with her what we may desig-
nate her age of brass. He is dead ; and she is now a widow,
and deserted. She spends her iron age alone, and would not
be approached, except for the loveliness of her niece.
Jan. 8, 1772.
What beings are men, whose whole thoughts are occupied
with form and ceremony, who for years together devote their
mental and physical exertions to the task of advancing them-
selves but one step, and endeavoring to occupy a higher
place at the table. Not that such persons would otherwise
58 SORROWS OF WERTHER.
want employment : on the contrary, they give themselves
much trouble by neglecting important business for such
petty trifles. Last week a question of precedence arose at
a sledging-party, and all our amusement was spoiled.
The silly creatures cannot see that it is not place which
constitutes real greatness, since the man who occupies the
first place but seldom plays the principal part. How many
kings are governed by their ministers — how many ministers
by their secretaries? Who, in such cases, is really the chief?
He, as it seems to me, who can see through the others, and
})ossesses strength or skill enough to make their power or
passions subservient to the execution of his own designs.
Jan. 20.
I must write to you from this place, my dear Charlotte,
from a small room in a country inn, where 1 have taken
shelter from a severe storm. During my whole residence in
that wretched place D , where I lived amongst strangers,
— strangers, indeed, to this heart, — I never at any time felt
the smallest inclination to correspond with you ; but in this
cottage, in this retirement, in this solitude, with the snow
and hail beating against my lattice-pane, you are my first
thought. The instant I entered, your figure rose up befoxe
me, and the remembrance ! O my Charlotte, the sacred,
tender remembrance ! Gracious Heaven ! restore to me the
happy moment of our first acquaintance.
Could you but see me, my dear Charlotte, in the whirl of
dissipation, — how my sensLCsare dried up, but my heart is at
no time full. I enjoy no single moment of happiness : all is
vain— 'nothing touches me. I stand, as it were, before the
raree-show : I see the little puppets move, and I ask whether
it is not an optical illusion. I am amused with these puppets,
or rather, I am myself one of them : but, when I sometimes
grasp m}^ neighbor's hand, I feel that it is not natural ; and
I withdraw mine with a shudder. In the evening I say I
will enjoy the next morning's sunrise, and yet I remain in
Ibed : in tlie day I promise to ramble b}' moonlight ; and I,
nevertheless, remain at home. I know not why I rise, nor
"why I go to sleep.
The leaven which animated my existence is gone : the
charm which cheered me in the gloom of night, and aroused
me from my morning slumbers, is forever fled.
I have found but one being here to interest me, a Miss
B . She, resembles you, my dear Charlotte, if any one
SORROWS OF WERTIIER. 69
can possibly resemble you. " Ah ! " you will'say, " he has
learned how to pay fine compliments." And this is partly
true. I have been very agreeable lately, as it was not in my
power to be otherwise. I have, moreover, a deal of wit : and
the ladies say that no one understands flattery better, or
falsehoods you will add ; since the one accomplishment inva-
riably accompanies the other. But I must tell you of Miss
B . She has abundance of soul, which flashes from her
deep blue eyes* Her rank is a torment to her, and satisfies
no one desire of her heart. She would gladly retire from this
whirl of fashion, and we often picture to ourselves a life of
undisturbed happiness in distant scenes of rural retirement :
and then we speak of you, my dear Charlotte ; for she knows
you, and renders homage to your merits ; but her homage is
not exacted, but voluntary, — she loves you, and delights to
hear you made the subject of conversation.
Oh that I were sitting at your feet in your favorite little
room, with the dear children playing around us ! If they
became troublesome to you, I would tell them some appalling
goblin story ; and they would crowd round me with silent
attention. The sun is setting in glory ; his last rays are
shining on the snow, which covers the face of the country :
the storm is over, and I must return to my dungeon. Adieu !
— Is Albert with you? and what is he to you ? God for-
give the question.
Feb. 8.
For a week past we have had the most wretched weather :
but this to me is a blessing ; for, during my residence here,
not a single fine day has beamed from the heavens, but has
been lost to me by the intrusion of somebody. During the
severity of rain, sleet, frost, and storm, I congratulate my-
self that it cannot be worse in doors than abroad, nor worse
abroad than it is within doors ; and so I become reconciled.
When the sun rises bright in the morning, and promises a
glorious da};^, I never omit to exclaim, '' There, now, they
have another blessing from Heaven, which they will be sure
to destroy : they spoil every thing, — health, fame, happiness,
amusement ; and they do this generally through folly, igno-
rance, or imbecility, and always, according to their own ac-
count, with the best intentions! " I could often beseech
them, on my bended knees, to be less resolved upon their
own destruction.
60 SORROWS OF WERTHER.
Feb. 17.
I fear that my ambassador and I shall not continue much
longer together. He is really growing past endurance. He
transacts his business in so ridiculous a manner, that I am
often compelled to contradict him, and do things my own
way ; and then, of course, he thinks them very ill done. He
complained of me lately on this account at court ; and the
minister gave me a reprimand, — a gentle one it is true, but
still a reprimand. In consequence of this, I was about to
tender my resignation, when I received a letter, to which I
submitted with great respect, on account of the high, noble,
and generous spirit which dictated it. He endeavored to
soothe my excessive sensibility, paid a tribute to my extreme
ideas of duty, of good example, and of perseverance in
business, as the fruit of my youtjiful ardor, — an impulse
which he did not seek to destroy, but only to moderate, that
it, might have proper play and be productive of good. So
now I am at rest for another week, and no longer at variance
with myself. Content and peace of mind are valuable things :
I could wish, my dear friend, that these precious jewels were
less transitory.
Feb. 20.
God bless you, my dear friends, and may he grant you
that happiness which he denies to me !
I thank you, Albert, for having deceived me. I waited for
the news that your wedding-day was fixed ; ' and I intended
on that day, with solemnity, to take down Charlotte's profile
from the wall, and to bury it with some other papers I pos-
sess. You are now united, and her picture still remains
here. Well, let it remain! Why should it not? I know
that I am still one of your society, that I still occupy a place
uninjured in Charlotte's heart, that I hold the second place
therein ; and I intend to keep it. Oh, I should become mad
if she could forget ! — Albert, that thought is hell ! Fare-
well, Albert — farewell, angel of heaven — farewell, Char-
lotte !
Maech 16.
I have just had a sad adventure, which will drive me away
from here. I lose all patience ! — Death ! — It is not^to
be remedied ; and you alone are to blame, for you urged and
impelled me to fill a post for which I was by no means suited.
I have now reason to be satisfied, and so have you I But,
SORROWS OF WERTHER. 61
that you may not again attribute this fatality to my impetu-
ous temper, I send you, my dear sir, a plain and simple
narration of the affair, as a mere chronicler of facts would
describe it.
The Count of O likes and distinguishes me. It is
well known, and I have mentioned this to you a hundred
times. Yesterday I dined with him. It is the day on which
the nobility are accustomed to assemble at his house in the
evening. I never once thought of the assembly, nor that we
subalterns did not belong to such society. Well, I dined
with the count ; and, after dinner, we adjourned to the large
hall. We walked up and down together : and I conversed
with him, and with Col. B- , who joined us ; and in this
manner the hour for the assembl}'^ approached. God knows,
I was thinking of nothing, when who should enter but the
honorable Lady S -, accompanied by her noble husband
and their silly, scheming daughter, with her small waist and
flat neck ; and, with disdainful looks and a haughty air, they
passed me by. As I heartily detest the whole race, I deter-
mined upon going away ; and only waited till the count had
disengaged himself from their impertinent prattle, to take
leave, when the agreeable Miss B — — came in. As I never
meet her without experiencing a heartfelt pleasure, I staid
and talked to her, leaning over the back of her chair, and
did not perceive, till after some time, that she seemed a little
confused, and ceased to answer me with her usual ease of
manner. I was struck with it. '^ Heavens ! '' I said to my-
self, " can she, too, be like the rest? " I felt annoyed, and
was about to withdraw ; but I remained, notwithstanding,
forming excuses for her conduct, fancying she did not mean
it, and still hoping to receive some friendly recognition.
The rest of the company now arrived. There was the Baron
F , in an entire suit that dated from the coronation of
Francis I. ; the Chancellor N , with his deaf wife ; the
shabbily-dressed I , whose old-fashioned coat bore evi-
dence of modern repairs : this crowned the whole. I con-
versed with some of my acquaintances, but they answered me
laconically. I was engaged in observing Miss B , and
did not notice that the women were whispering at the end
of the room, that the murmur extended by degrees to the
men, that Madame S- addressed the count with much
warAth (this was all related to me subsequently by Miss
B ) ; till at length the count came up to me, and took
me to the window. "You know our ridiculous customs,"
62 SORROWS OF WERTIIER.
he said. *'I perceive the company is rather displeased at
your being here. I would not on any account " — '* I beg
your excellency's pardon ! " I exclaimed. " I ought to have~
thought of this before, but I know you will forgive this little
inattention. I was going," I added, "some time ago, but
my evil genius detained me.** And I smiled and bowed, to
take my leave. He shook me b}^ the hand, in a manner
which expressed ever}^ thing. I hastened at once from the
illustrious assembl}^ sprang into a carriage, and drove to
M . I contemplated the setting sun from the top of the
hill, and read that beautiful passage in Homer, where Ulysses
is entertained by the hospitable herdsmen. This was indeed
delightful.
I returned home to supper in the evening. But few per-
sons were assembled in the room. They had turned up a
corner of the tablecloth, and were playing at dice. The
good-natured A came in. He laid down his hat when
he saw me, approached me, and said in a low tone, "You
have met with a disagreeable adventure." — "I!** I ex-"
claimed. "The count obliged you to withdraw from the
assembly!** — "Deuce take the assembly!" said I. "I
was very glad to be gone." — "I am delighted," he added,
" that you take it so lightly. I am only sorry that it is
already so much spoken of." The circumstance then began
to pain me. I fancied that every one who sat down, and
even looked at me, was thinking of this incident ; and my
heart became embittered.
And now I could plunge a dagger into my bosom, when I
hear myself everywhere pitied, and observe the triumph of
my enemies, who say that this is always the case with vain
persons, whose heads are turned with conceit, who aifect to
despise forms and such petty, idle nonsense.
Say what you will of fortitude, but show me the man who
can patiently endure the laughter of fools, when they have
obtained an advantage over him. 'Tis only when their non-
sense is without foundation that one can suffer it without
complaint.
March 16.
Every thing conspires against me. I met Miss B-
walking to-day. I could not help joining her ; and, when we
were at a little distance from her companions, I expressed
my sense of her altered manner towards me. " O Werther ! "
she said, in a tone of emotion, "you, who know my heail;,
SORKOWS OF WERTHER. 68
how could you so ill interpret my distress? Wh'at did I not.
sujQfer for you, from the moment you entered the room ! I
foresaw it all, — a hundred times was I on the point of men-
tioning it to you. I knew that the S s and T s, with
their husbands, would quit the room, rather than remain in
your company. I knew that the count would not break with
them : and now so much is said about it. " — " How ! " I
exclaimed, and endeavored to conceal my emotion ; for all
that Adelin had mentioned to me yesterday recurred to me
painfully at that moment. "Oh, how much it has already
cost me ! " said this amiable girl, while her eyes filled with
tears. I could scarcely contain myself, and was ready to
throw myself at her feet. "Explain yourself!" I cried.
Tears flowed down her cheeks. I became quite frantic. She
wiped them away, without attempting to conceal them.
"You know my aunt," she continued; "she was present:
and in what light does she consider the affair ! Last night,
and this morning, Werther, I was compelled to listen to a
lecture upon my acquaintance with you. I have been obliged
to hear you condemned and depreciated ; and I could not —
I dared not — say much in your defence."
Every word she uttered was a dagger to my heart. She
did not feel what a mercy it would have been to conceal
every thing from me. She told me, in addition, all the im-
pertinence that would be further circulated, and how the
malicious would triumph ; how they would rejoice over the
punishment of my pride, over my humiliation for that want
of esteem for others with which I had often been reproached.
To hear all this, Wilhelm, uttered by her in a voice of the
most sincere S3'mpathy, awakened all my passions ; and I
am still in a state of extreme excitement. I wish I could
find a man to jeer me about this event. I would sacrifice
him to my resentment. The sight of his blood might pos-
sibly be a relief to my fury. A hundred times have I seized
a dagger, to give ease to this oppressed heart. Naturalists
\ tell of a noble race of horses that instinctively open a vein
j with their teeth, when heated and exhausted by a long
j course, in order to breathe more freely. I am often tempted
ito open j, vei n, to procure for myself everlasting liberty.
March 24.
I have tendered my resignation to the court. I hope it
will be accepted, and 3^ou will forgive me for not having
previously consulted you. It is necessary I should leave this
64 SORROWS OF WERTHER.
place. I know all you will urge me to stay, and therefore —
I beg you will soften this news to my mother. I am unable
to do any thing for myself : how, then, should I be compe-
tent to assist others ? It will afflict her that I should have
interrupted that career which would have made me first a
privy councillor, and then minister, and that I should look
behind me, in place of advancing. Argue as you will, com-
bine all the reasons which should have induced me to remain,
— I am going : that is sufficient. But, that you may not be
ignorant of my destination, I may mention that the Prince
of is here. He is much pleased with my company ;
^nd, having heard of my intention to resign, he has invited
|me to his country house, to pass the spring months with him.
I shall be left completely my own master ; and, as we agree
on all subjects but one, I shall try my fortune, and accom-
pany him.
April 19.
Thanks for both your letters. I delayed my reply, and
withheld this letter, till I should obtain an answer from the
court. I feared my mother might apply to the minister to
defeat my purpose. But my request is granted, my re-
signation is accepted. I shall not recount with what reluc-
tance it was accorded, nor relate what the minister has
written : you would only renew your lamentations. The
Crown Prince has sent me a present of five and twenty ducats ;
and, indeed, such goodness has affected me to tears. For
this reason I shall not require from my mother the money
for which I lately applied.
May 5.
I leave this place to-morrow ; and, as my native place is
only six miles from the high road, I intend to visit it once
more, and recall the happy dreams of my childhood. I
shall enter at the same gate through which I came with my
mother, when, after my father's death, she left that delight-
ful retreat to immure herself in your melancholy town.
Adieu, my dear friend : you shall hear of my future career.
Mat 9.
I have paid my visit to my native place with all the devo-
tion of a pilgrim, and have experienced many unexpected
emotions. Near the great elm- tree, which is a quarter of a
i:
SORROWS OF WERTHER. 65
league from the village, 1 got out of the carriage, and sent
it on before, that alone, and on foot, I might enjoy vividly
and heartily all the pleasure of my recollections. I stood
there under that same elm which was formerly the term
and object of my walks. How things have since changed !
Then, in happy ignorance, I sighed for a world I did not
know, where I hoped to find every pleasure and enjoyment
which my heart could desire ; and now, on my return from
that wide world, O my friend, how many disappointed hopes
and unsuccessful plans have I brought back !
As I contemplated the mountains which lay stretched out
before me, I thought how often they had been the object of
my dearest desires. Here used I to sit for hours together
with my eyes bent upon them, ardently longing to wander in
the shade of those woods, to lose myself in those valleys,
which form so delightful an object in the distance. With
what reluctance did I leave this charming spot, when my
hour of recreation was over, and my leave of absence
expired ! I drew near to the village : all the well-known old
summer-houses and gardens were recognized again ; I dis-
liked the new ones, and all other alterations which had taken
place. I entered the village, and all my former feelings
returned. I cannot, my dear friend, enter into details,
charming as were my sensations : they would be dull in the
narration. I had intended to lodge in the market-place,
near our old house. As soon as I entered, I perceived that
the schoolroom, where our childhood had been taught by
that good old woman, was converted into a shop. I called
to mind thb sorrow, the heaviness, the tears, and oppression
of heart, which I experienced in that confinement. Every
step produced some particular impression. A pilgrim in the
Holy Land does not meet so many spots pregnant with ten-
der recollections, and his soul is hardly moved with greater
devotion. One incident will serve for illustration. I fol-
lowed the course of a stream to a farm, formerly a delight-
ful walk of mine, and paused at the spot, where, when boys,
we used to amuse ourselves making ducks and drakes upon
the water. I recollected so well how I used formerly to
watch the course of that same stream, following it with
inquiring eagerness, forming romantic ideas of the countries
it was to pass through ; but my imagination was soon
exhausted: while the water continued flowing farther and
farther on, till my fancy became bewildered by the contem-
plation of an invisible distance. Exactly such, my dear
66 SORROWS OF WERTHER.
friend, so happy and so confined, were the thoughts of our
good ancestors. Their feelings and their poetry were fresh
as childhood. And, when Ulysses talks of the immeasura-
ble sea and boundless earth, his epithets are true, natural,
deeply felt, and mysterious. Of what importance is it that I
have learned, with every schoolboy, that the world is round?
Man needs but little earth for enjoyment, and still less for
his final repose.
I am at present with the prince at his hunting-lodge. He
is a man with whom one can live happil}^ He is honest and
unaffected. There are, however, some strange characters
about him, whom I cannot at all understand. They do not
seem vicious, and yet they do not carry the appearance of
thoroughly honest men. Sometimes I am disposed to believe
them honest, and yet I cannot persuade myself to confide in
them. It grieves me to hear the prince occasionally talk of
things which he has only read or heard of, and always with
the same view in which they have been represented by
others.
He values my understanding and talents more highly than
my heart, but I am proud of the latter only. It is the sole
source of^every thing, — of our strength, happiness, and
misery. (All the knowledge I possess eveny one else can
acquire, out my heart is exclusively my ow'n^
May 25.
I have had a plan in my head of which I did not intend to
speak to you until it was accomplished : now that it has
failed, I may as well mention it. I- wished to enter the
army, and had long beer desirous of taking the step. This,
indeed, was the chief reason for my coming here with the
prince, as he is a general in the service. I communi-
cated my design to him during one of our walks together.
He disapproved of it, and it would have been actual mad-
ness not to have listened to his reasons.
June 11.
Say what you will, I can remain here no longer. Why
should I remain? Time hangs heavy upon my hands. The
prince is as gracious to me as any one could be, and yet I
am not at my ease. There is, indeed, nothing in common
between us. He is a man of understanding, but quite of
the ordinary kind. His conversation affords me no more
amusement than I should derive from the perusal of a well-
SORROWS OF WERTIIER. 67
written book. I shall remaiu here a week longer, and then
start again on my travels. My drawings are the best things
I have done since I came here. The prince has a taste for
the arts, and would improve if his mind were not fettered by
cold rules and mere technical ideas. I often lose patience,
when, with a glowing imagination, I am giving expression
to art and nature, he interferes with learned suggestions,
and uses at random the technical phraseology of artists.
, July 16.
Once more I am _ a wanderer, a pilgrim, through the world.
But what else are you !
July 18.
Whither am I going ? I will tell you in confidence. I am
obliged to continue a fortnight longer here, and then I think
it would he better for me to visit the mines in . But
I am only deluding myself thus. The fact is, I wish to be
near Charlotte again, — that is all. I smile at the sugges-
tions of my heart, and obey its dictates.
July 29.
No, no! it is yet well — all is well! I her husband!
O God, who gave me being, if thou hadst destined this hap-
piness for me, my whole life would have been one continual
thanksgiving ! But I will not murmur — forgive these tears,
forgive these fruitless wishes. She — my wife! Oh, the
very thought of folding that dearest of Heaven's creatures
in my arms ! Dear Wilhelm, my whole frame feels con-
vulsed when I see Albert put his arms round her slender
waist!
And shall I avow it ? Why should I not, Wilhelm ? She
would have been happier with me than with him. Albert is
not the man to satisfy the wishes of such a heart,_ JHe
wants a certain sensibility ; he wants — in short, their hearts
do not beat in unison. How often, my dear friend, in read-
ing a passage from some interesting book, when my heart
and Charlotte's seemed to meet, and in a hundred other
instances when our sentiments were unfolded by the story
of some fictitious character, have I felt that we were made
for each other ! But, dear Wilhelm, he loves her with his
whole soul ; and what does not such a love deserve ?
I have been interrupted by an insufferable visit. I have
68 SORROWS OF WERTHER.
dried my tears, and composed my thoughts. Adieu, my
best friend !
,. Aug. 4.
I am not alone unfortunate. Allien jre disappointed in
their hopes, and deceived in their expectations. I have
paid a visit to my good old woman under the lime-trees.
The eldest boy ran out to meet me : his exclamation of joy
brought out his mother, but she had a ver}^ melancholy look.
Her first word was, " Alas ! dear sir, my little John is dead."
He was the youngest of her children. I was silent. " And
my husband has returned from Switzerland without any
money ; and, if some kind people liad not assisted him, he
must have begged his way home. He was taken ill with
fever on his journey." I could answer nothing, but made
the little one a present. She invited me to take some fruit :
I complied, and left the place with a sorrowful heart.
Aug. 21.
My sensations are constantly changing. Sometimes a
happy prospect opens before me ; but alas ! it is only for
a moment : and then, when I am lost in reverie, I cannot help
aaying to myself, " If Albert were to die ? — Yes, she would
become — and I should be '' ^ and so I pursue a chimera,
till it leads me to the edge of a precipice at which I shudder.
When I pass through the same gate, and walk along the
same road which first conducted me to Charlotte, my heart
sinks within me at the change that has since taken place.
All, all, is altered ! No sentiment, no pulsation of my heart,
is the same. My sensations are such as would occur to
some departed prince whose spirit should return to visit the
superb palace which he had built in happy times, adorned
with costly magnificence, and left to a beloved son, but
whose glory he should find departed, and its halls deserted
and in ruins.
Sept. 3.
I sometimes cannot understand how she can love another,
how she dares love another, when I love nothing in this world
so completely, so devotedly, as I love her, when I know only
her, and have no other possession than her in the world.
SORROWS OF WERTHER. 69
Sept. 4.
It is even so ! As nature puts on her autiimn-tints, it
becomes autumn with me and around me. My leaves are
sere aind yellow, and the neighboring trees are divested of
their foliage. Do you remember my writing to you about a
peasant-boy shortly after my arrival here ? I have just made
inquiries about him in Walheim. They say he has been dis-
missed from his service, and is now avoided by every one.
I met him yesterday on the road, going to a neighboring
village. I spoke to him, and he told me his story. It inter-
ested me exceedingly, as you will easily understand when I
repeat it to you. But why should I trouble you? Why
should I not reserve all my sorrow for myself? Why should
I continue to give you occasion to pity and blame me ? But
no matter : this also is part of my destiny.
At first the peasant-lad answered my inquiries with a sort
of subdued melancholy, which seemed to me the mark of a
timid disposition ; but, as we grew to understand each other,
he spoke with less reserve, and openly confessed his faults,
and lamented his misfortune. I wish, my dear friend, I
could give proper expression to his language. He told me
with a sort of pleasurable recollection, that, after my depart-
ure, his passion for his mistress increased daily, until at last
he neither knew what he did nor what he said, nor what was
to become of him. He could neither eat nor drink nor
sleep : he felt a sense of suffocation ; he disobeyed all
orders, and forgot all commands involuntarily ; he seemed
as if pursued by an evil spirit, till one day, knowing that his
mistress had gone to an upper chamber, he had followed, or,
rather, been drawn after her. As she proved deaf to his
entreaties, he had recourse to violence. He knows not what
happened ; but he called God to witness that his intentions
to her were honorable, and that he desired nothing more
sincerely than that they should marry, and pass their lives
together. When he had come to this point, he began to
hesitate, as if there was something which he had not courage
to utter, till at length he acknowledged with some confusion
certain little confidences she had encouraged, and liberties
she had allowed. He broke off two or three times in his
narration, and assured me most earnestly that he had no
wish to make her bad, as he termed it, for he loved her still
as sincerely as ever ; that the tale had never before escaj^ed
his lips, and was only now told to convince me that he was
not utterly lost and abandoned. And here, my dear friend,
Vol f the draught which is to prove my destruction. What
mean those looks of kindness with which she often — often ?
no, not often, but sometimes, regards me, that complacency
with which she hears the involuntary sentiments which fre-
quently escape me, and the tender pity for my sufferings
which appears in her countenance?
Yesterday, when I took leave, she seized me by the hand,
and said, " Adieu, dear Werther." Dear Werther ! It was
the first time she ever called me dear : the sound sunk deep
into my heart. I have repeated it a hundred times ; and
last night, on going to bed, and talking to myself of various
things, I suddenly said, "Good-night, dear Werther! " and
then could not but laugh at myself.
Nov. 22.
I cannot pray, " Leave her to me ! " and yet she often
seems to belong to me. I cannot pray, " Give her to me ! "
for she is another's. In this way I affect mirth over my
78 SORROWS OF WERTHER.
troubles ; and, if I had time, 1 could compose a whole litany
of antitheses.
Nov. 24.
She is sensible of my sufferings. This morning her look
pierced my very soul. I found her alone, and she was
silent : she steadfastly surveyed me. I no longer saw in her
face the charms of beauty or the fire of genius : these had
disappeared. But I was affected by an expression much
more touching, a look of the deepest sympathy and of the
softest pity. Why was I afraid to throw m3'self at her feet?
Why did I not dare to take her in my arms, and answer her
by a thousand kisses? She had recourse to her piano for
relief, and in a low and sweet voice accompanied the music
with delicious sounds. Her lips never appeared so lovely :
they seemed but just to open, that they might imbibe the
sweet tones which issued from the instrument, and return
the heavenly vibration from her lovely mouth. Oh ! who
can express my sensations? I was quite overcome, and,
bending down, pronounced this vow : " Beautiful lips, which
the angels guard, never will I seek to profane your purity
with a kiss." And yet, my friend, Oh, I wish — but my heart
is darkened by doubt and indecision — could 1 but taste
felicity, and then die to expiate the sin ! What sin?
Nov. 26.
Oftentimes I say to myself, ''Thou alone art wretched :
all other mortals are happy, — none are distressed like thee !
Then I read a passage in an ancient poet, and I seem to
understand my own heart. I have so much to endure !
Have men before me ever been so wretched?
Nov. 30.
I shall never be myself again! Wherevei' I go, some
fatality occurs to distract me. Even to-day — alas for our
destiny ! alas for human nature !
About dinner-time I went to walk by the river-side, for I
had no appetite. Every thing around seemed gloomy : a
cold and damp easterly wind blew from the mountains, and
black, heavy clouds spread over the plain. I observed at
a distance a man in a tattered coat : he was wandering among
the rocks, and seemed to be looking for plants. When I
approached, he turned round at the noise ; and I saw that he
SORROWS OF WERTHER. "^9
had an interesting countenance in which a settled melan-
choly, strongly marked by benevolence, formed the principal
feature. His long black hair was divided, and flowed over
his shoulders. As his garb betokened a person of the lower
order, I thought he would not take it ill if I inquired about
his business ; and I therefore asked what he was seeking.
He replied, with a deep sigh, that he was looking for flowers,
and could find none. " But it is not the season," I observed,
with a smile. '^Oh, there are so many flowers!'* he an-
swered, as he came nearer to me. '' In my garden there are
roses and honeysuckles of two sorts : one sort was given to
me by my father ; they grow as plentifully as weeds ; I have
been looking for them these two days, and cannot find them.
There are flowers out there, yellow, blue, and red ; and that
centaury has a very pretty blossom : but I can find none of
them." I observed his peculiarity, and therefore asked him,
with an air of indifference, what he intended to do with his
flowers. A strange smile overspread his countenance. Hold-
ing his finger to his mouth, he expressed a hope that I would
not betray him ; and he then informed me that he had prom-
ised to gather a nosegay for his mistress. '' That is right,"
said I. ''Oh ! " he replied, ''she possesses many other things
as well : she is very rich." — "And yet," I continued, "she
likes your nosegays." — "Oh, she has jewels and crowns ! "
he exclaimed. I asked who she was. "If the states-gen-
eral would but pay me," he added, "I should be quite
another man. Alas ! there was a time when I was so happy ;
but that is past, and I am now ' ' — He raised his swimming
eyes to heaven. " And you were happy once ? " I observed.
" Ah, would I were so still ! " was his reply. " I was then
as gay and contented as a man can be." An old woman,
who was coming towards us, now called out, "Henry, Henry !
where are you ? We have been looking for you everywhere :
come to dinner." — "Is he your son? " I inquired, as I went
towards her. " Yes," she said : "he is my poor, unfortunate
son. The Lord has sent me a heavy affliction." I asked
whether he had been long in this state. She answered,
" He has been as calm as he is at present for about six
months. I thank Heaven that he has so far recovered : he
was for one whole year quite raving, and chained down in
a madhouse. Now he injures no one, but talks of nothing
else than kings and queens. He used to be a very good,
quiet youth, and helped to maintain me ; he wrote a very
fine hand ; but all at once he became melancholy, was seized
80 SORROWS OF WERTHER.
with a violent fever, grew distracted, and is now as you see.
If I were only to tell you, sir" — I interrupted her by
asking what period it was in which he boasted of haviiig
been so happy. " Poor boy ! " she exclaimed, with a smile
of compassion, " he means the time when he was completely
deranged, — a time he never ceases to regret, — when he was
in the madhouse, and unconscious of every thing." I was
thunderstruck : I placed a piece of money in her hand, and
hastened away.
" You were happy ! " I exclaimed, as I returned quickly
to the town, " ' as gay and contented as a man can be ! ' "
^— God of heaven ! and is this the destiny of man? Is he only
/ happy before he has acquired his reason, or after he has lost
l__it'? Unfortunate being ! And yet I envy 3-our fate : I envy
flTe" delusion to which you are a victim. You go forth with
joy to gather flowers for your princess, — in winter, — and
grieve when you can find none, and cannot understand why
they do not grow. But I wander forth without joy, without
hope, without design ; and I return as I came. You fancy
what a man you would be if the states-general paid you.
Happy mortal, who can ascribe your wretchedness to an
earthly cause ! You do not know, you do not feel, that in
your own distracted heart and disordered brain dwells tlie
source of that unhappiness which all the potentates on earth
cannot relieve.
Let that man die unconsoled who can deride the invalid
for undertaking a journey to distant, healthful springs, —
where he often finds only a heavier disease and a more
painful death, — or who can exult over the despairing mind
of a sinner, who, to obtain peace of conscience and an
alleviation of misery, makes a pilgrimage to the Holy Sep-
ulchre. Each laborious step which galls his wounded feet
in rough and untrodden paths pours a drop of balm into
his troubled soul, and the journey of many a weary day
brings a nightly relief to his anguished heart. Will you
dare call this enthusiasm, ye crowd of pompous declaimers?
Enthusiasm ! O God ! thou seest my tears. Thou hast
allotted us our portion of miserj^ : must we also have breth-
ren to persecute us, to deprive us of our consolation, of our
trust in thee, and in thy love and mercy ? For our trust in
the virtue of the healing root, or in the strength of the vine,
what is it else than a belief in thee from whom all that sur-
rounds us derives its healing and restoring powers ? Father,
whom I know not, — who wert once wont to fill my soul, but
SORROWS OF WERTHER. 81
•
who now hidest thy face from me, — call me back to thee ;
be silent no longer ; thy silence shall not delay a soul which
thirsts after thee. What man, what father, could be angry
with a son for returning to him suddenly, for falling on his
neck, and exclaiming, "I am here again, my father! forgive
me if I have anticipated my journey, and returned before
the appointed time ! The world is everywhere the same, —
a scene of labor and pain, of pleasure and reward ; but
what does it all avail ? I am happy only where thou art, and
in thy presence am I content to suffer or enjoy." And
woulclst thou, heavenly Father, banish such a child from thy
presence ?
Dec. 1.
Wilhelm, the man about whom I wrote to you — that man
so enviable in his misfortunes — ^was secretary to Charlotte's
father ; and an unhappy passion for her which he cherished,
concealed, and at length discovered, caused him to be dis-
missed from his situation. This made him mad. Think,
whilst you peruse this plain narration, what an impression
the circumstance has made upon me ! But it was related to
me by Albert with as much calmness as you will probably
peruse it.
Dec. 4.
I implore your attention. It is ali over with me. I can
support this state no longer. To-day I was sitting by
Charlotte. She was playing upon her piano a succession
of delightful melodies, with such intense expression ! Her
little sister was dressing her doll upon my lap. The tears
came into my eyes. I leaned down, and looked intently at her
wedding-ring: my tears fell — immediately she began to play
that favorite, that divine air which has so often enchanted
me. I felt comfort from a recollection of the past, of those
bygone days when that air was familiar to me ; and then
I recalled all the sorrows and the disappointments which I
had since endured. I paced with hasty strides through the
room, my heart became convulsed with painful emotions.
At length I went up to her, and exclaimed with eagerness,
"For Heaven's sake, play that air no longer!" She
stopped, and looked steadfastly at me. She then said, with
a smile which sunk deep into my heart, ' ' Werther, you are
ill : your dearest food is distasteful to you. But go, I
entreat you, and endeavor to compose yourself." I tore
^2 SORROWS OF WERTHER.
myself away. God, thou seest my torments, and wilt end
them!
Dec. 6.
How her image haunts me ! Waking or asleep, she fills
my entire soul ! Soon as I close my eyes, here, in my brain,
where all the nerves of vision are concentrated, her dark
eyes are imprinted. Here — I do not know how to describe
it ; but, if I shut my eyes, hers are immediately before me :
dark as an abyss they open upon me, and absorb my senses.
And what is man — that boasted demigod? Do not his
powers fail when he most requires their use ? And whether
he soar in joy, or sink in sorrow, is not his career in both
inevitably arrested ? And, whilst he fondly dreams that he
is grasping at infinity, does he not feel compelled to return
to a consciousness of his cold, monotonous existence?
THE EDITOR TO THE READER.
It is a matter of extreme regret that we want original
evidence of the last remarkable days of our friend ; and we
are, therefore, obliged to interrupt the progress of his cor-
respondence, and to supply the deficiency by a connected
narration.
/'^- I have felt it my duty to collect accurate information from
/ the mouths of persons well acquainted with his history. The
story is simple ; and all the accounts agree, except in some
unimportant particulars. It is true, that, with respect to the
I characters of the persons spoken of, opinions and judgments
I vary.
■"} We have only, then, to relate conscientiously the facts
I which our diligent labor has enabled us to collect, to give
I the letters of the deceased, and to pay particular attention
I to the slightest fragment from his pen, more especially as it
I is so difficult to discover the real and correct motives of men
N^ho are not of the common order.
Sorrow and discontent had taken deep root in Werther's
soul, and gradually imparted their character to his whole
being. The harmony of his mind became completely dis-
turbed ; a perpetual excitement and mental irritation, which
SORROWS OF WERTHER. 83
weakened his natural powers, produced the saddest effects
upon him, and rendered him at length the victim of an ex-
haustion against which he struggled with still more painful
efforts than he had displayed, even in contending with his
other misfortunes. His mental anxiety weakened his various
good qualities; and hj^was^^so^n converted into a gloomy
companion, — always unhappy and unjust in his ideas, the
more wretched he became. This was, at least, the opinion
of Albert's friends. They assert, moreover, that the char-
acter of Albert himself had undergone no change in the mean
time : he was still the same being whom Werther had loved,
honored, and respected from the commencement. His love
for Charlotte was unbounded : he was proud of her, and
desired that she should be recognized by every one as the
noblest of created beings. Was he, however, to blame for
wishing to avert from her every appearance of suspicion?
or for his unwillingness to share his rich prize with another,
even for a moment, and in the most innocent manner? It
is asserted that Albert frequently retired from his wife's
apartment during Werther 's visits ; but this did not arise
from hatred or aversion to his friend, but only from a feeling
that his presence was oppressive to Werther.
Charlotte's father, who was confined to the house by indis-
position, was accustomed to send his carriage for her, that
she might make excursions in the neighborhood. One day
the weather had been unusually severe, and the whole country
was covered with snow.
Werther went for Charlotte the following morning, in
order that, if Albert were absent, he might conduct her
home.
The beautiful weather produced but little impression on
his troubled spirit. A heavy weight lay upon his soul, deep
melancholy had taken possession of him, and his mind knew
no change save from one painful thought to another.
As he now never enjoyed internal peace, the condition of
his fellow-creatures was to him a perpetual source of trouble
and distress. He believed he had disturbed the happiness
of Albert and his wife ; and, whilst he censured himself
strongly for this, he began to entertain a secret dislike to
Albert.
His thoughts were occasionally directed to this point.
" Yes," he would repeat to himself, with ill-concealed dis-
satisfaction, "yes, this is, after all, the extent of that con-
fiding, dear, tender, and sympathetic love, that calm and
84 SORROWS OF WERTHER.
eternal fidelity ! What do 1 l)ehold but satiety and indif-
ference? Does not every frivolous engagement attract hiin
more than his charming and lovely wife? Does he know-
how to prize his happiness? Can he value her as she de-
serves? He possesses her, it is true, — I know that, as I
know much more, — and I have become accustomed to the
thought that he will drive me mad, or, perhaps, murder me.
Is his friendship towards me unimpaired ? Does he not view
my attachment to Charlotte as an infringement upon his
riglits, and consider my attention to her as a silent rebuke
to himself? I know, and indeed feel, that he dislikes me,
— that he wishes for my absence, — that my presence is
hateful to him."
He would often pause when on his way to visit Charlotte,
stand still, as though in doubt, and seem desirous of return-
ing, but would nevertheless proceed ; and, engaged in such
thoughts and soliloquies as we have described, he finally
reached the hunting-lodge, with a sort of involuntary con-
sent.
Upon one occasion he entered the house ; and, inquiring
for Charlotte, he observed that the inmates were in a state
of unusual confusion. The eldest boy informed him that a
dreadful misfortune had occurred at Walheim, — that a peas-
ant had been murdered ! But this made little impression
upon him. Entering the apartment, he found Charlotte
engaged reasoning with her father, who, in spite of his in-
firmity, insisted on going to the scene of the crime, in order
to institute an inquiry. The criminal was unknown : the
victim had been found dead at his own door that morning.
Suspicions were excited : the murdered man had been in the
service of a widow, and the person who had previously filled
the situation had been dismissed from her employment.
As soon as Werther heard this, he exclaimed with great
excitement, ''Is it possible! I must go to the spot — I
cannot delay a moment ! " He hastened to Walheim. Every
incident returned vividly to his remembrance ; and he enter-
tained not the slightest doubt that that man was the mur-
derer to whom he had so often spoken, and for whom he
entertained so much regard. His way took him past the
well-known lime-trees, to the house where the body had been
carried ; and his feelings were greatly excited at the sight
of the fondly recollected spot. That threshold where the
neighbors' children had so often played together was stained
with blood ; love and attachment, the noblest feelings of
SORROWS OF WERTHER. 85
human nature, had been converted into violence and murder.
The huge trees stood there leafless and covered with hoar-
frost ; the beautiful hedgerows which surrounded the old
churchyard- wall were withered ; and the gravestones, half
covered with snow, were visible through the openings.
As he approached the inn, in front of which the whole
village was assembled, screams were suddenly heard. A
troop of armed peasants was seen approaching, and every
one exclaimed that the criminal had been apprehended.
Werther looked, and was not long in doubt. The prisoner
was no other than the servant, who had been formerly so
attached to the widow, and whom he had met prowling about,
with that suppressed anger and ill-concealed despair which
we have before described.
''What have you done, unfortunate man?" inquired Wer-
ther, as he advanced towards the prisoner. The latter turned
his eyes upon him in silence, and then replied with perfect
composure, " No one will now marry her, and she will marry
no one." The prisoner was taken in the inn, and Werther
left the place.
The mind of Werther was fearfully excited by this shock-
ing occurrence. He ceased, however, to be oppressed by
his usual feeling of melancholy, moroseness, and indifference
to every thing that passed around him. He entertained a
strong degree of pity for the prisoner, and was seized with
an indescribable anxiety to save him from his impending
fate. He considered him so unfortunate, he deemed his
crime so excusable, and thought his own condition so nearly
similar, that he felt convinced he could make every one else
view the matter in the light in which he saw it himself. He
now became anxious to undertake his defence, and com-
menced composing an eloquent speech for the occasion ; and,
on his way to the hunting-lodge, he could not refrain from
speaking aloud the statement which he resolved to make to
the judge.
Upon his arrival, he found Albert had been before him:
and he was a little perplexed by this meeting ; but he soon
recovered himself, and expressed his opinion with much
warmth to the judge. The latter shook his head doubtingly ;
and although Werther urged his case with the utmost zeal,
feeling, and determination in defence of his client, yet, as
we may easily suppose, the judge was not much influenced
by his appeal. On the contrary, he interrupted him in his
address, reasoned with him seriously, and even administered
S6 SORROWS OF WERTHER.
a rebuke to him for ])ecomiiig the advocate of a murderer.
He demonstrated, that, according to this precedent, every
law might be violated, and the public security utterly de-
stroyed. He added, moreover, that in such a case he could
himself do nothing, without incurring the greatest responsi-
bility ; that every thing must follow in the usual course, and
pursue the ordinary channel.
Werther, however, did. not abandon his enterprise^, and
even besought the judge to connive at the flight of the pris,-
oner. But this proposal was peremptorily rejected. Albert,
who had taken some part in the discussion, coincided in
opinion with the judge. At this Werther became enraged,
and took his leave in great anger, after the judge had more
than once assured him that the prisoner could not be saved.
The excess of his grief at this assurance may be inferred
from a note we have found amongst his papers, and which
was doubtless written upon this very occasion.
"You cannot be saved, unfortunate man! I see clearly
that we cannot be saved ! " —- ' '^
Werther was highly incensed at the observations which
Albert had made to the judge in this matter of the prisoner.
He thought he could detect therein a little bitterness towards
himself personally ; and although, upon reflection, it could
not escape his sound judgment that their view of the matter
was correct, he felt the greatest possible reluctance to make
such an admission.
A memorandum of Werther's upon this point, expressive
of his general feelings towards Albert, has been found
amongst his papers.
" What is the use of my continually repeating that he is a
good and estimable man? He is an inward torment to me,
and I am incapable of being just towards him."
One fine evening in winter, when the weather seemed
inclined to thaw, Charlotte and Albert were returning home
together. The former looked from time to time about her, as
if she missed Werther's company. Albert began to speak of
him, and censured him for his prejudices. He alluded to his
unfortunate attachment, and wished it were possible to dis-
continue his acquaintance. " I desire it on our own account,"
he added ; *' and I request you will compel him to alter his
SORROWS OF WERTHER. 87'
deportment towards you, and to visit you less frequently.
The world is censorious, and I know that here and there we
are spoken of." Charlotte made no reply, and Albert
seemed to feel her silence. At least, from that time, he
never again spoke of Werther ; and, when she introduced
the subject, he allowed the conversation to die away, or else
he directed the discourse into another channel.
The vain attempt Werther had made to save the unhappy
murderer was the last feeble glimmering of a flame about to
be extinguished. He sank almost immediately afterwards
into a state gf gloom and inactivity, until he was at length
brought to perfect distraction by learning that he was to be
summoned as a witness against the prisoner, who asserted
his complete innocence.
His mind now became oppressed by the recollection of
every misfortune of his past life. The mortification he had
suffered at the ambassador's, and his subsequent troubles,
were revived in his memory. He became utterly inactive.
Destitute of energy, he was cut off from every pursuit and
occupation which compose the business Of common life ; and
he became a victim to his own susceptibility, and to his rest-
less passion for the most amiable and beloved of women,
whose peace he destroyed. In this unvarying monotony of
existence his days were consumed ; and his powers became
exhausted without aim or design, until they brought him to
a sorrowful end.
A few letters which he left behind, and which we here
subjoin, afford the best proofs of his anxiety of mind and
of the depth of his passion, as well as of his doubts and
struggles, and of his weariness of life.
Dec. 12.
Dear Wilhelm, I am reduced to the condition of those
unfortunate wretches who believe they are pursued by an
evil spirit. Sometimes I am oppressed, not by apprehension
or fear, but by an inexpressible internal sensation, which
weighs upon m}' heart, and impedes my breath ! Then_I_
wander forth at night, even in this tempestuous season7^nd
feel pleasure in surveying the dreadful scenes around me.
Yesterday evening I went forth. A rapid thaw had sud-
denl}' set in : I had been informed that the river had risen,
that the brooks had all overflowed their banks, and that the
whole vale of Walheim was under water ! Upon the stroke
of twelve I hastened forth. 1 beheld a fearful sight. The
88 SORROWS OF WERTHER.
foaming torrents rolled from the mountains in the moonlight,
— fields and meadows, trees and hedges, were confounded
together ; and the entire valley was converted into a deep
lake, which was agitated by the roaring wind ! And when
the moon shone forth, and tinged the black clouds with silver,
and the impetuous torrent at my feet foamed and resounded
with awful and grand impetuosity, I was overcome by a
mingled sensation of apprehension and delight. With ex-
tended arms I looked down into the yawning abyss, and cried,
^'Plunge!" For a moment my senses forsook me, in the
intense delight of ending my sorrows and my sufferings by a
plunge into that gulf ! And then I felt as if I "were I'ooted
to the earth, and incapable of seeking an end to my woes !
^M^, ivy ^^^n^' i« ^rir^t yof nr^nr.Q_.„T fool ij^_^a r>r^f Q WUhclm,
how willingly could I abandon my existence to ride the
whirlwind, or to embrace the torrent ! and then might not
rapture perchance be the portion of this liberated soul ?
r- I turned my sorrowful eyes towards a favorite spot, where
I was accustomed to sit with Charlotte beneath a willow
after a fatiguing walk. Alas ! it was covered with water,
and with difficulty I found even the meadow. And the fields
, around the hunting-lodge, thought I. Has our dear bower
been destroyed by this unpitying storm? And a beam of
past happiness streamed upon me, as the mind of a captive
is illumined by dreams of flocks and herds and bygone joys
of home ! But I am free from blame. I have courage to
die ! Perhaps I have, — but I still sit here, like a wretched
pauper, who collects fagots, and begs her bread from door to
door, that she may prolong for a few days a miserable exist-
ence which she is unwilling to resign.
Dec. 15.
What is the matter with me, dear Wilhelm ? I am afraid
of myself ! Is not my love for her of the purest, most holy,
and most brotherly nature ? Has my soul ever been sullied
b}^ a single sensual desire? but 1 will make no protestations.
And now, ye nightly visions, how truly have those mortals
understood you, who ascribe your various contradictory
effects to some invincible power ! This night — I tremble at
the avowal — I held her in my arms, locked in a close em-
brace : I pressed her to my bosom, and covered with count-
less kisses those dear lii)s which murmured in reply soft
protestations of love. My sight became confused by the
delicious intoxication of her eyes. Heavens ! is it sinful to
SORROWS OF WERTHER. 89*
revel again in such happiness, to recall once more tlios«>
rapturous moments with intense delight? Charlotte! Char-
lotte ! I am lost ! My senses are bewildered, my recollection
is confused, mine eyes are bathed in tears — I am ill ; and
yet I am well — I wish for nothing — I have no desires— ii
were better I were gone.
Under the circumstances narrated above, a determinatiou
to quit this world had now taken fixed possession of Wer-
ther's soul. Since Charlotte's return, this thought had"b'5Hl
the final object of all his hopes and wishes ; but he haa_
resolved that such a step should not be taken with precipita-
tion, but with calmness and tranquillity, and with the most
perfect deliberation .
His troubles and internal struggles may be understood
from the following fragment, which was found, without any
date, amongst his papers, and appears to have formed the
beojinnino; of a letter to Wilhelm.
" Her presence, her fate, her sympathy for me, have
power still to extract tears from my withered brain.
" One lifts up the curtain, and passes to the other side, —
that is all ! And why all these doubts and delays ? Because
we know not what is behind — because there is no returning
— and because our mind infers that all is darkness and con-
f usiQrL,_jffiliere-^^4mve~iiathing Jbut uncertainty . "
His appearance at length became quite altered by the effect
of his melancholy thoughts ; and his resolution was now
finally and irrevocably taken, of which the following ambig-
uous letter, which he addressed to his friend, may appear to
afford some proof.
Dec. 20.
I am grateful to your love, Wilhelm, for having repeated
your advice so seasonably. Yes, you are right : it is un-
doubtedly better that I should depart. But I do not entirely
approve your scheme of returning at once to your neighbor-
hood ; at least, I should like to make a little excursion on
the way, particularly as we may now expect a continued
frost, and consequently good roads. I am much pleased
with your intention of coming to fetch me ; only delay your
journey for a fortnight, and wait for another letter from me.
One should gather nothing before it is ripe, and a fortnight
90 SORROWS OF WERTHER.
sooner or later makes a great difference. Entreat m}- mother
to pray for her son, and tell her I beg her pardon for all the
unhappiness I have occasioned her. It has ever been my
fate to give pain to those whose happiness I should have
promoted. Adieu, my dearest friend. May every blessing
of heaven attend you ! Farewell.
We find it difficult to express the emotions with which
Charlotte's soul was agitated during the whole of this time,
whether in relation to her husband or to her unfortunate
friend ; although we are enabled, by our knowledge of her
character, to understand their nature.
It is certain that she had formed a determination, by every
means in lier power to keep Werther at a distance ; and, if
she besitated in her decision, it was from a sincere feeling
of friendly pity, knowing how much it would cost him, —
indeed, that he would find it almost impossible to comply
with her wishes. But various causes now urged her to be
firm. Her husband preserved a strict silence about the
whole matter ; and she never made it a subject of conversa-
tion, feeling bound to prove to him by her conduct that her
sentiments agreed with his.
The same day, which was the Sunday before Christmas,
after Werther had written the last-mentioned letter to his
friend, he came in the evening to Charlotte's house, and
found her alone. She was busy preparing some little gifts
for her brothers and sisters, which were to be distributed to
them on Christmas Day. He began talking of the delight
of the children, and of that age when the sudden appearance
of the Christmas-tree, decorated with fruit and sweetmeats,
and lighted up with wax candles, causes such transports of
joy. ''You shall have a gift too, if you behave well,"
said Charlotte, hiding her embarrassment under a sweet
smile. " And what do you call behaving well ? What should
I Ho, what can I do, my dear Charlotte? " said he. '' Thurs-
day night," she answered, "is Christmas Eve. The chil-
dren are all to be here, and my father too : there is a present
for each ; do you come likewise, but do not come before that
time." Werther started. "I desire you will not: it must
be so," she continued. " I ask it of you as a favor, for my
own peace and tranquillity. We cannot go on in this manner
any longer." He turned away his face, walked hastily up and
down the room, muttering indistinctly^ ''We cannot go on
in this manner any longer! " Charlotte, seeing the violent
SORROWS OF WERTHER. 91
agitation into which these words had thrown him, endeavored
to divert iiis thoughts by different questions, but in vain,
f Np,Charlotte_! " he exclaimed; "I will never see you
any more ! ^^ "And why~s6?"she answered. " W^ may
— we must see each other again ; only let it be with more
discretion. Oh ! why were you born with that excessive,
that ungovernable passion for every thing that is dear to
you?" Then, taking his hand, she said, " I entreat of you
to be more calm : your talents, 3'our understanding, your
genius, will furnish you with a thousand resources. Be a
man, and conquer an unhappy attachment towards a creature
who can do nothing but pity you." He bit his lips, and
looked at her with a gloomy countenance. She continued
to hold his hand. "Grant me but a moment's patience,
Werther," she said. " Do you not see that you are deceiv-
ing yourself, that you are seeking your own destruction?
Why must you love me, me only, who belong to another?
I fear, I much fear, that it is only the impossibility of pos-
sessing me which makes your desire for me so strong." He
drew back his hand, whilst he surveyed her with a wild and
angry look. " 'Tis well! " he exclaimed, " 'tis very well!
Did not Albert furnish you with this reflection ? It is pro-
found, a very profound remark." — "A reflection that any
one might easily make," she answered; "and is there not
a woman in the whole world who is at liberty7 and has the
power to make you happy ? Conquer yourself : look for
such a being, and believe me when I say that 30U will cer-
tainly find her. I have long felt for you, and for us all :
you have confined yourself too long within the limits of too
narrow a circle. Cooquei^ yourself ; make an effort : a
short journey will be of service to you. Seek and find an
object worthy of your love ; then return hither, and let us
enjoy together all the happiness of the most perfect friend-
ship."
"This speech," replied Werther with a cold smile, "this
speech should be printed, for the benefit of all teachers.
My dear Charlotte, allow me but a short time longer, and all
will be well." — " But however, Werther," she added, " do
not come again before Christmas." He was about to make
some answer, when Albert came in. They saluted each
other coldly, and with mutual embarrassment paced up and
down the room. Werther made some common remarks ;
Albert did the same, and their conversation soon dropped.
Albert asked his wife about some household matters ; and.
92 SORROWS OF WERTHER.
finding that his commissions were not executed, he used
some expressions which, to Werther's oar, savored of ex-
treme harshness. He wished to go, but had not power to
move ; and in this situation he remained till eight o'clock,
his uneasiness and discontent continually increasing. At
length the cloth was laid for supper, and he took up his hat
and stick. Albert invited him to remain ; but Werther,
fancying that he was merel}' paying a formal compliment,
thanked him coldly, and left the house.
Werther returned home, took the candle from his servant,
and retired to his room alone. He talked for some time
with great earnestness to himself, wept aloud, walked m a
state of great excitement through his chamber ; till at length,
without undressing, he threw himself on the bed, where he
was found by his servant at eleven o'clock, when the latter
ventured to enter the room, and take off his boots. Werther
did not prevent him, but forbade him to come in the morning
till he should ring.
On Monday morning, the 21st of December, he wrote to
Charlotte the following letter, which was found, sealed, on
his bureau after his death, and was given to her. I shall
insert it in fragments; as it appears, from several circum-
stances, to have been written in that manner.
" It is all over, Charlotte : I am resolved to die ! I make
this declaration deliberately and coolly, without any romantic
passion, on this morning of the day when I am to see you
for the last time. At the moment you read these lines, O
best of women, the cold grave will hold the inanimate
remains of that restless and unhappy being who, in the last
moments of his existence, knew no pleasure so great as that
of conversing with you ! I have passed a dreadful night — or
father, iet we say, a propitious one; for it has given me
resolution, it has fixed my purpose. I am resolved to die.
When I tore myself from you yesterday, mj'^ senses were in
tumult and disorder ; my heart was oppressed, hope and
pleasure had fled from me forever, and a petrifying cold had
seized my wretched being. I could scarcely reach my room.
I threw nnself on m^'-kiiees ; and Heaven, for the last time,
granted me the consolation of shedding tears. A thousand
ideas, a thousand schemes, arose within my soul ; till at
length one last, fixed, final thought took possession of my
heart. It was to die. _1 lay down to rest ; and in the morn-
ing, in the quiet hour of awakening, the same determination
SORROWS OF WERTHER. 93
was upon me. To die! It is not despair: it is conviction
that r have filled up the measure of my sufferings, that I
have reached my appointed term, and must sacrifice myself
for thee. Yes, Charlotte, why should I not avow it? One
of iisthree must die : it shall be Werther. O beloved Char-
lotte ! this heart, excited by rage and fury, has often con-
ceived the horrid idea of murdering your husband — you —
myself ! The lot is cast at length. And in the bright, quiet
evenings of summer, when you sometimes wander towards
the mountains, let your thoughts then turn to me : recollect
liow often you have watched me coming to meet you from
the valley ; then bend ^your^eyes-upon the churchyard which
contains my grave, and, by the light of the setting sun,
mark how the evening breeze waves the tall grass which
grows above my tomb. I was calm when I began this letter,
but the recollection of these scenes makes me weep like a
child."
.^tBCmt ten in the morning, Werther called his servant,
and, whilst he was dressing, told him that in a few days he
intended to set out upon a journey, and bade him therefore
lay his clothes in order, and prepare them for packing up,
call in all his accounts, fetch home the books he had lent,
and give two months' pay to the poor dependants who were
\accustomed to receive from him a weekly allowance.
Tie breakfasted in his room, and then mounted his horse,
and went to visit the steward, who, however, was not at
home. He walked pensively in the garden, and seemed
anxious to renew all the ideas that were most painful to him.
The children did not suffer him to remain alone Ions;.
They followed him, skipping and dancing before him, and
told him, that after to-morrow — and to-morrow — and one
day more, they were to receive their Christmas gift from
Charlotte ; and they then recounted all the wonders of which
they had formed ideas in their child imaginations. "To-
morrow — and to-morrow," said he, " and one day more ! "
And he kissed them tenderly. He was going ; but the
younger boy stopped him, to whisper something in his ear.
He told him that his elder brothers had written splendid
New- Year's wishes — so large ! — one for papa, and another
for Albert and Charlotte, and one for Werther ; and they
were to be presented early in the morning, on New-Year's
T>3ij. This quite- overcame him. He made each of the,
children a present, mounted his horse, left his complimente
94 SORROWS OF WERTHER.
for papa and mamma, and, with tears in his eyes, rode away
from the place.
He returned home about five o'clock, ordered his servant
to keep up his fire, desired him to pack his books and linen
at the bottom of the trunk, and to place his coats at the top.
He then appears to have made the following addition to the
letter addressed to Charlotte : —
" You do not expect me. You think I will obey you, and
not visit you again till Christmas Eve. O Charlotte, to-day
or never ! On Christmas Eve you will hold this paper in
your hand ; you will tremble, and moisten it with your tears.
I will — I must ! Oh, how happy I feel to be determined ! '*
In the mean time, Charlotte was in a pitiable state of mind.
After her last conversation with Werther, she found how
painful to herself it would be to decline his visits, and knew
how severely he would suffer from their separation.
' She had, in conversation with Albert, mentioned casually
that Werther would not return before Christmas Eve ; and
soon afterwards Albert went on horseback to see a person in
the neighborhood, with whom he had to transact some busi-
ness which would detain him all night.
Charlotte was sittmg alone. None of her family were
near, and she gave herself up to the reflections that silently
took possession of her mind. She was forever united to a
husband whose love and fidelity she had proved, to whom
she was heartily devoted, and who seemed to be a special
gift from Heaven to insure her happiness. On the other
hand, Werther had become dear to her. There was a cordial
unanimity of sentiment between them from the very first
hour of their acquaintance, and their long association and
repeated interviews had made an indelible impression upon
her heart. She had been accustomed to communicate to him
every thought and feeling which interested her, and his
absence threatened to open a void in her existence which it
might be impossible to fill. How heartily she wished that
she might change him into her brother, — that she could
induce him to marry one of her own friends, or could re-
establish his intimacy with Albert.
She passed all her intimate friends in review before her
mind, but found something objectionable in each, and could
decide upon none to whom she would consent to give him.
Amid all these considerations she felt deeply but indis-
SORROWS OF WERTHER. 95
tinctly that her own real but unexpressed wish was to retain
bim for herself, and her pure and amiable heart felt from
this thought a sense of oppression which seemed to forbid a
prospect of happiness: She was wretch^d^ a dark cloud
obscured her mental vision.
It was now half-past six o'clock, and she heard Werther's
step on the stairs. She at once recognized his voice, as he
inquired if she were at home. Her heart beat audibly — we
could almost say for the first time — at his arrival. It was
too late to deny herself ;ajidj as he ja^ she exclauiied,
with a sort of ill-concealed confusion, "You have not kept
your word ! " — "I promised nothing, ' ' he answered. ' ' But
you should have complied, at least for my sake," she con-
tinued. " I implore you, for both our sakes."
She scarcely knew what she said or did, and sent for some
friends, who, by their presence, might prevent her being left
alone with Werther. He put down some books he had brought
with him, then made inquiries about some others, until she
began to hope that her friends might arrive shortly, enter-
taining at the same time a desire that they might stay away.
At one moment she felt anxious that the servant should
remain in the adjoining room, then she changed her mind.
Werther, meanwhile, walked impatiently up and down. She
went to the piano, and determined not to retire. She then
collected her thoughts, and sat down quietly at Werther's
side, who had taken his usual place on the sofa.
" Have you brought nothing to read? " she inquired. He
had nothing. " There in my drawer," she continued, " you
will find your own translation of some of the songs of Ossian.
I have not yet read them, as I have still hoped to hear you
recite them ; but, for some time past, I have not been able
to accomplish such a wish." He smiled, and went for the
manuscript, which he took with a shudder. He sat down y
and, with eyes full of tears, he began to read. .^60^^^
" Star of descending night ! fair is thy light in the west !
thou liftest thy unshorn head from thy cloud ; thy steps are
stately on thy hill. What dost thou behold in the plain?
The stormy winds are laid. The murmur of the torrent
comes from afar. Roaring waves climb the distant rock.
The flies of evening are on their feeble wings : the hum of
their course is on the field. What dost thou behold, fair
light? But thou dost smile and depart. The waves come
with joy around thee : they bathe thy lovely hair. Farewell,
thou silent beam ! Let the light of Ossian 's soul arise !
96 SORROWS OF WERTIIEK.
u
And it does arise in its strength ! I l)ehold my departed
friends. Their gatliering is on Lora, as in the days of other
3'ears. Fingal comes like a watery column of mist ! his
heroes are around : and see the bards of song, gray-haired
Ullin ! stately Ryno ! Alpin with the tuneful voice ! the soft
complaint of Minona ! How are ye changed, my friends,
since the days of Selma's feast ! when we contended, like
gales of spring as they fly along the hill, and bend by turns
the feebly-whistling grass.
" Minona came forth in her beauty, with downcast look
and tearful eye. Her hair was flying slowly with the blast
that rushed unfrequent from the hill. The souls of the heroes
were sad when she raised the tuneful voice. Oft had they
seen the grave of Salgar, the dark dwelling of white-bosomed
Colma. Colma left alone on the hill with all her voice of
song ! Salgar promised to come : but the night descended
around. Hear the voice of Colma, when she sat alone on
the hill !
" Colma. It is night: I am alone, forlorn on the hill of
storms. The wind is heard on the mountain. The torrent
is howling down the rock. No hut receives me from the
rain : forlorn on the hill of winds !
" Rise moon ! from behind thy clouds. Stars of the night,
nrise ! Lead me, some light, to the place where my love
rests from the chase alone ! His bow near him unstrung,
his dogs panting around him ! But here I must sit alone \ry
the rock of the mossy stream. The stream and the wind roar
aloud. I hear not the voice of my love ! Why delays my
Salgar; why the chief of the hill his promise? Here is the
rock and here the tree ! here is the roaring stream ! Thou
didst promise with night to be here. Ah! whither is my
Salgar gone? AVith thee I would fly from my father, with
thee from my brother of pride. Our race have long been
foes : we are not foes, O Salgar !
"Cease a little while, O wind! stream, be thou silent a
while ! let my voice be heard around ! let my wanderer hear
me ! Salgar ! it is Colma who call«. Here is the tree and
the rock. Salgar, my love, 1 am here ! Why delay est thou
thy coming ? Lo ! the calm moon comes forth. The flood
is bright in the vale. The rocks are gray on the steep. I
see him not on the brow. His dogs come not before him
with tidings of his near approach. Here I must sit alone 1
" AYho lie on the heath beside me? Are they my love
and my brother? Speak to me, O my friends! To Colma
SORROWS OF wi<:rtiikr. 97
they give no reply. Si)eak to me : I am alone ! My soul is
tormented with fears. _Ah, they are deatl ! Tlieir swords
are red from the IigliC" TJ my l^rollier ! my brother I" why
hast thou slain my Salgar? Why, O Salgar ! hast thou slaiii
mybrother? Dear weTe"3'e "both to me ! what shall I say in
your praise ? Thou wert fair on the hill among thousands !
he was terrible in fight ! Speak to me ! hear my voice ! hear
me, sons of my love ! They are silent ! silent forever !
Cold, cold, are their breasts of clay ! Oh, from the rock on
the hill, from the top jf the windy steep, speak, ye ghosts
of the dead ! Speak, I will not be afraid ! Whither are ye
gone to rest? In what cave of the hill shall I find the de-
parted ? No feeble voice is on the gale : no answer half
drowned in the storm !
^' I sit in my grief : I wait for morning in my tears ! Rear
the tomb, ye friends of the dead. Close it not till Colma
come. My life flies away like a dream. Why should I stay
behind? Here shall I rest with m}^ friends, by the stream
of the sounding rock. When night comes on the hill — when
the loud winds arise, my ghost shall stand in the blast, and
mourn the death of my friends. The hunter shall hea-r from
his booth ; he shall fear, but love my voice ! For sweet
shall my voice be for my friends : pleasant were her friends
to Colma.
'^ Such was thy song, Minona, softly-blushing daughter of
Torman. Our tears descended for Colma, and our souls
were sad ! Ullin came with his Jiarp ; he gave the song of
Alpin. The voice of Alpin was pleasant, the soul of R^^no
was a beam of fire ! But they had rested in the narrow
house : their voice had ceased in Selma ! Ullin had returned
one day from the chase before the heroes fell. He heard
their strife on the hill : their song was soft, but sad ! They
mourned the fall of Morar, first of mortal men ! His soul
was like the soul of Fingal : his sword like the sword of
Oscar. But he fell, and his father mourned : his sister's
eyes were full of tears. Minona' s eyes were full of tears,
the sister of car-borne Morar. She retired from the song of
Ullin, like the moon in the west, when she foresees the
shower, and hides her fair head in a cloud. I touched the
harp with Ullin : the song of mourning rose !
'' By no. The wind and the rain are past, calm is the noon
of day. The clouds are divided in heaven. Over the green
hills flies the inconstant sun. Red through the stony vale
comes down the stream of the hill. Sweet are thy murmurs,
98 SORROWS OF WERTHER.
O stream ! but more sweet is the voice I hear. It is the voice
of Alpin, the son of song, mourning for the dead ! Bent is
his head of age : red his, tearful eye. Alpin, thou son of
song, why alone on the silent hill? why complainest thou, as
a blast in the wood — as a wave on the lonely shore ?
" Alpin. M}^ tears, O Ryno ! are for the dead — my voice
for those that have passed away. Tall thou art on the hill ;
fair among the sons of the vale. But thou shalt fall like
Morar : the mourner shall sit on thy tomb. The hills shall
know thee no more : thy bow shall lie in thy hall unstrung !
"Thou wert swift, O Morar! as a roe on the desert:
terrible as a meteor of fire. Th}' wrath was as the storm.
Thy sword in battle as lightning in the field. Thy voice was
a stream after rain, like thunder on distant hills. Many
fell by thy arm : they w^ere consumed in the flames of thy
wrath. But when thou didst return from war, how peaceful
was thy brow. Thy face was like the sun after rain : like
the moon in the silence of night : calm as the breast of the
lake when the loud wind is laid.
' ' Narrow is thy dwelling now ! dark the place of thine
abode ! With three steps I compass thy grave, O thou who
wast so great before ! Four stones, with their heads of
moss, are the only memorial of thee. A tree with scarce a
leaf, long grass which whistles in the wind, mark to the
hunter's eye the grave of the mighty Morar. Morar ! thou
art low indeed. Thou hast no mother to mourn thee, no
maid with her tears of love.^ Dead is she that brought thee
forth. Fallen is the daughter of Morglan.
' ' Who on his staff is this ? Who is this whose head is
white with age, whose e3^es are red with tears, who quakes
at every step? It is thy father, O Morar! the father of no
son but thee. He heard of thy fame in war, he heard of
foes dispersed. He heard of Morar's renown, why did he
not hear of his wound ? Weep, thou father of Morar !
Weep, but thy son heareth thee not. Deep is the sleep of
the dead, — low their pillow of dust. No more shall he hear
thy voice, — no more awake at thy call. WTien shall it be
morn in the grave, to bid the slumberer awake? Farewell,
thou bravest of men ! thou conqueror in the field ! but the
field shall see thee no more, nor the dark wood be lightened
with the splendor of thy steel. Thou hast left no son. The
song shall preserve thy name, Future times shall hear of
thee — they shall hear of the fallen Morar !
"The grief of all arose, but most the bursting sigh of
SOllROWS OF WEKTHER. 99
Armin. He remembers the death of his son, who fell in the
days of his youth. Carmor was near the hero, the chief of
the echoing Galmal. Why burst the sigh of Armin ? he
said. Is there a cause to mourn ? The song comes with
its music to melt and please the soul. It is like soft mist
that, rising from a lake, pours on the silent vale ; the green
flowers are filled with dew, but the sun returns in his
strength, and the mist is gone. Why art thou sad, O Armin,
chief of sea-surrounded Gorma?
" Sad I am ! nor small is my cause of woe ! Carmor, thou
hast lost no son ; thou hast lost no daughter of beauty.
Colgar the valiant lives, and Annira, fairest maid. The
boughs of thy house ascend, O Carmor ! but Armin is the
last of his race. Dark is thy bed, O Daura ! deep thj sleep
in the tomb ! When shalt thou wake with thy songs ? —
with all thy voice of music ?
" Arise, winds of autumn, arise : blow along the heath.
Streams of the mountains, roar ; roar, tempests in the groves
of my oaks ! Walk through broken clouds, O moon ! show
thy pale face at intervals ; bring to my mind the night when
all my children fell, when Arindal the mighty fell — when
Daura the lovely failed. Daura, my daughter, thou wert
fair, fair as the moon on Fura, white as the driven snow,
sweet as the breathing gale. Arindal, thy bow was strong,
thy spear was swift on the field, thy look was like mist on
the wave, thy shield a red cloud in a storm ! Armar, re-
nowned in war, came and sought Daura's love. He was not
long refused : fair was the hope of their friends.
" Erath, son of Odgal, repined : his brother had been slain
by Armar. He came disguised like a son of the sea : fair
was his cliff on the wave, white his locks of age, calm his
serious brow. Fairest of women, he said, lovely daughter
of Armin ! a rock not distant in the sea bears a tree on its
side ; red shines the fruit afar. There Armar waits for
Daura. I come to carry his love ! she went — she called on
Armar. Nought answered, but the son of the rock. Armar,
my love, my love ! why tormentest thou me with fear?
Hear, son of Arnart, hear ! it is Daura who calleth thee.
Erath, the traitor, fled laughing to the land. She lifted up
her voice — she called for her brother and her father.
Arindal ! Armin ! none to relieve you, Daura.
"Her voice came over the sea. Arindal, my son, de-
scended from the hill, rough in the spoils of the chase. His
arrows rattled by his side ; his bow was in his hand, five
100 SORROWS OF WERTHER.
dark-gray dogs attended his steps. He saw fierce Erath on
the shore ; he seized and bound him to an oak. Thick wind
the thongs of the hide around his Hmbs ; he loads the winds
with his groans. Arindal ascends the deep in his boat to
bring Daura to land. Armar came in his wrath, and let fly
the gray-feathered shaft. It sung, it sunk in thy heart, O
Arindal, my son ! for Erath the traitor thou diest. The oar
is stopped at once : he panted on the rock, and expired.
What is thy grief, O Daura, when round thy feet is pdured
thy brother's blood. The boat is broken in twain. Armar
plunges into the sea to rescue his Daura, or die. Sudden a
blast from a hill came over the waves ; he sank, and he rose
no more.
"Alone, on the sea-beat rock, my daughter was heard to
complain ; frequent and loud were her cries. What could
her father do? All night I stood on the shore : I saw her
by the faint beam of the moon. All night I heard her cries.
Loud was the wind ; the rain beat hard on the hill. Before
morning appeared, her voice was weak ; it died away like
the evening breeze among the grass of the rocks. Spent
with grief, she expired, and left thee, Armin, alone. Gone
is my strength in war, fallen my pride among women.
When the storms aloft arise, when the north lifts the wave
on high, I sit by the sounding shore, and look on the fatal
[ rock.
/- 1 " Often by the setting moon I see the ghosts of my chil-
/^ dren ; half viewless they walk in mournful conference to-
y , gether."
-rr-A torrent of tears which streamed from Charlotte's eyes
jand gave relief to her bursting heart, stopped Werther's
(recitation. He threw down the book, seized her hand, and
wept bitterly. Charlotte leaned upon her hand, and buried
her face in her handkerchief : the agitation of both was ex-
cessive. They fellL_tliat_their own fate was pictured in tlie
misfortunes of Ossian's heroes, — they felt this together,
and their tears redoubled. Werther supported his fore-
head on Charlotte's arm : she trembled, she wished to be
gone ; but sorrow and sympathy lay like a leaden weight
upon her soul. She recovered herself shortly, and begged
Werther, with broken sobs, to leave her, — implored him
with the utmost earnestness to comply with her request.
He trembled ; his heart was ready to burst : then, taking
up the book again, he recommenced reading, in a voice
broken by sobs.
SORROWS OF WERTHER. 101
« Why dost thou waken me, O spring ? Tny voice woos
me, exclaiming, I refresh thee with heavenly dews ; but the
time of my decay is approaching, the storm is nigh that
shall wither my leaves. To-morrow the traveller shall come,
— he shall come, who beheld me in beauty : his e^^e shall
seek me in the field around, but he shall not find me."
The whole force of these words fell upon the unfortunate
Werther. Full of despair, he threw himself at Charlotte's
feet, seized her hands, and pressed them to his eyes and to
his forehead. An apprehension of his fatal project now
struck her for the first time. Her senses were bewildered :
she held his hands, pressed them to her bosom ; and, leaning
towards him with emotions of the tenderest pity, her warm
cheek touched his. They lost sight of every thing. The
world disappeared from their eyes. He clasped her in his
arms, strained her to his bosom, and covered her trembling
lips with passionate kisses. "Werther ! " she cried with a
faint voice, turning herseK away ; " Werther ! " and, with
a feeble hand, she pushed him from her. At length, with
the firm voice of virtue, she exclaimed, "Werther!" He
resisted not, but, tearing himself from her arms, fell on his
knees before her. Charlotte rose, and, with disordered
grief, in mingled tones of love and resentment, she ex-
claimed, " It is the last time, Werther ! You shall never
see me any more ! " Then, casting one last, tender look
upon her unfortunate lover, she rushed into the adjoining
room, and locked the door. Werther held out his arms,
but did not dare to detain her. He continued on the
ground, with his head resting on the sofa, for half an hour,
till he heard a noise which brought him to his senses. The
servant entered. He then walked up and down the room ;
and, when he was again left alone, he went to Charlotte's
door, and, in a low voice, said, " Charlotte, Charlotte ! but
one word more, one last adieu ! " She returned no an-
swer. He stopped, and listened and entreated ; but all was
silent. At length he tore himself from the place, crying,
" Adieu, Charlotte, adieu, forever ! "
Werther ran to the gate of the town. The guards, who
knew him, let him pass in silence. The night was dark and
stormy, — it rained and snowed. He reached his own door
about eleven. His servant, although seeing him enter the
house without his hat, did not venture to say any thing ;
and, as he undressed his master, he found that his clothes
were wet. His hat was afterwards found on the point of a
Vol 3 Goethe— 4
102
SORROWS OF WERTHER.
rock overhanging the valley ; and it is inconceivable how
he could have climbed to the summit on such a dark, tem-
pestuous night without losing his life.
He retired to bed, and slept to a late hour. The next
morning his servant, upon being called to bring his coffee,
found him writing. He was adding, to Charlotte, what we
here annex.
" For the last, last time, I open these eyes. Alas ! they
will behold the sun no more. It is covered by a thick,
impenetrable cloud. Yes, Nature ! put on mourning : your
child, your friend, your lover, draws near his end ! This
thought, Charlotte, is without parallel ; and yet it seems
like a mysterious dream when I repeat — this is my last day !
The last ! Charlotte, no word can adequately express this
thought. The last ! To-day I stand erect in all my strength
— to-morrow, cold and stark, I shall lie extended upon the
ground. To die ! What is death ? We do but dream in
our discourse upon it. I have seen many human beings die ;
but, so straitened is our feeble nature, we have no clear
conception of the beginning or the end of our existence.
At this moment I am my own — or rather I am thine, thine,
my adored ! — and the next we are parted, severed — perhaps
forever ! No, Charlotte, no ! How can I, how can you, be
annihilated? We exist. What is annihilation? A mere
word, an unmeaning sound that fixes no impression on the
mind. Dead, Charlotte ! laid in the cold earth, in the dark
and narrow grave ! I had a friend once who was every
thing to me in early youth. She died. I followe.d__her
hearse ; I stood by her grave when the coffin was lowered ;
and when I heard the creaking of the cords as they were
loosened and drawn up, when the first shovelful of earth
was thrown in, and the coffin returned a hollow sound,
which grew fainter and fainter till all was completely cov-
ered over, I threw myself on the ground ; my heart was smit-
ten, grieved, shattered, rent — but I neither knew what had
happened, nor what was to happen to me. Death ! the
grave ! I understand not the words. — Forgive, oh forgive
me ! Yesterday — ah, that day should have been the last of
my life ! Thou angel ! — for the first — first time in my ex-
istence, I felt rapture glow within my inmost soul. She
loves, she loves me! Still bums upon my lips the sacred
fire they received from thine. New torrents of delight
overwhelm my soul. Forgive me, oh forgive !
" I knew that I was dear to you ; I saw it in your first
SORROWS OF WERTHER. 103
entrancing look, knew it by the first pressure of your hand ;
but when I was absent from you, when I saw Albert at your
side, my doubts and fears returned.
" Do you remember the flowers you sent me, when, at
that crowded assembly, you could neither speak nor extend
your hand to me ? Half the night I was on my knees before
those flowers, and I regarded them as the pledges of your
love ; but those impressions grew fainter, and were at length
effaced.
" Every thing passes away ; but a whole eternity could
not extinguish the living flame which was yesterday kindled
by your lips, and which now burns within me. She loves
me ! These arms have encircled her waist, these lips have
trembled upon hers. She is mine ! Yes, Charlotte, you are
\^ine forever !
"And what do they mean by saying Albert is your
husband ? He may be so for this world ; and in this world
it is a sin to love you, to wish to tear you from his embrace.
Yes, it is a crime ; and I suffer the punishment, but I have
enjoyed the full delight of my sin. I have inhaled a balm
that has revived my soul. From this hour you are mine ;
' yes, Charlotte, you are mine! I go before you. I go to
my Father and to your Father. I will pour out my sorrows
before him, and he will give me comfort till you arrive.
Then will I fly to meet you. I will claim you, and remain
in your eternal embrace, in the presence of the Almighty.
" I do not dream, I do not rave. Drawing nearer to the
grave my perceptions become clearer. We shall exist ; we
shall see each other again ; we shall behold your mother ; I
shall behold her, and expose to her my inmost heart. Your
mother — your image ! "
About eleven o'clock Werther asked his servant if Albert
had returned. He answered, " Yes ; " for he had seen him
pass on horseback : upon which Werther sent him the fol-
lowing note, unsealed : —
"Be so good as to lend me jouv pistols for a jou rney .
Adieu,^- " '"^ '. • —
Charlotte had slept little during the past night. All her
apprehensions were realized in a way that she could neither
foresee nor avoid. Her blood was boiling in her veins, and
a thousand painful sensations rent her pure heart. Was it
the ardor of Werther's passionate embraces that she felt
within her bosom ? Was it anger at his daring ? Was it the
sad comparison of her present condition with former days
104 SORROWS OF WERTHER.
of innocence, tranquillity, and self-confidence ? How could
she approach her husband, and confess a scene which she
had no reason to conceal, and which she yet felt, nevertheless,
unwilling to avow ? They had preserved so loiig a silence
towards each other — and should she be the first to break it
Jt)y so unexpected a discovery?.. She feared that the mere
statement of Werther's visit would trouble him, and his dis-
tress would be heightened by her perfect candor. She wished
that he could see her in her true light, and judge her with-
out prejudice ; but was she anxious that he should read her
inmost soul ? On the other hand, could she deceive a being
to whom all her thoughts had ever been exposed as clearly
as crystal, and from whom no sentiment had ever been con-
cealed ? These reflections made her anxious and thoughtful.
Her mind still dwelt on Werther, who was now lost to her,
but whom she could not bring herself to resign, and for
whom she knew nothing was left but despair if she should
be lost to him forever.
A recollection of that mysterious estrangement which had
lately subsisted between herself and Albert, and which she
could never thoroughly understand, was now beyond meas-
ure painful to her. Even the prudent and the good have,
before now, hesitated to explain their mutual differences,
and have dwelt in silence upon their imaginary grievances,
until circumstances have become so entangled, that in that
critical juncture, when a calm explanation would have saved
all parties, an understanding was impossible. And thus if
domestic confidence had been earlier established between
jhem, if love and kind forbearance had mutually animated
and expanded their hearts, it might not, perhaps, even yet
ftiaye been too late to save our friend.
Jut we must not forget one remarkable circumstance.
We ma}^ observe from the character of Werther's corre-
spondence, that he had never affected to conceal his anxious
lesire to quit this world. He had often discussed the sub-
ject with Albert ; and, between the latter and Charlotte, it
had not unfrequently formed a topic of conversation. Al^-
bert was so opposed to the very idea of such an action, that,
with a degree of irritation unusual in him, he had more
than once given Werther to understand that he doubted the
seriousness of his threats, and not only turned them into
ridicule, but caused Charlotte to share his feelings of in-
credulity. Her heart was thus tranquillized when she felt
disposed to view the melancholy subject in a serious point
SOREOWS OF WERTHER. ' 105
of view, tliougli she never communicated to her husband the
apprehensions she sometimes experienced.
Albert, upon his reT:urn, was received by Charlotte with
111 -concealed embarrassment. He was himself out of
humor ; his business was unfinished ; and he had just dis-
covered that the neighboring official, with whom he had
to deal, was an obstinate and narrow-minded personage.
Many things had occurred to irritate him.
He inquired whether any thing had happened during his
absence, and Charlotte hastily answered that Werther had
been there on the evening previously. He then inquired
for his letters, and was answered that several packages had
been left in his study. He thereon retired, leaving Char-
lotte alone.
The jpresence of the being she loved and honored pro-
duced a new impression on her heart. The recollection of
his generosity, kindness, and affection had calmed her agi-
tation : a secret impulse prompted her to follow him ; she
took her work and went to his study, as was often her cus-
tom. He was busily employed opening and reading his
letters. It seemed as if the contents of some were disagree-
able. She asked some questions : he gave short answers,
and sat down to write.
Several hours passed in this manner, and Charlotte's
feelings became more and more melancholy. She felt the
extreme difficulty of explaining to her husband, under any
circuin stances, the weight that lay upon her heart ; and her
depression became every moment greater, in proportion as
she endeavored to hide her grief, and to conceal her tears^^
The arrival of Werther's servant occasioned her the great- ^
est embarrassment. He gave Albert a note, which the lat-
ter coldly handed to his wife, saying, at the same time,
" Give him the pistols. I wish him a pleasant journey," he
added, turning to the servant. These words fell upop.-^
Cliarlotte like a thunderstroke : she rose from her seat half-
fainting, and unconscious of what she did. She walked
mechanically towards the wall, took down the pistols with a
trembling hand, slowly wiped the dust from them, and
would have delayed longer, had not Albert hastened her
movements by an impatient look. She then delivered the
fatal weapons to the servant, without being able to utter a
word. As soon as he had departed, she folded up her work,
and retired at once to her room, her heart overcome with
the most fearful forebodings. She anticipated some dread-
106 SOKROWS OF WERTHER.
ful calamityT" Slie was at one moment on the point of going
to her husband, throwing herself at his feet, and acquaint-
ing him with all that had happened on the previous even-
ing, that she might acknowledge her fault, and explain her
apprehensions ; then she saw that such a step would be
useless, as she would certainly be unable to induce Albert
to visit Werther. Dinner was served ; and a kind friend
whom she had persuaded to remain assisted to sustain the
conversation, which was carried on by a sort of compulsion,
till the events of the morning were forgotten.
When the servant brought the pistols to Werther, the
latter received them with transports of delight upon hear-
ing that Charlotte had given them to him with her own
hand. TTA-af p some bread, drank some wine, sent his ser-
Vfljllh, to dinner, fl^ d ^h^^^ «Pt ^r^^rn in -t^rrif^ qq folloWS :
" They have been in your hands — you wiped the dust
from them. I kiss them a thousand times — you have
touched them. Yes, Heaven favors my design — and you,
Charlotte, provide me with the fatal instruments. It was
my desire to receivejmy^death^from your hands, and my
wish is gratified^ I have made inquiries of my servant.
You trembled when you gave him the pistols, but you bade
me no adieu. Wretched, wretched that I am — not one
farewell ! How could you shut your heart against me in
that hour which makes you mine forever ? O Charlotte,
ages cannot efface the impression — I feel you cannot hate
the man who so passionately loves you ! "
After dinner he called his servant, desired him to finish
the packing up, destroyed many papers, and then went out
to pay some trifling debts. He soon returned home, then
went out again notwithstanding the rain, walked for some
time in the count's garden, and afterwards proceeded
farther into the country. Towards evening he came back
once more, and resumed his writing.
" Wilhelm, I have for the last time beheld the mountains,
the forests, and the sky. Farewell ! And you, my dearest
mother, forgive me ! Console her, Wilhelm. God bless
you ! I have settled all my affairs ! Farewell ! We shall
I meet again, and be happier than ever."
" I have requited you badly, Albert ; but you will forgive
me. T have disturbed the peace of your home. I have
sowed distrust between you. Farewell ! I will end ail'
SOBROWS OF WERTHER. 107
this wretchedness. And oh, that my death may render you
happy! Albert, Albert ! Tnake that angel happy, and the
blessing of Heaven be upon you ! "
He spent the rest of the evening in arranging his papers :
he tore and burned a great many ; others he sealed up,
and directed to Wilhelm. They contained some detached
thoughts and maxims, some of which I have perused. At
ten o'clock he ordered his fire to be made up, and a bottle
of wine to be brought to him. He then dismissed his ser-
vant, whose room, as well as the apartments of the rest of
the family, was situated in another part of the house. The
servant lay down without undressing, that he might be the
sooner ready for his journey in the morning, his master
having informed him that the post-horses would be at the
door before six o'clock.
" Past eleven o'clock ! All is silent around me, and my
soul is calm. I thank thee, O God, that thou bestowest
strength and courage upon me in these last moments ! I
approach the window, my dearest of friends ; and through
the clouds, which are at this moment driven rapidly along by
the impetuous winds, I behold the stars which illumine the
eternal heavens. No, you will not fall, celestial bodies : the
hand of the Almighty supports both you and me ! I have
looked for the last time upon the constellation of the Greater
"Rear P it is my favorite star ; for when I bade you ferrGwell
at night, Charlotte, and turned my steps from your door, it
always shone upon me. With what rapture have I at times
beheld it ! How often have I implored it with uplifted
hands to witness my felicity ! and even stiU — But what
object is there, Charlotte, which fails to summon up your
image before me ? Do jou not surround me on all sides ?
and have I not, like a child, treasured up every trifle which
you have consecrated by your touch ?
" Your profile, which was so dear to me, I return to you ;
and I pray you to preserve it. Thousands of kisses have I
imprinted upon it, and a thousand times has it gladdened
my heart on departing from and returning to my home.
'* I have implored your father to protect my remains. At
the corner of the churchyard, looking towards the fields,^-
there are two lime-trees — there I wish to lie. Your father
can, and doubtless will, do thus much for his friend. Im-
plore it of him. But perhaps pious Christians will not
choose that their bodies should be buried near the corpse
of a poor, unhappy wretch like me. Then let me be laid in
108 SORROWS OF WERTHER.
some remote valley, or near the highway, where the priest
and Levite may bless themselves as they pass by my tomb,
whils t the Samaritan will shed a tear for my fate.
" See, Charlotte, I do not shudder toci^ake the cold and
ital cup, from which I shall drink the draught of death.
!'our hand presents it to me, and I do not tremble. All,
[all is now concluded : the wishes and the hopes of my
'existence are fulfilled. With cold, unflinching hand I knock
at the brazen portals of Death.
" Oh, that I had enjoyed the bliss of dying for you ! how
gladly would I have sacrificed myself for you, Charlotte !
And could I but restore peace and joy to your bosom, with
what resolution, with what joy, would I not meet my fate !
But it is the lot of only a chosen few to shed their blood for
their friends, and by their death to augment, a thousand
times, the happiness of those by whom they are beloved.
"I wish, Charlotte, to be buried in the dress I wear at
present : it has been rendered sacred by your touch. I have
begged this favor of your father. My spirit soars above my
sepulchre. I do not wish my pockets to be searched. The
knot of pink ribbon which you wore on your bosom the first-
time I saw you, surrounded by the children — Oh, kiss them
a thousand times for me, and tell them the fate of their
unhappy friend ! I think I see them playing around me.
The dear children ! How warmly have I been attached to
you, Charlotte ! Since the first hour I saw you, how impos-
sible have I found it to leave you. This ribbon must be
buried with me : it was a present from you on my birthday.
How confused it all appears ! Little did I then think that I
should journey this road. But peace ! I pray you, peace !
" They are loaded — the clock strikes twelve. I say amen.
Charlotte, Charlotte ! farewell, farewell ! "
A neighbor saw the flash, and heard the report of the
pistol ; but, as every thing remained quiet, he thought no
more of it.
In the morning, at six o'clock, the servant went into
Werther's room with a candle. He found his master
stretched upon the floor, weltering in his blood, and the
pistols at his side. He called, he took him in his arms, but
received no answer. Life was not yet quite extinct. The
servant ran for a surgeon, and then went to fetch Albert,
Charlotte heard the ringing of the bell : a cold shudder
seized her. She wakened her husband, and they both rose.
SORROWS OF WERTHER. 109
The servant, bathed in tears, faltered forth the dreadful
news. Charlotte fell senseless at Albert's feet.
When the surgeon came to the unfortunate Werther, he
was still lying on the floor ; and his pulse beat, but his limbs
were cold. The bullet, entering the forehead, over the right
eye, had penetrated the skull. A vein was opened in his
right arm : the blood came, and he* still continued to breathe.
) From the blood which flowed from the chair, it could be
(inferred that he had committed the rash act sitting at his
I bureau, and that he afterwards fell upon the floor. He was
) found lying^n his back near the window. He was in full-
\ dress costume.
The house, the neighborhood, and the whole town were
immediately in commotion. Albert arrived. They had laid
Werther on the bed : his head was bound up, and the pale-
ness of death was upon his face. His limbs were motion-
less; but he still breathed, at one time strongly, then
weaker — his death was momently expected.
He had drunk only Qgie glass of the wine. "Emilia
Galotti " lay open upon his bureau.
I shall say nothing of Albert's distress, or of Charlotte's
grief.
The old steward hastened to the house immediately upon
hearing the news: he embraced his dying friend amid a
flood of tears. His eldest boys soon followed him on foot.
In speechless sorrow they threw themselves on their knees
by the bedside, and kissed his hands and face. The eldest,
who was his favorite, hung over him till he expired ; and
even then he was removed by force. At tw^iv© o'clock
Werther breathed his last. The presence of the steward,
and the precautions he had adopted, prevented a disturb-
ance ; and that night, at the hour of eleven, he caused the
body to be interred in the place which Werther had selected
for himself.
The steward and his sons followed the corpse to the
grave. Albert was unable to accompany them. Charlotte's
life was despaired of. The body was carried by laborers.
No priest attended.
Elective Affinities.
ELECTIVE AFFINITIES.
PART L
CHAPTER I.
Edward (so we shall call a wealthy nobleman in the
prime of life) had been spending several hours of a fine
April morning in his nursery-garden, budding the stems of
some young trees with cuttings which had been recently sent
to him. He had finished what he had been about ; and,
having laid his tools together in their box, was complacently
surveying his work, when the gardener came up, and compli-
mented his master on his industry.
"Have you seen my wife anywhere?'* inquired Edward,
as he moved to go away.
"My lady is alone 3'onder in the new grounds," said the
man: "the summer-house which she has been making on
the rock over against the castle is finished to-day, and really
it is beautiful. It cannot fail to please your grace. The view
from it is perfect, — the village at your feet ; a little to your
right the church, with its tower, which you can just see over ;
and directly opposite you the castle and the garden."
" Quite true," replied Edward : " I can see the people at
work a few steps from where I am standing."
" And then, to the right of the church, again," continued
the gardener, " is the opening of the valley ; and you look
along over a range of wood and meadow far into the dis-
tance. The steps up the rock, too, are excellently arranged.
My lady understands these things : it is a pleasure to work
under her orders. "
111
112 ELECTIVE AFFINITIES.
'' Go to her," said Edward, " and desire her to be so good
as to wait for me there. Tell her I wish to see this new
creation of hers, and enjoy it with her."
The gardener went rapidly off, and Edward soon followed.
Descending the terrace, and stopping, as he passed, to look
into the hot-houses and the forcing-pits, he came presently to
the stream, and thence, over a narrow bridge, to a place
where the walk leading to the summer-house branched off in
two directions. One path led across the churchyard, imme-
diately up the face of the rock. The other, into which he
struck, wound away to the left, with a more gradual ascent,
through a pretty shrubbery. Where the two paths joined
again, a seat had been made, where he stopped a few moments
to rest ; and then, following the now single road, he found
himself, after scrambling along among steps and slopes of
all sorts and kinds, conducted at last through a narrow,
more or less steep, outlet to the summer-house.
Charlotte was standing at the door to receive her husband.
She made him sit down where, without moving, he could
command a view of the different landscapes through the
door and window, these serving as frames in which they
were set like pictures. Spring was coming on : a rich,
beautiful life would soon everywhere be bursting ; and
Edward spoke of it with delight.
"There is only one thing which I should observe," he
added : " the summer-house itself is rather small."
"It is large enough for you and me, at any rate,"
answered Charlotte.
"Certainly," said Edward: "there is room for a thu'd,
too, easily."
"Of course; and for a fourth also," replied Charlotte.
" For larger parties we can contrive other places."
" Now that we are here by ourselves, with no one to dis-
turb us, and in such a pleasant mood," said Edward, "it is
a good opportunity for me to tell you that I have for some
time had something on my mind, about which I have wished
to speak to you, but have never been able to muster up my
courage."
" I have observed that there has been something of the
sort," said Charlotte.
"And even now," Edward went on, "if it were not for
a letter which the post brought me this morning, and which
obliges me to come to some resolution to-day, I should very
likely have still kept it to myself."
ELECTIVE AFFINITIES. 113
"What is it?" asked Charlotte, turning affectionately
towards him.
"It concerns our friend the captain," answered Edward:
*' you hnow the unfortunate position in which he, like many
others, is placed. It is through no fault of his own, but
you may imagine how painful it must be for a person with
his know^ledge and talents and accomplishments to find him-
self without employment. I — I will not hesitate any longer
with what I am wishing for him : I should like to have him
here with us for a time."
"We must think about that," replied Charlotte: "it
should be considered on more sides than one."
"I am quite ready to tell you what I have in view,"
returned Edward. " Through his last letters there is a pre-
vailing tone of despondency, — not that he is really in any
want : he knows thoroughly well how to limit his expenses,
and I have taken care for every thing absolutely necessary.
It is no distress to him to accept obligations from me : all
our lives we have been in the habit of borrowing from and
lending to each other ; and we could not tell, if we would,
how our debtor and credit account stands. It is being with-
out occupation which is really fretting him. The many accom-
plishments which he has cultivated in himself it is his only
pleasure — indeed it is his passion — to be daily and hourly
exercising for the benefit of others. And now to sit still
with his anns folded ; or to go on studying, acquiring, and
acquiring, when he can make no use of what he already pos-
sesses, — my dear creature, it is a painful situation; and,
alone as he is, he feels it doubly and trebly."
" But I thought," said Charlotte, " that he had had offers
from many different quarters. I myself wrote to numbers
of my own friends, male and female, for him, and, as I
have reason to believe, not without effect."
"It is true," replied Edward; "but these very offers,
these various proposals, have only caused him fresh embar-
rassment. Not one of them is at all suitable to such a
person as he is. He would have nothing to do : he would
have to sacrifice himself, his time, his purposes, his whole
method of life ; and to that he cannot bring himself. The
more I think of it all, the more I feel about it, and the more
anxious I am to see him here with us."
" It is very beautiful and amiable on your part," answered
Charlotte, "to enter with so much sympathy into your
friend's position ; only, you must allow me to ask you to
think of yourself and of me, as well."
114 ELECTIVE AFFINITIES.
"I have done that,'* replied Edward. " For ourselves,
we can have nothing to expect from his presence Trith us,
except pleasure and advantage. I will say nothing of the
expense. In any case, if he came to us, it would be but
small ; and you know he will be of no inconvenience to us
at all. He can have his own rooms in the right wing of the
castle, and every thing else can be arranged as simply as
possible. What shall we not be thus doing for him ! and
how agreeable and how profitable may not his society prove
to us ! I have long been wishing for a plan of the property
and the grounds. He will see to it, and get it made. You
intend, yourself, to take the management of the estate, as
soon as our present steward's term is expired ; and that, you
know, is a serious thing. His various information will be
of immense benefit to us : I feel only too acutely how much
I require a person of this kind. The country people have
knowledge enough ; but their way of imparting it is con-
fused, and not always honest. The students from the towns
and universities are sufficiently clever and orderly, but they
are deficient in personal experience. From my friend, I can
promise myself both knowledge and method ; and hundreds
of other circumstances I can easily conceive arising, affect-
ing you as well as me, and from which I can foresee innum-
erable advantages. Thank you for so patiently listening to
me. Now, do you say what you think, and say it out freely
and fully : I will not interrupt you."
"Very well," replied Charlotte: "I will begin at once
with a general observation. Men think most of the imme-
diate — the present ; and rightly, their calling being to do
and to work. Women, on the other hand, more of how
things hang together in life : and that rightly, too, because
their destiny — the destiny of their families — is bound up
in this interdependence ; and it is exactly this which it is their
mission to promote. So, now, let us cast a glance at our
present and our past life ; and you will acknowledge that
the invitation of the captain does not fall in so entirely with
our purposes, our plans, and our arrangements. I will go
back to those happy days of our earliest intercourse. We
loved each other, young as we then were, with all our hearts.
We were parted : you from me — your father, from an insa-
tiable desire of wealth, choosing to marry you to an elderly
and rich lady ; I from you, having to give my hand, without
any especial motive, to an excellent man, whom I respected,
if I did not love. We became again free — you first, your
ELECTIVE AFFINITIES. 115
poor mother at the same time leaving you in possession of
your large fortune ; I later, just at the time when you re-
turned from abroad. So we met once more. We epoke of
the past ; we could enjoy and love the recollection of it ; we
might have been contented, in each other's society, to leave
things as they were. You were urgent for our marriage. I
at first hesitated. We were about the same age ; but I, as
a woman, had grown older than you as a man. At last 1
could not refuse you what you seemed to think the one thing
you cared for. All the discomfort you had ever experienced,
at court, in the army, or in travelling, you were to recover
from at my side. You would settle down, and enjoy life,
but only with me for your companion. I placed my daughter
at a school where she could be more completely educated than
would be possible in the retirement of the country ; and I
placed my niece Ottilie there with her as well, who, perhaps,
would have grown up better at home with me, under my
own care. This was done with your consent, merely that
we might have our own lives to ourselves, — merely that we
might enjoy undisturbed our so-long-wished-for, so-long-,
delayed, happiness. We came here, and settled ourselves.
I undertook the domestic part of the mhiage; you, the out-
of-doors, and the general control. My own principle has
been to meet your wishes in every thing, to live only for
you. At least, let us give ourselves a fair trial how far in
this way we can be enough for one another.''
" Since the interdependence of things, as you call it, is
your especial element," replied Edward, " one should either
never listen to any of your trains of reasoning, or make up
one's mind to allow you to be in the right ; and, indeed, you
have been in the right up to the present day. The founda-
tion which we have hitherto been laying for ourselves is of
the true, sound sort ; only, are we to build nothing upon it?
is nothing to be developed out of it? All the work we have
done, — I in the garden, you in the park, — is it all only for
a pair of hermits ? ' '
"Well, well," replied Charlotte, ''very well. What we
have to look to is, that we introduce no alien element, noth-
ing which shall cross or obstruct us. Remember, our plans,
even those which only concern our amusements, depend
mainly on our being together. You were to read to me, in
consecutive order, the journal which you made when you
were abroad. You were to take the opportunity of arran-
ging it, putting all the loose matter connected with it in its
116 ELECTIVE AFFINITIES.
place ; and, with me to work with you and help you, out of
these invaluable but chaotic leaves and sheets, to put
together a complete thing, which should give pleasure to
ourselves and to others. I promised to assist you in tran-
scribing ; and we thought it would be so pleasant, so de-
lightful, so charming, to travel over in recollection the world
which we were unable to see together. The beginning is
already made. Then, in the evenings, you have taken up
your flute again, accompanying me on the piano ; while, of
visits backwards and forwards among the neighborhood,
there is abundance. For my part, I have been promising
myself out of all this the first really happy summer I have
ever thought to spend in my life."
"Only, I cannot see," replied Edward, rubbing his fore-
head, " how, through every bit of this which you have been
so sweetly and so sensibly laying before me, the captain's
presence can be any interruption : I should rather have
thought it would give it all fresh zest and life. He was my
companion during a part of my travels. He made many
observations from a different point of view from mine. We
can put it all together, and so make a charmingly complete
work of it."
"Well, then, I will acknowledge openly," answered Char-
lotte, with some impatience, "my feeling is against this
plan. I have an instinct which tells me no good will come
of it."
" You women are invincible in this way," replied Edward.
" You are so sensible that there is no answering you ; then,
so affectionate, that one is glad to give way to you ; full of
feelings, which one cannot wound ; and full of forebodings,
which terrify one."
"I am not superstitious," said Charlotte: "and I care
nothing for these dim sensations, merely as such ; but, in
general, they are the result of unconscious recollections of
happy or unhappy consequences, which we have experienced
as following on our own or others' actions. Nothing is of
greater moment, in any state of things, than the intervention
of a third person. I have seen friends, brothers and sisters,
lovers, husbands and wives, whose relation to* each other,
through the accidental or intentional introduction of a third
person, has been altogether changed, — whose whole moral
condition has been inverted by it."
" That may very well be," replied Edward, " with people
who live on, without looking where they are going ; but
ELECTIVE AFFINITIES. 117
not, surely, with persons who have attained to self -con-
sciousness."
" Self-consciousness, my dearest husband," insisted Char-
lotte, " is not a sufficient weapon. It is very often a most
dangerous one for the person who bears it. And, out of all
this, at least so much seems to arise, that we should not be
in too great a hurry. Let me have a few days to think :
don't decide."
''As the matter stands," returned Edward, ''however
many days we wait, we shall still be in too great a hurry.
The arguments for and against are all before us ; all we want
is the conclusion ; and, as things are, I think the best thing
we can do is to draw lots."
" I know," said Charlotte, " that, in doubtful cases, it is
your way to leave them to chance. To me, in such a serious
matter, this seems almost a crime."
" Then, what am I to write to the captain? " cried Edward ;
" for write I must at once."
"Write him a kind, sensible, sympathizing letter," an-
swered Charlotte.
" That is as good as none at all," replied Edward.
"And there are many cases," answered she, "in which
we are obliged, and in which it is the real kindness, rather
to write nothing than not to write."
CHAPTER II.
Edward was alone in his room. The repetition of the
incidents of his life from Charlotte's lips ; the representation
of their mutual situation, their mutual purposes, — had worked
him, sensitive as he was, into a very pleasant state of mind.
While close to her — while in her presence — he had felt so
happy, that he had thought out a warm, kind, but quiet and
indefinite, epistle which he would send to the captain.
When, however, he had settled himself at his writing-table,
and taken up his friend's letter to read it over once more, the
sad condition of this excellent man rose again vividly before
him. The feelings which had been all day distressing hin?
again awoke, and it appeared impossible to him to leave one
whom he called his friend in such painful embarrassment.
118 ELECTIVE AFFINITIES.
Edward was unaccustomed to deny himself any thing.
The only child, and consequently the spoiled child, of wealthy
parents, who had persuaded him into a singular but highly
advantageous marriage with a lady far older than himself ;
and again by her petted and indulged in every possible way,
she seeking to reward his kindness to her by the utmost
liberality ; after her early death his own master, travelling
independently of every one, equal to all contingencies and all
changes, with desires never excessive, but multiple and
various, — free-hearted, generous, brave, at times even noble,
— what was there in the world to cross or thwart him ?
Hitherto every thing had gone as he desired. Charlotte
had become his ; he had won her at last, with an obstinate, a
romantic fidelity : and now he felt himself, for the first time,
contradicted, crossed in his wishes, when those wishes were
to invite to his home the friend of his youth, — just as he was
longing, as it were, to throw open his whole heart to him.
He felt annoyed, impatient : he took up his pen again and
again, and as often threw it down again because he could
not make up his mind what to write. He would not go
counter to his wife's wishes : still less could he go counter
to her expressed desire. Ill at ease as he was, it would have
been impossible for him, even if he had wished, to write a
quiet, easy letter. The most natural thing to do, was to put
it off. In a few words, he begged his friend to forgive him
for having left his letter unanswered : that day he was unable
to write circumstantially, but shortly he hoped to be able to
tell him what he felt at greater length.
The next day, as they were walking to the same spot,
Charlotte took the opportunity of bringing back the conver-
sation to the subject ; perhaps because she knew that there
is no surer way of rooting out any plan or purpose than by
often talking it over.
It was what Edward was wishing. He expressed himself
in his own way, kindly and sweetly. For although, sensitive
as he was, he flamed up readily, — although the vehemence
with which he desired any thing made him pressing, and his
obstinacy made him impatient, — his words were so softened
by his wish to spare the feelings of those to whom he was
speaking, that it was impossible not to be charmed, even
when one most disagreed with him.
On that morning he first contrived to bring Charlotte into
the happiest humor, and then so disarmed her with the grace-
ful turn which he gave to the conversation, that she cried out
at last, —
ELECTIVE AFFINITIES. 119
" You arc determined that what I refuse to the husband
you will make me grant to the lover. At least, my dearest,"
she continued, " I will acknowledge that your wishes, and the
warmth and sweetness with which you express them, have not
left me untouched, have not left me unmoved. You drive me
to make a confession : until now I, too, have had a conceal-
ment from you ; I am in exactly the same position with you,
and I have hitherto been putting the same restraint on my
inclination which I have been exhorting you to put on
yours."
" Glad am I to hear that," said Edward. " In the married
state, a difference of opinion now and then, I see, is no bad
thing. We learn something of one another by it."
" You are to learn at present, then," said Charlotte, ''that
I feel with regard to Ottilie as you do with regard to the
captain. The dear child is most uncomfortable at the school,
and I am thoroughly uneasy about her. Luciana, my daugh-
ter, born as she is for the world, is there training hourly for
the world : languages, history, every thing that is taught
there, she acquires with so much ease, that, as it were, she
learns them off at sight. She has quick natural gifts, and
an excellent memory : one may almost say she forgets every
thing, and in a moment calls it all back again. She distin-
guishes herself above every one at the school with the freedom
of her carriage, the grace of her movement, and the elegance
of her address, and, with the inborn royalty of nature, makes
herself the queen of the little circle there. The superior
of the establishment regards her as a little divinity, who
under her hands is shaping into excellence, and who will
do her honor, gain her reputation, and bring her a large
increase of pupils : the first pages of this good lady's letters,
and her monthly notices of progress, are forever hymns about
the excellence of such a child, which I have to translate into
my own prose ; while her concluding sentences about Ottilie
are nothing but excuse after excuse, — attempts at explaining
how it can be that a girl in other respects growing up so
lovely seems coming to nothing, and shows neither capacity
nor accomplishment. This, and the little she has to say
besides, is no riddle to me ; because I can see in this dear
child the same character as that of her mother, who was my
own dearest friend, who grew up with myself, and whose
daughter, I am certain, if I had the care of her education,
would form into an exquisite creature.
" This, however, has not fallen in with our plan ; and as one
120 ELECTIVE AFFINITIES.
ought not to be picking and pulling, or forever introducing
new elements among the conditions of our life, I think it
better to bear, and to conquer as I can, even the unpleasant
impression that my daughter, who knows very well that
poor Ottilie is entirely dependent upon us, does not refrain
from flourishing her own successes in her face, and so, to a
certain extent, destroys the little good which we have done
for her. Who are well enough trained never to wound
others by a parade of their own advantages ? and who stands
so high as not at times to suffer under such a slight? In
trials like these, Ottilie's character is growing in strength;
but, since I have clearly known the painfulness of her situa-
tion, I have been thinking over all possible ways to make some
other arrangement. Every hour I am expecting an answer
to my own last letter, and then I do not mean to hesitate any
more. So, my dear Edward, it is with me. We have both,
you see, the same sorrows to bear, touching both our hearts
in the same point. Let us bear them together, since we
neither of us can press our own against the other."
" We are strange creatures," said Edward, smiling. '' If
we can only put out of sight any thing which troubles us, we
fancy at once we have got rid of it. We can give up much
in the large and general, but to make sacrifices in little things
is a demand to which we are rarely equal. So it was with
my mother, — as long as I lived with her, while a boy and
a young man, she could not bear to let me be a moment out
of her sight. If I was out later than usual in my ride, some
misfortune must have happened to me. If I got wet through
in a shower, a fever was inevitable. I travelled : I was
absent from her altogether ; and, at once, I scarcely seemed
to belong to her. If we look at it closer," he continued,
" we are both acting very foolishly, very culpably. Two
very noble natures, both of which have the closest claims on
our affection, we are leaving exposed to pain and distress,
merely to avoid exposing ourselves to a chance of danger.
If this is not to be called selfish, what is? You take Ottilie ;
let me have the captain : and for a short period, at least,
let the trial be made."
" We might venture it," said Charlotte thoughtfully, ''if
the danger were only to ourselves. But do you think it
prudent to bring Ottilie and the captain into a situation
where they must necessarily be so dosely intimate, — the
captain a man no older than yourself, of an age (I am not
sayiug this to flatter you) when a man becomes first capable
ELECTIVE AFFINITIES. 121
of love and first deserving of it, and a girl of Ottilie's attrac-
tiveness ? ' '
" I cannot conceive how you can rate Ottilie so high,"
replied Edward. "I can only explain it to myself by sup-
posing her to have inherited your affection for her mother.
Pretty she is, no doubt. I remember the captain telling me
so, when we came back last year, and met her at your aunt's.
Attractive she is, — she has particularly pretty eyes; but I
do not know that she made the slightest impression upon
me."
" That was quite proper in you," said Charlotte, " seeing
that I was there ; and, although she is much younger than I,
the presence of your old friend had so many charms for you,
that you overlooked the promise of the opening beauty. It
is one of your ways, and that is one reason why it is so
pleasant to live with you."
Charlotte, openly as she appeared to be speaking, was
keeping back something, nevertheless, which was, that, at
the time when Edward first came back from abroad, she had
purposely thrown Ottilie in his way, to secure, if possible, so
desirable a match for her protegee. For of herself, at that
time, in connection with Edward, she never thought at all.
The captain, also, had a hint given to him to draw Edward's
attention to her ; but the latter, who was clinging deter-
minately to his early affection for Charlotte, looked neither
right nor left, and was only happy in the feeling that it was
at last within his power to obtain for himself the one happi-
ness which he so earnestly desired, and which a series of
incidents had appeared to have placed forever beyond his
reach.
They were on the point of descending the new gi'ounds,
newly laid out, in order to return to the castle, when a ser-
vant came hastily to meet them, and, with a laugh on his
face, called up from below, " Will j^our grace be pleased
to come quickly to the castle ? The Hsrr Mittler has just
galloped into the court. He shouted to us, to go all of us in
search of you ; and we were to ask whether there was need,
'whether there is need,' he cried after us, 'do you hear?
but be quick, be quick.' "
" The odd fellow ! " exclaimed Edward. " But has he not
come at the right time, Charlotte? Tell him, there is need,
— grievous need. He must alight. See his horse taken care
of. Take him into the saloon, and let him have some lun-
cheon. We shall be with him immediately."
122 ELECTIVE AFFINITIES.
" Let us take the nearest way," he said to his wife, and
struck into the path across the churchyard, which he usually
avoided. He was not a little surprised to find here, too,
traces of Charlotte's delicate hand. Sparing, as far as pos-
sible, the old monuments, she had contrived to level it, and
lay it carefully out, so as to make it appear a pleasant spot
on which the eye and the imagination could equally repose
with pleasure. The oldest stones had each their special
honor assigned them. They were ranged according to their
dates along the wall, either leaning against it, or let into
it, or however it could be contrived ; and the string-course
of the church was thus variously ornamented.
Edward was singularly affected as he came in upon it
through the little wicket : he pressed Charlotte's hand, and
tears started into his eyes. But these were very soon put to
flight by the appearance of their singular visitor. This
gentleman had declined sitting down in the castle : he had
ridden straight through the village to the churchyard-gate ;
and then, halting, he called out to his friends, " Are you not
making a fool of me? Is there need, really? If there is, I
can stay till midday. But don't keep me. I have a great
deal to do before night."
" Since you have taken the trouble to come so far," cried
Edward to him, in answer, "you had better come through
the gate. We meet at a solemn spot. Come and see the
variety which Charlotte has thrown over its sadness."
" Inside there," called out the rider, " come I neither on
horseback, nor in carriage, nor on foot. These here rest in
peace : with them I have nothing to do. One day I shall be
carried in feet foremost. I must bear that as I can. — Is
it serious, I want to know? "
"Indeed it is," cried Charlotte, "right serious. For
the first time in our married lives we are in a strait and
difficulty, from which we do not know how to extricate
ourselves."
" You do not look as if it were so," answered he. " But
I will believe you. If you are deceiving me, for the future
j^ou shall help yourselves. Follow me quickly : my horse
will be none the worse for a rest."
The three soon met in the parlor, where luncheon was
brought in ; and Mittler told them what he had done, and was
going to do on that day. This eccentric person had in early
life been a clergyman, and had distinguished himself in his
office by the never-resting activity with which he contrived to
ELECTIVE AFFINITIES. 123
make ii[) and put an end to quarrels, — quarrels in families,
and quarrels between neighbors ; first among the individuals
immediately about him, and afterwards among whole con-
gregations, and among the country gentlemen round. While
he was in the ministrj^ no married couple were allowed to
separate ; and the district courts were untroubled with either
cause or process. A knowledge of the law, he was well
aware, was necessary to him. He gave himself with all his
might to the study of it, and very soon felt himself a match
for the best- trained advocate. His circle of activity ex-
tended wonderfully ; and people were on the point of indu-
cing him to move to the Residence, where he would find
opportunities of exercising in theJiigher circles what he had
begun in the lowest, when he won a considerable sum of
money in a lottery. With this he bought himself a small
property. He let the ground to a tenant, and made it the
centre of his operations, with the fixed determination, or
rather in accordance with his old customs and inclinations,
never to enter a house when there was no dispute to make
up, and no help to be given. People who were superstitious
about names, and about what they imported, maintained that
it w^as his being called Mittler which drove him to take upon
himself this strange employment.
Luncheon was laid on the table, and the stranger then
solemnly pressed his host not to wait any longer with the
disclosure which he had to make. Immediately after refresh-
ing himself he would be obliged to leave them.
Husband and wife made a circumstantial confession ; but
scarcely had he caught the substance of the matter, when he
started angrily up from the table, rushed out of the saloon,
and ordered his horse to be saddled instantly.
"Either you do not know me, you do not understand
me," he cried, "or you are sorely mischievous. Do you
call this a quarrel ? Is there any want of help here ? Do
you suppose that I am in the world to give advice f Of all
occupations which man can pursue, that is the most foolish.
Every man must be his own counsellor, and do what he can-
not let alone. If all go well, let him be happy, let him
enjoy his wisdom and his fortune ; if it go ill, I am at hand to
do what I can for him. The man who desires to be rid of
an evil, knows what he wants ; but the man who desires
something better than he has is stone-blind. Yes, yes,
laugh as you will, he is playing blindman's-buff : perhaps
he gets hold of something ; but the question is, what he has
124 ELECTIVE AFFINITIES.
got hold of. Do as you will : it is all one. Invite your
friends to you, or let them be : it is all the same. The most
prudent plans I have seen miscarry, and the most foolish
succeed. Don't split your brains about it : and if, one way
or the other, evil comes of what you settle, don't fret ; send
for me, and you shall be helped. Till which time I am your
humble servant."
So saying, he sprang on his horse, without waiting the
arrival of the coffee.
''Here you see," said Charlotte, "the small service a
third person can be when things are off their balance
between two persons closely connected : we are left, if pos-
sible, more confused and more uncertain than we were."
They would both probably have continued hesitating some
time longer, had not a letter arrived from the captain in
reply to Edward's last. He had made up his mind to
accept one of the situations which had been offered him,
although it was not in the least up to his mark. He was to
share the ennui of certain wealthy persons of rank, who
depended on his ability to dissipate it.
Edward's keen glance saw into the whole thing ; and he
pictured it out in just, sharp lines.
"Can we endure to think of our friend in such a posi-
tion? " he cried. " You cannot be so cruel, Charlotte."
"That strange Mittler is right, after all," replied Char-
lotte : "all such undertakings are ventures ; what will come
of them, it is impossil'le to foresee. New elements intro-
duced among us may be fruitful in fortune or in misfortune,
without our having to take credit to ourselves for one or the
other. I do not feel myself firm enough to oppose you
further. Let us make the experiment ; only one thing 1
will entreat of you, — that it be only for a short time. You
must allow me to exert myself more than ever, to use all
my influence among all my connections, to find him some
position which will satisfy him in his own way."
Edward assured his wife of his warmest gratitude. He
hastened with a light, happy heart, to write oft' his proposals
to his friend. Charlotte in a postscript was to signify her
approbation with her own hand, and unite her own kind
entreaties with his. She wrote, with a rapid pen, pleasantly
and affectionately, but yet with a sort of haste which was
not usual with her ; and, most unlike herself, she disfigured
the paper at last with a blot of ink, which put her out of
temper, and which she only made worse with her attempts
to wipe it away.
ELFXTIVE AFFINITIES. 125
Edward laughed at her about it ; and, as there was still
room, added a second postscript, that his friend was to see
from this symptom the impatience with which he was ex-
pected, and measure the speed at which he came to them
iDy the haste in which the letter was written.
The messenger was gone ; and Edward thought he could
not give a more convincing evidence of his gratitude than by
insisting again and again that Charlotte should at once send
for Ottilie from the school. She said she would think about
it, and, for that evening, induced Edward to join with her
in the enjoyment of a little music. Charlotte played ex-
ceedingly well on the piano, Edward not quite so well on the
flute. He had taken a great deal of pains with it at times ;
but he lacked the patience, the perseverance, requisite for
the completely successful cultivation of such a talent. Con-
sequently his part was done unequally : some pieces well,
only perhaps too quickly ; while with others he hesitated,
not being quite familiar with them ; so that, for any one
else, it would have been difficult to have gone through a
duet with him. But Charlotte knew how to manage it. She
held in, or let herself be run away with, and fulfilled in this
way the double part of a skilful conductor and a prudent
house- wife, who are able always to keep right on the whole,
although particular passages will now and then fall out of
order.
CHAPTER III.
The captain came, having previously written a most
sensible letter, which had entirely quieted Charlotte's appre-
hensions. So much clearness about himself, so just an
understanding of his own position and the position of his
friends, promised every thing which was best and happiest.
The conversation of the first few hours, as is generally
the case with friends who have not met for a long time, was
eager, lively, almost exhausting. Towards evening Char-
lotte proposed a walk to the new grounds. The captain was
delighted with the spot, and observed every beauty which
had been first brought into sight and made enjoyable by the
new walks. He had a practised eye, and at the same time
one easily satisfied ; and, although he knew very well what
126 ELECTIVE AFFINITIES.
was really valuable, he never, as so many persons do, made
people who were showing him things of their own uncomfort-
able by requiring more than the circumstances admitted of,
or by mentioning any thing more perfect which he remem-
bered having seen elsewhere.
When they arrived at the summer-house, they found it
dressed out for a holiday, only, indeed, with artificial flowers
and evergreens, but with some pretty bunches of natural
corn-ears among them, and other field and garden fruit, so
as to do credit to the taste which had arranged them.
"Although my husband does not like in general to have
his birthday or christening-day kept," Charlotte said, "he
will not object to-day to these few ornaments being expended
on a treble festival."
" Treble? " cried Edward.
"Yes, indeed," she replied. "Our friend's arrival here
we are bound to keep as a festival ; and have you never
thought, either of you, that this is the day on which you
were both christened ? Are you not both named Otto ? ' '
The two friends shook hands across the little table.
" You bring back to my mind," Edward said, " this little
link of our boyish affection. As children we were both
called so : but, when we came to be at school together, it
was the cause of much confusion ; and I readily made over
to him all my right to the pretty, laconic name."
" Wherein you were not altogether so very high-minded,"
said the captain; "for I well remember that the name of
Edward had then begun to please you better, from its attrac-
tive sound when spoken by certain pretty lips."
They were now all three sitting round the same table
where Charlotte had spoken so vehemently against their
guest's coming to them. Edward, happy as he was, did not
wish to remind his wife of that time ; but he could not help
saying, —
" There is good room here for one more person."
At this moment the notes of a bugle were heard across
from the castle. Full of happy thoughts and feelings as the
friends all were together, the sound fell in among them with
a strong force of answering harmony. They listened silently ;
each for the moment withdrawing into himself, and feeling
doubly happy in the fair circle of which he formed a part.
The pause was first broken by Edward, who started up, and
walked out in front of the sununer-house.
" Our friend must not think," he said to Charlotte, " that
ELECTIVE AFFINITIES. 127
this narrow little valley forms the whole of our domain and
possessions. Let ns take him up to the top of the hill,
where he can see farther, and breathe more freely."
"For this once, then," answered Charlotte, "we must
climb up the old footpath, which is not too easy. By the
next time, I hope my walks and steps will have been carried
right up."
And so, among rocks and shrubs and bushes, they made
their way to the summit, where they found themselves, not
on a level flat, but on a sloping grassy terrace, running along
the ridge of the hill. The village, with the castle behind it,
was out of sight. At the bottom of the valley, sheets of
water were seen spreading out right and left, with wooded
hills rising immediately from their opposite margin, and, at
the end of the upper water, a wall of sharp, precipitous rocks
directly overhanging it, their huge forms reflected in its level
surface. In the hollow of the ravine, where a considerable
brook ran into the lake, lay a mill half hidden among the
trees, a sweetly retired spot, most beautifully surrounded ;
and through the entire semicircle, over which the view
extended, ran an endless variet}^ of hills and valleys, copse
and forest, the early green of which promised the near
approach of a luxuriant clothing of foliage. In many places
particular groups of trees caught the eye, and especially a
cluster of planes and poplars directly at the spectator's feet,
close to the edge of the centre lake. They were at their full
growth ; and they stood there, spreading out their boughs
all around them, in fresh and luxuriant strength.
To these Edward called his friend's attention.
" I myself planted them," he cried, " when I was a boy.
They were small trees which I rescued when my father was
laying out the new part of the great castle garden, and in
the middle of one summer had rooted them out. This year
you will no doubt see them show their gratitude in a fresh
set of shoots."
They returned to the castle in high spirits, and mutually
pleased with each other. To the guest was allotted an agree-
able and roomy set of apartments in the right wing of the
castle ; and here he rapidly got his books and papers and
instruments in order, to go on with his usual occupation.
But Edward, for the first few days, gave him no rest. He
took him about ever3^where, now on foot, now on horseback,
making him acquainted with the country and with the estate ;
and he embraced the opportunity of imparting to liiui the
128 ELECTIVE AFFINITIES.
wishes, which he had been long entertaining, of getting at
some better acquaintance with it, and learning to manage it
more profitably.
" The first thing we have to do," said the captain, 'Ms to
make a magnetic survey of the property. That is a pleasant
and easy matter ; and, if it does not admit of entire exact-
ness, it will be always useful, and will do, at any rate, for
an agreeable beginning. It can be made, too, without any
great staff of assistants ; and one can be sure of getting
it completed. If by and by you come to require any thing
more exact, it will be easy then to find some plan to have it
made."
The captain was exceedingly skilful at work of this kind.
He had brought with him whatever instruments he required,
and commenced immediately. Edward provided him with a
number of foresters and peasants, who, with his instruction,
were able to render him all necessary assistance. The weather
was favorable. The evenings and the early mornings were
devoted to the designing and drawing ; and, in a short time,
it was all filled in and colored. Edward saw his possessions
grow out, like a new creation, upon the paper ; and it seemed
as if now, for the first time, he knew what they were, as if
they now, first, were properly his own.
There occurred opportunities of speaking about the park,
and the ways of laying it out, — a far better disposition of
things being made possible, after a survey of this kind, than
could be arrived at by experimenting on nature, on partial
and accidental impressions.
" We must make my wife understand this," said Edward.
"We must do nothing of the kind," replied the captain,
who did not like bringing his own notions in collision with
those of others. He had learned by experience that the
motives and purposes by which men are influenced are far
too various to be made to coalesce upon a single point, even
on the most solid representations. "We must not do it,"
he cried : " she will be only confused. With her, as with all
people who employ themselves on such matters merely as
amateurs, the important thing is, rather that she shall do
something, than that Bomething shall be done. Such persons
feel their way with nature. They have fancies for this plan
or that : they do not venture on removing obstacles. They
are not bold enough to make a sacrifice. They do not know
beforehand in what their work is to result. They try an
experiment — it succeeds — it fails ; they alter it ; they alter,
ELECTIVE AFFINITIES. 129
perhaps, what they ought to leave alone, and leave what they
ought to alter ; and so, at last, there always remains but a
patchwork, which pleases and amuses, but never satisfies."
" Acknowledge candidly," said Edward, " that you do not
like this new work of hers."
"The idea is excellent," he replied: "if the execution
were equal to it, there would be no fault to find. But she
has tormented herself to find her way up that rock ; and she
now torments every one, if you must have it, that she takes
up after her. You cannot walk together, you cannot walk
behind one another, with any freedom. Every moment your
step is interrupted one way or another. There is no end to
the mistakes which she has made."
"Would it have been easy to do it otherwise?" asked
Edward.
' ' Very easy, ' ' replied the captain. ' ' She had only to break
away a corner of the rock, — which is now but an unsightly
object, made up as it is of little pieces, — and she would at
once have a sweep for her walk, and stone in abundance for
the rough masonry- work, to widen it in the bad places, and
make it smooth. But this I tell you in strictest confidence,
or else it will confuse and annoy her. What is done must
remain as it is. If any more money and labor are to be spent
there, there is abundance to do above the summer-house on
the hill, which we can settle our own way."
If the two friends found in their occupation abundance of
present employment, there was no lack either of entertaining
reminiscences of early times, in which Charlotte took her
part as well. They determined, moreover, that, as soon as
their immediate labors were finished, they would go to work
upon the journal, and in this way, too, reproduce the past.
For the rest, when Edward and Charlotte were alone, there
were fewer matters of private interest between them than
formerly. This was especially the case since the fault-finding
about the grounds, which Edward thought so just, and which
he felt to the quick. He held his tongue about what the
captain had said for a long time ; but at last, when he saw
his wife again preparing to go to work above the summer-
house with her paths and steps, he could not contain himself
any longer, but, after a few circumlocutions, came out with
his new views.
Charlotte was thoroughly disturbed. She was sensible
enough to perceive at once that they were right ; but there
was the difficult^ with what was already done, — and what
130 ELECTIVE AFFINITIES.
was made was made. She had liked it : even what was
wrong had become dear to her in its details. She fought
against her convictions ; she pleaded for her little creations ;
she railed at men who were forever going to the broad and
the great. They could not let a pastime, they could not let
an amusement, alone, she said ; but they must go and make
a work out of it, never thinking of the expense which their
larger plans involved. She was provoked, annoyed, and
angry. Her old plans she could not give up, the new she
would not quite throw from her ; but, divided as she was,
for the present she put a stop to the work, and gave herself
time to think the thing over, and let it ripen by itself.
At the same time that she lost this source of active amuse-
ment, the others were more and more together over their
own business. They took to occupying themselves, more-
over, with the flower-garden and the hot-houses ; and, as
they filled up the intervals with the ordinary gentlemen's
amusements, — hunting, riding, buying, selling, breaking
horses, and such matters, — she was every day left more
and more to herself. She devoted herself more assiduously
than ever to her correspondence on account of the captain,
and yet she had many lonely hours ; so that the information
which she now received from the school became of more
agreeable interest.
To a long-drawn letter of the superior of the establish-
ment, filled with the usual expressions of delight at her
daughter's progress, a brief postscript was attached, with a
second from the hand of a gentleman in employment there
as an assistant, both of which we here communicate.
POSTSCRIPT OF THE SUPERIOR.
"Of Ottilie, I can only repeat to your ladyship what 1
have already stated in my former letters. I do not know
how to find fault with her, yet I cannot say that I am satis-
fied. She is alwaj^s unassuming, always ready to oblige
others ; but it is not pleasing to see her so timid, so almost
servile.
" Your ladyship lately sent her some money, with several
little matters for her wardrobe. The mone}^ she has never
touched, the dresses lay unworn in their place. She keeps
her things very nice and very clean, but this is all she seems
to care about. Again, I cannot praise her excessive abste-
miousness in eating and drinking. There is no extiavagauce
ELECTIVE AFFINITIES. 181
at our table ; but there is nothing I like better than to see
the children eat enough of good, wholesome food. What is
carefully provided and set before them ought to be taken,
and to this I never can succeed in bringing Ottilie. She is
always making herself some occupation or other, always
finding something which she must do, something which the
servants have neglected, to escape the second course or the
dessert ; and now it has to be considered (which I cannot
help connecting with all this) that she frequently suffers, I
have lately learned, from pain in the left side of her head.
It is only at times ; but it is distressing, and may be of
importance. So much upon this otherwise sweet and lovely
girl."
THE assistant's ENCLOSURE.
' ' Our excellent superior commonly permits me to read
the letters in which she communicates her observations upon
her pupils to their parents and friends. Such of them as
are addressed to your ladyship I ever read with twofold
attention and pleasure. We have to congratulate you upon
a daughter who unites in herself every brilliant quality with
which people distinguish themselves in the world ; and I at
least think you no less fortunate in having had bestowed
upon you, in your adopted daughter, a child who has been born
for the good and happiness of others, and assuredly also for
her own. Ottilie is almost our only pupil about whom there
is a difference of opinion between myself and our reverend
superior. I do not complain of the very natural desire in
that good lady to see outward and definite fruits arising
from her labors. But there are also fruits which are not
outward, which are of the true germinal sort, and which de-
velop themselves, sooner or later, in a beautiful life. And
this I am certain is the case with your protegee. So long as
she has been under my care, I have watched her moving
with an even step, slowly, steadily forward — never back.
As with a child it is necessary to begin every thing at the
beginning, so it is with her. She can comprehend nothing
which does not follow from what precedes ; let a thing be
as simple and easy as possible, she can make nothing of it
if it is not in a recognizable connection ; but find the inter-
mediate links, and make them clear to her, and then nothing
is too difficult for her.
" Progressing so slowly, she remains behind her compan-
ions, who, with capacities of quite a different kind, hurry on
^°^ 8 Goethe-5
132 ELECTIVE AFFINITIES.
and on, learn every thing readily, connected or nnconnected,
recollect it with ease, and apply it with correctness. And
again, some of the lessons here are given by excellent, but
somewhat hasty and impatient, teachers, who pass from
result to result, cutting short the process by which they are
arrived at ; and these are not of the slightest service to her,
she learns nothing from them. There have been complaints
about her handwriting. They say she will not, or can not,
understand how to form her letters. I have examined closely
into this. It is true she writes slowly, stiffly if you like ;
but the hand is neither timid, nor without character. The
French language is not my department : but I have taught
her something of it, in the step-by-step fashion ; and this
she understands easily. Indeed, it is singular that she
knows a great deal, and knows it well too ; and yet, when
she is asked a question, it seems as if she knew nothing.
"To conclude generally, I should sa}^ she learns nothing
like a person who is being educated ; but she learns lil^e one
who is to educate, — not like a pupil, but like a future
teacher. Your ladyship may think it strange that I, as an
educator and a teacher, can find no higher praise to give to
any one than by a comparison with myself. I may leave it
to your own good sense, to your deep knowledge of the
world and of mankind, to make the best of my most inade-
quate, but well-intended, expressions. You may satisfj^
yourself that you have much happiness to promise yourself
from this child. I commend myself to your ladyship ; and I
beseech you to permit me to write to you again, as soon as
I see reason to believe that I have any thing important or
agreeable to communicate."
This letter gave Charlotte great pleasure. The contents
of it agreed very nearly with the notions which she had her-
self conceived of Ottilie. At the same time, she could not
help smiling at the excessive interest of the assistant, which
seemed greater than the insight into a pupil's excellence
usually calls forth. In her quiet, unprejudiced wa}^ of look-
ing at things, this relation, among others, she was contented
to permit to lie before her as a possibility : she could value
the interest of so sensible a man in Ottilie, having learned,
among the lessons of her life, to see how highly true regard
is to be prized, in a world where indifference or dislike are
the common, natural residents.
ELECTIVE AFFINITIES. 183
CHAPTER IV.
The topographical chart of the property and its environs
was completed. It was executed on a considerable scale ;
the character of the particular localities was made intelligible
by various colors ; and, by means of a trigonometrical sur-
ve}^ the captain had been able to arrive at a very fair exact-
ness of measurement. He had been rapid in his work.
There was scarcely ever any one who could do with less
sleep than this most laborious man ; and, as his day was
always devoted to an immediate purpose, every evening
something had been done.
"Let us now," he said to his friend, "go on to what
remains for us, — to the statistics of the estate. We shall
have a good deal of work to get through at the beginning ;
and afterwards we shall come to the farm-estimates, and
much else which will naturally arise out of them. Only we
must have one thing distinctly settled and adhered to,
i^very thing which is properly business we must keep care-
fully separate from life. Business requires earnestness and
method : life must have a freer handling. Business demands
the utmost stringenc}^ and sequence : in life, inconsecutive-
ness is frequently necessary, indeed, is charming and grace-
ful. If you are firm in the first, you can afford yourself
more liberty in the second ; while, if you mix them, you will
find the free interfering with, and breaking in upon, the
fixed."
In these sentiments Edward felt a slight reflection upon
himself. Though not naturally disorderly, he could never
bring himself to arrange his papers in their proper places.
What he had to do in connection with others was not kept
separate from what only depended on himself. Business got
mixed up with amusement, and serious work with recreation.
Now, however, it was easy for him, with the help of a friend,
who would take the trouble upon himself ; and a second " I "
worked out the separation, to which the single "I" was
always unequal.
In the captain's wing, they contrived a depository for what
concerned the present, and an archive for the past. Here they
brought all the documents, papers, and notes from their various
hiding-places — rooms, drawers, and boxes — with the utmost
speed. Harmony and order were introduced into the wilder-
ness, and the different packets were marked and registered
134 ELECTIVE AFFINITIES.
in their several pigeon-holes. They found all they wanted in
greater completeness even than they had expected ; and here
an old clerk was found of no slight service, who for the whole
day and part of the night never left his desk, and with whom,
till then, Edward had been always dissatisfied.
"I should not know him again," he said to his friend,
*' the man is so handy and useful."
"That," replied the captain, "is because we give him
nothing fresh to do till he has finished, at his convenience,
what he has already ; and so, as you perceive, he gets through
a great deal. If you disturb him, he becomes useless at
once."
Spending their days together in this way, they never neg-
lected visiting Charlotte regularly in the evenings. If there
was no party from the neighborhood, as was often the case,
they read and talked, principally on subjects connected with
the improvement of the condition and comfort of social life.
Charlotte, always accustomed to make the most of oppor^-
tunities, not only saw her husband pleased, but found per-
sonal advantages for herself. Various domestic arrangements,
which she had long wished to make, but which she did not
know exactly how to set about, were managed for her through
the contrivance of the captain. Her domestic medicine-
chest, hitherto but poorly furnished, was enlarged and
enriched ; and Charlotte herself, with the help of good books
and personal instruction, was put in the way of being able
to exercise her disposition to be of practical assistance more
frequently and more efficiently than before.
In providing against accidents, which, though common, yet
only too often find us unprepared, they thought it especially
necessary to have at hand whatever is required for the
recovery of drowning men, — accidents of this kind, from the
number of canals, reservoirs, and waterworks in the neigh-
borhood, being of frequent occurrence. This department
the captain took expressly into his own hands ; and the
observation escaped Edward, that a case of this kind had
made a very singular epoch in the life of his friend. The
latter made no reply, but seemed to be trying to escape from
a painful recollection. Edward immediately stopped; and
Charlotte, who, as well as he, had a general knowledge of
the story, took no notice of the expression.
"These preparations are all exceedingly valuable," said
the captain one evening. " Now, however, we have not got
the one thing which is most essential, — a sensible man who
ELECTIVE AFFINITIES. 135
understands how to manage it all. I know an army surgeon,
whom I could exactly recommend for the place. You might
get him at this moment, on easy terms. He is highly distin-
guished in his profession, and has frequently done more for
me in the treatment, even of violent inward disorders, than
celebrated physicians. Help upon the spot is the thing you
often most want in the country."
He was written for at once ; and Edward and Charlotte
were rejoiced to find so good and necessary an object
on which to expend so much of the money which they set
apart for such accidental demands upon them.
Thus Charlotte, too, found means of making use, for her
purposes, of the captain's knowledge and practical skill ; and
she began to be quite reconciled to his presence, and to feel
easy about any consequences that might ensue. She com-
monly prepared questions to ask him ; among other things, it
was one of her anxieties to provide against whatever was
prejudicial to health and comfort, — against poisons and such
like. The lead-glazing on the china, the verdigris which
formed about her copper and bronze vessels, etc., had long
been a trouble to her. She got him to tell her about these ;
and, naturally, they often had to fall back on the first ele-
ments of medicine and chemistry.
An accidental but welcome occasion for entertainment of
this kind was given by an inclination of Edward to read
aloud. He had a particularly clear, deep voice, and earlier
in life had earned himself a pleasant reputation for his feel-
ing and lively recitations of works of poetry and oratory. At
this time he was occupied with other subjects ; and the books
which, for some time past, he had been reading, were either
chemical, or on some other branch of natural or technical
science.
One of his especial peculiarities — which, by the by, he
very likely shares with a number of his fellow-creatures —
was, that he could not bear to have any one looking at the
page from behind him while reading. In early life, when he
used to read poems, plays, or stories, this had been the natu-
ral consequence of the desire which the reader feels, like the
poet or the actor or the story-teller, to make surprises, to
pause, to excite expectation ; and this sort of effect was
naturally defeated when a third person's eyes could run on
before him, and see what was coming. On such occasions,
therefore, he was accustomed to place himself in such a posi-
tion that no one could get behind him. With a party of only
136 ELECTIVE AFFINITIES.
three, this was unnecessary ; and as with the present sub-
ject there was no opportunity for exciting feelings or giving
the imagination a surprise, he did not take any particular
pains to protect himself.
One evening he had placed himself carelessly, and Char-
lotte happened by accident to cast her eyes upon the page.
His old impatience was aroused : he turned to her, and said,
almost unkindly, —
" I do wish, once for all, you would leave off doing a thing
so out of taste and so disagreeable. When I read aloud to
a person, is it not the same as if I was telling him something
by word of mouth ? The written, the printed, word is in the
place of my own thoughts, of my own heart. If a window
were broken into my brain or into my heart, and if the man
to whom I am counting out my thoughts, or delivering my
sentiments, one by one, knew already beforehand exactly
what was to come out of me, should I take the trouble to
put them into words? When anybody looks over my book,
I alwaj^s feel as if I were being torn in two."
Charlotte's tact, in whatever circle she might be, large or
small, was remarkable ; and she was able to set aside disagree-
able or excited expressions without appearing to notice them.
When a conversation grew tedious, she knew how to interrupt
it ; when it halted, she could set it going. And this time her
good gift did not forsake her.
"I am sure j^ou will forgive me my fault," she said,
'' when I tell you what it was this moment which came over
me. I heard you reading something about affinities ; and I
thought directly of some relations of mine, two of whom are
just now occupying me a great deal. Then my attention
went back to the book. I found it was not about living
things at all, and I looked over to get the thread of it right
again."
" It was the comparison which led you wrong and confused
you," said Edward. " The subject is nothing but earths and
minerals. But man is a true Narcissus : he delights to see
his own image ever3^where ; and he spreads himself under-
neath the universe, like the amalgam behind the glass."
"Quite true," continued the captain. "That is the way
in which he treats every thing external to himself. His wis-
dom and his folly, his will and his caprice, he attributes alike
to the animal, the plant, the elements, and tlie gods."
"Would 3'ou," said Charlotte, "if it is not taking you
away too much from the immediate subject, tell me briefly
what is meant here by affinities ? "
ELECTIVE AFFINITIES. 137
*' I shall be very glad indeed," replied the captain, to whom
Charlotte had addressed herself. '' That is, I will tell you as
well as I can. My ideas on the subject date ten years back :
whether the scientific world continues to think the same about
it, I cannot tell."
'^It is most disagreeable," cried Edward, "that one cannot
nowadays learn a thing once for all, and have done with it.
Our forefathers could keep to what they were taught when
they were young ; but we have, every five years, to make
revolutions with them, if we do not wish to drop altogether
out of fashion."
"We women need not be so particular," said Charlotte;
" and, to speak the truth, I only want to know the meaning
of the word. There is nothing more ridiculous in society
than to misuse a strange technical word ; and I only wish
you to tell me in. what sense the expression is made use of in
connection with these things. What its scientific application
is, I am quite contented to leave to the learned, who, by the
by, as far as I have been able to observe, do not find it easy
to agree among themselves."
" Whereabouts shall we begin," said Edward, after a
pause, to the captain, " to come most quickly to the point? "
The latter, after thinking a little while, replied shortly, —
" You must let me make what will seem a wide sweep : we
shall be on our subject almost immediately."
Charlotte laid her work aside, promising the fullest atten-
tion.
The captain began, —
" In all natural objects with which we are acquainted, we
observe immediately that they have a certain relation to them-
selves. It may sound ridiculous to be asserting what is
obvious to every one ; but it is only by coming to a clear
understanding together about what we know, that we can
advance to what we do not know."
" I think," interrupted Edward, " we can make the thing
more clear to her, and to ourselves, with examples. Conceive
water or oil or quicksilver : among these you will see a
certain oneness, a certain connection of their parts ; and this
oneness is never lost, except through force or some other
determining cause. Let the cause cease to operate, and at
once the parts unite again."
"Unquestionably," said Charlotte, "that is plain: rain-
drops readily unite and form streams ; and, when we were
children, it was our delight to play with quicksilver, and
1B8 ELECTIVE AFFINITIES.
wonder at the little globules splitting and parting, and run-
ning into one another."
'^ And here," said the captain, " let me just cursorily men-
tion one remarkable thing : I mean, that the full, complete
correlation of parts which the fluid state makes possible,
shows itself distinctly and universally in the globular form.
The falling water-drop is round ; you yourself spoke of the
globules of quicksilver ; and a drop of melted lead let fall, if
it has time to harden before it reaches the ground, is found
at the bottom in the shape of a ball."
*' Let me try and see," said Charlotte, "whether I can
understand where you are bringing me. As every thing has
a reference to itself, so it must have some relation to others."
"And that," interrupted Edward, "will be different
according to the natural differences of the things themselves.
Sometimes they will meet like friends and old acquaintances :
they will come rapidly together, and unite without either
having to alter itself at all, — as wine mixes with water.
Others, again, will remain as strangers side by side ; and no
amount of mechanical mixing or forcing will succeed in com-
bining them. Oil and water may be shaken up together ; and
the next moment they are separate again, each by itself."
"One can almost fancy," said Charlotte, "that in these
simple forms one sees people that one is acquainted with ;
one has met with just such things in the societies amongst
which one has lived ; and the strangest likenesses of all with
these soulless creatures, are in the masses in which men stand
divided one against the other, in their classes and profes-
sions, — the nobility and the third estate, for instance, or
soldiers and civilians."
"Then, again," replied Edward, "as these are united
together under common laws and customs, so there are inter-
mediate members in our chemical world, which will combine
elements that are mutually repulsive."
" Oil, for instance," said the captain, " we make combine
with water with the help of alkalies ' ' —
" Do not go on too fast with your lesson," said Charlotte.
" Let me see that I keep step with you. Are we not here
arrived among the afltinities ? ' '
" Exactly," replied the captain : " we are on the point of
apprehending them in all their power and distinctness ; such
natures as, when they come in contact, at once lay hold of
each other, and mutually affect one another, we speak of as
having an affinity one for the other. With the alkalies and
ELECTIVE AFFINITIES. 139
acids, for instance, the affinities are strikingly marked. They
are of opposite natures : very likely their being of opposite
natures is the secret of their effect on one another, — they seek
one another eagerly out, lay hold of each other, modify each
other's character, and form in connection an entirely new
substance. There is lime, you remember, which shows the
strongest inclination for all sorts of acids, — a distinct desire
of combining with them. As soon as our chemical chest
arrives, we can show you a number of entertaining experi-
ments, which will give you a clearer idea than words and
names and technical expressions."
"It appears to me," said Charlotte, " that, if you choose to
call these strange creatures of yours related, the relationship
is not so much a relationship of blood, as of soul or of spirit.
It is the way in which we see all genuinely deep friendships
arise among men : opposite peculiarities of disposition being
what best makes internal union possible. But I will wait
to see what you can really show me of these mysterious
proceedings; and for the present," she added, turning to
Edward, " I will promise not to disturb you any more in
your reading. You have taught me enough of what it is
about to enable me to attend to it."
"No, no," replied Edward: "now that you have once
stirred the thing, you shall not get off so easily. It is just
the most complicated cases which are the most interesting.
In these you come first to see the degrees of the affinities, to
watch them as their power of attraction is weaker or stronger,
nearer or more remote. Affinities only begin really to inter-
est when they bring about separations."
" What ! " cried Charlotte, " is that miserable word which
unhappily we hear so often nowadays in the world, — is
that to be found in nature's lessons too? "
"Most certainly," answered Edward: "the title with
which chemists were supposed to be most honorably distin-
guished was, artists of separation."
" It is not so any more," replied Charlotte ; " and it is well
that it is not. Uniting is a higher art, and it is a higher
merit. An artist of union is what we should welcome in
every province of the universe. However, as we are on
the subject again, give me an instance or two of what you
mean."
"We had better keep," said the captain, "to the same
instances of which we have already been speaking. Thus,
what we call limestone is a more or less pure calcareous earth
140 ELECTIVE AFFINITIES.
in combination with a delicate acid, wliich is familiar to us in
the form of a gas. Now, if we place a piece of this stone in
diluted sulphuric acid, this will take possession of the lime,
and appear with it in the form of gypsum, the gaseous acid
at the same time going off in vapor. Here is a case of
separation : a combination arises, and we believe ourselves
now justified in applying to it the words ' elective afthiity ; *
it really looks as if one relation had been deliberately chosen
in preference to another."
" Forgive me," said Charlotte, " as I forgive the natural
philosopher. I cannot see any choice in this : I sec a natural
necessity rather, and scarcely that. After all, it is, perhaps,
merely a case of opportunity. Opportunity makes relations
as it makes thieves ; and, as long as the talk is only of natu-
ral substances, the choice appears to me to be altogether in
the hands of the chemist who brings the creatures together.
Once, however, let them be brought together, and then God
have mercy on them. In the present case, I cannot help
being sorry for the poor acid gas, which is driven out up and
down infinity again."
'* The acid's business," answered the captain, " is now to
get connected with water, and so serve as a mineral fountain
for the refreshing of both the healthy and sick."
" That is very well for the gypsum to say," said Charlotte.
" The gypsum is all right, is a body, is provided for. The
other poor, desolate creature may have trouble enough to go
through before it can find a second home for itself."
" I am much mistaken," said Edward, smiling, " if there
be not some little arriere pensee behind this. Confess your
wickedness ! You mean me by your lime : the lime is laid
hold of by the captain, in the form of sulphuric acid, torn
away from your agreeable society, and metamorphosed into
a refractory gypsum."
"If your conscience prompts you to make such a reflec-
tion," replied Charlotte, "I certainly need not distress
myself. These comparisons are pleasant and entertaining ;
and who is there that does not like playing with analogies?
But man is raised very many steps above these elements ;
and, if he has been somewhat liberal with such fine words as
'election' and 'elective aflfinities,' he will do well to turn
back again into himself, and take the opportunity of consid-
ering carefully the value and meaning of such expressions.
Unhappily, we know cases enough where an apparently
indissoluble connection between two persons has, by the
ELECTIVE AFFINITIES. 141
accidental introduction of a third, been utterly destroyed,
and one or the other of the once happily united pair been
driven out into the wilderness."
" Then, you see how much more gallant the chemists are,"
said Edward. ''They at once add a fourth, that neither
may go away empty."
"Quite so," replied the captain. "And those are the
cases which are really most important and remarkable, —
cases where this attraction, this affinity, this separating and
combining, can be exhibited, the two pairs severally crossing
each other ; where four creatures, connected previously, as
two and two, are brought into contact, and at once forsake
their first combination to form into a second. In this for-
saking and embracing, this seeking and flying, we believe
that we are indeed observing the effects of some higher
determination : we attribute a sort of will and choice to such
creatures, and feel really justified in using technical words,
and speaking of ' elective affinities.' "
" Give me an instance of this," said Charlotte.
*• Such things ought not to be settled with words," replied
the captain. " As I said before, as soon as I can show you
the experiment, I can make it all intelligible and pleasant for
you. For the present, I can give you nothing but horrible
scientific expressions, which at the same time will give you
no idea about the matter. You ought yourself to see these
substances which seem so dead, and which are yet so full of
inward energy and force, at work before your eyes. You
should observe them with a real personal interest. Now they
seek each other out, attract each other, seize, crush, devour,
destroy, each other, and then suddenly re-appear again out
of their coml)inations, and come forward in fresh, renovated,
unexpected form : thus you will comprehend how we attri-
bute to them a sort of immortality ; how we speak of them
as having sense and understanding ; because we feel our own
senses to be insufficient to observe them adequately, and our
reason too weak to follow them."
"I grant," said Edward, "that the strange scientific
nomenclature, to persons who have not been reconciled to it
by a direct acquaintance with or understanding of its object,
must seem unpleasant, even ridiculous ; but we can easily,
just for once, contrive with symbols to illustrate what we
are speaking of."
"If you do not think it looks pedantic," answered the
captain, "I can put my meaning together with letters.
142
ELECTIVE AFFINITIES.
Suppose an A connected so closely with a B that all sorts
of means, even violence, have been made use of to separate
them, without effect. Then suppose a C in exactly the same
position with respect to D. Bring the two pairs into contact :
A will fling himself on D, C on B, without its being possible
to say which had first left its first connection, or made the
first move towards the second."
"Now, then," interposed Edward, "till we see all this
with our eyes, we will look upon the formula as an analogy,
out of which we can devise a lesson for immediate use. You
stand for A, Charlotte, and I am your B : really and truly I
cling to you, I depend on you, and follow you, just as B
does with A. C is obviously the captain, who at present is
in some degree withdrawing me from you. So now it is only
just, that, if you are not to be left to solitude, a D should be
found for you ; and that is unquestionably the amiable little
lady, Ottilie. You will not hesitate any longer to send and
fetch her."
"All right," replied Charlotte; "although, in my opin-
ion, the example does not exactly fit our case. However, we
have been fortunate, at any rate, in to-day for once having
met all together ; and these natural or elective affinities
have served to unite us more intimately. I will tell you,
that, since this afternoon I have made up my mind to send
for Ottilie. My faithful housekeeper, on whom I have
hitherto depended for every thing, is going to leave me
shortly, to be married. This is my motive, as far as / am
concerned. What has decided me on account of Ottilie, you
shall read to me. I will not again look on whilst you are
reading. Indeed, the contents of these pages are already
known to me. But read, read ! "
With these words, she produced a letter, and handed it to
Edward.
CHAPTER V.
LETTER OF THE LADY SUPERIOR.
"Your ladyship will forgive the brevity of my present
letter. The public examinations are but just concluded,
and I have to communicate to all the parents and guardians
ELECTIVE AFFINITIES. 143
the progress our pupils have made during the past year. I
can afford to be brief, having to say much in few words.
Your ladyship's daughter has proved herself first, in every
sense of the word. The testimonials I enclose, and her
own letter, in which she will detail to you the prizes she has
won, and the happiness she feels in her success, will surely
please, and, I hope, delight you. For myself, it is the less
necessary that I should say much, because I see that there
will soon be no more occasion to keep with us a young lady
so far advanced. I send my respects to your ladyship, and
in a short time shall take the liberty of offering you my
opinion as to what may be of most advantage to her in
future.
it My good assistant will tell you about Ottiiie."
LETTER OF THE ASSISTANT.
' ' Our revered superior leaves it to me to write to you of
Ottilie, partly because, with her ways of thinking about it,
it would be painful to her to say what has to be said ;
partly because she herself requires some apology she would
rather have me make for her.
*' Knowing only too well how little able good Ottilie is to
show out what lies in her, and what she is capable of, I was
all along afraid of this public examination. I was the more
uneasy, as it was to be of a kind which does not admit of
any special preparation ; and, even if it had been conducted
as usual, Ottilie never can be prepared to make a display.
The result has justified my anxiety only too well. She has not
received any prize : she is not even amongst those whose
names have been mentioned with approbation. I need not
go into details. As for handwriting, the letters of the other
girls were not so well formed, but their strokes were much
more free. In arithmetic they were all quicker than she ;
and in the more difficult problems, which she does the best,
there was no examination. In French she was outshone
and out-talked by many ; and in history she was not ready
with her names and dates. In geography there was a want
of attention to the political divisions ; and for what she
could do in music, there was neither time nor quiet enough
for her few modest melodies to gain attention. In drawing
she certainly would have gained the prize : her outlines were
clear, and the execution most careful and full of spirit ;
unhappily she had chosen too wide a subject, and had not
completed it.
144 ELECTIVE AFFINITIES.
" After the pupils had been dismissed, the examiners con-
sulted together ; and we teachers were partially admitted into
the council. I very soon observed that of Ottilie nothing
was said ; or, when her name was mentioned, it was done
with indifference, if not with downright disapproval. I
hoped to obtain some favor for her by a candid description
of what she was ; and I ventured it with the greater earnest-
ness, partly because I was only speaking my real convic-
tions, and partly because, when I was young, I had been in
the same unfortunate case. I was listened to with atten-
tion ; but, as soon as I had ended, the presiding examiner
said to me very kindly but laconically, ' We presume capa-
bilities : they are to be converted into accomplishments.
This is the aim of all education. It is what is distinctly
intended by all who have the care of children, and silently
and indistinctly by the children themselves. This also is
the object of examinations, when both teachers and pupils
ai'e on their trial. From what we learn of you, we may
entertain good hopes of the young lady ; and it is to your
own credit also that you have paid so much attention to your
pupil's capabilities. If in the coming year you can develop
these into accomplishments, neither yourself nor your pupil
shall fail to receive j^our due praise.'
'' I had made up my mind to what must follow all this ;
but there was something worse which I had not anticipated,
and which had soon to be added to it. Our good superior,
who, resembling a trusty shepherd, could not bear to have
one of her flock lost, or, as was the case here, one inti'usted
to her charge undistinguished, could not, when the examiners
were gone, conceal her displeasure, and said to Ottilie, who
was quietly standing by the window, while the others were
exulting over their prizes, ' Tell me, for Heaven's sake ! how
can a person look so stupid, if she is not so ? ' Ottilie
replied quite calmly, ' Forgive me, my dear mother : I have
my headache again to-day, and it is very painful.' Kind
and sympathizing as she generally is, the superior this time
answered, 'Who should know that?' and turned angrily
away.
'' Now, it is true, no one can believe it ; for Ottilie never
alters the expression of her countenance, nor have I seen
her move her hand to her temple.
" Nor was this all. Your ladyship's daughter, who is at
all times sufficiently lively and impetuous, was wild and
overbearing after her triumph of to-day. She ran from
ELECTIVE AFFINITIES. 146
room to room with her prizes and testimonials, and shook
them in Ottilie's face. ' You have come badly off this
morning ! ' she cried. Ottilie replied in her calm, quiet way,
' This is not the last day of examination.' — ' But you will
always be the last, for all that ! ' cried the other, and ran
away.
" No one except myself saw that Ottilie was disturbed.
She has a way, when she experiences any sharp, unpleasant
emotion which she wishes to resist, of showing it in the
unequal color of her face : the left cheek becomes for a
moment flushed, while the right turns pale. I perceived this
symptom, and could not help saying something. I took
our superior aside, and spoke seriously to her about it. The
excellent lady acknowledged that she had been wrong. We
considered the whole affair, and talked it over at great length
together : and, not to weary your ladyship, I will tell you at
once the desire with which we concluded ; namely, that you
will have Ottilie stay with you for a while. Our reasons you
will yourself readily perceive. If you consent, I will say
more to you on the manner in which I think she should be
treated. Your daughter, we riiay expect, will soon leave us ;
and we shall then with pleasure welcome Ottilie back.
"One thing more, which another time I might forget to
mention : I have never seen Ottilie eager for any thing, or
at least ask pressingly for any thing ; but there have been
occasions, however rare, when, on the other hand, she has
wished to decline things which had been pressed upon her ;
and she does it with a gesture which to those who have
caught its meaning is irresistible. She raises her hands,
presses the palms together, and draws them against her
breast, leaning her body a little forward at the same time,
and turns such a look on the person urging her, that he will
gladly forego what he may have wished of her. If your
ladyship ever sees this attitude, as with your treatment of
her it is not likely that you will, think of me, and spare
Ottilie."
Edward read these letters aloud, not without smiles, and
shakes of the head. Naturally, too, there were observations
made on the persons and on the position of the affair.
" 'Tis well ! " Edward cried at last : " it is decided. She
is coming. You, my love, are provided for ; and now we
can get forward with our work. It is becoming highly neces-
sary for me to remove to the right wing, where the captain
146 ELECTIVE AFFINITIES.
resides ; evenings and mornings are the time for us best to
work together : and then you, on your side, will have admir-
able room for yourself and Ottilie."
Charlotte made no objection, and Edward sketched out
the method in which they should live. One of his remarks
was, " It is really very polite, on the part of your niece, to
be subject to a slight pain on the left side of her head. I
have it frequently on the right. If we happen to be afflicted
at the same time, and sit opposite one another, I leaning on
my right elbow, and she on her left, and our heads turned
to opposite sides, and resting on our hands, what a pretty
pair of pictures we shall make ! ' '
The captain thought that might be dangerous. " No,
no!" cried out Edward. "Only do you, my dear friend,
take care of the D ; for what will become of B, if poor C is
taken away from it ? "
"That, I should have thought, would have been evident
enough," replied Charlotte.
" And it is, indeed," cried Edward : " he would turn back
to his A, to his Alpha and Omega." And he sprung up,
and, taking Charlotte in his arms, pressed her to his breast.
CHAPTER VI.
The carriage which brought Ottilie drove up to the door.
Charlotte went out to receive her. The dear girl ran to
meet her, threw herself at her feet, and embraced her knees.
"Why such humility?" said Charlotte, a little em-
barrassed, and endeavoring to raise her from the ground.
" It is not meant for humility," Ottilie answered, without
moving from the position in which she had placed herself :
"I am only thinking of the time when I could not reach
higher than to your knees, and when I had just learned to
know how you loved me."
She rose, and Charlotte embraced her warmly. She was
introduced to the gentlemen, and was at once treated with
especial courtesy as a visitor. Beauty is a welcome guest
everywhere. She appeared attentive to the conversation,
without taking part in it.
The next morning Edward said to Charlotte, "What an
agreeable, entertaining girl she is ! "
ELECTIVE AFFINITIES. 147
"Entertaining!" answered Charlotte, with a smile:
"why, she has not opened her lips yet."
"Indeed!" said Edward, as he seemed to bethink him-
self : " that is very strange."
Charlotte had to give the new comer but a very few hints
on the management of the household. Ottilie saw rapidly
all the arrangements ; and, what was more, she felt them.
She comprehended easily what was to be provided for the
whole party, and what for each particular member of it.
Every thing was done with the utmost punctuality : she knew
how to direct, without appearing to be giving orders ; and,
when any one had left any thing undone, she at once set it
right herself.
As soon as she had found how much time she would have
to spare, she begged Charlotte to divide her hours for her ;
and to these she adhered exactly. She worked at what was
set before her in the way which the assistant had described
to Charlotte. They let her alone. It was but seldom that
Charlotte interfered. Sometimes she changed her pens for
others which had been written with, to teach her to make
bolder strokes in her handwriting ; but these, she found,
would be soon cut sharp and fine again.
The ladies had agreed to speak nothing but French when
alone ; and Charlotte insisted on it the more, as Ottilie was
more talkative, when speaking a foreign language, when she
had been told it was her dut}^ to exercise herself in it. In
this way she often said more than she seemed to intend.
Charlotte was particularly pleased with a description, most
complete, but at the same time most charming and amiable,
which she gave her one day, by accident, of the school.
She soon felt her to be a delightful companion, and hoped
to find, ere long, an attached friend in her.
At the same time she looked over again the more early
accounts which had been sent her of Ottilie, to refresh her
recollection with the opinion the superior and the assistant
had formed about her, and compare them with her in her
own person. For Charlotte was of opinion that we cannot
too quickly become acquainted with the character of those
with whom we have to live, that we may know what to
expect of them, where we may hope to do any thing in the
way of improvement with them, and what we must make up
our minds, once for all, to tolerate and let alone.
This examination led her to nothing new, indeed ; but
much she already knew became of greater meaning and im-
148 ELECTIVE AFFINITIES.
portance. Ottilie's moderation in eating and drinking, for
instance, became a real distress to her.
The next thing on which the ladies were employed was
Ottilie's toilet. Charlotte wished her to appear in clothes of
a richer and more recherche sort ; and at once the clever,
active girl herself cut out the stuff which had been previously
sent to her, and, with a very little assistance from others,
was able, in a short time, to dress most tastefully. The
new fashionable dresses set off her figure. An agreeable
person, it is true, will show through all disguises ; but we
always fancy it looks fresher and more graceful when its
peculiarities appear under some new drapery. And thus,
from the moment of her first appearance, she became more
and more a delight to the eyes of all who beheld her. As
the emerald refreshes the sight with its beautiful hues, and
exerts, it is said, a beneficent influence on that noble sense :
so does human beauty work with far greater potency on both
the outward and inward sense ; whoever looks upon it is
charmed against the breath of evil, and feels in harmony
with himself and with the worlc^.
In many ways, therefore, the party had gained by Ottilie's
arrival. The captain and Edward kept regularly to the
hours, even to the minutes, for their general meeting to-
gether. They never kept the others waiting for them, either
for dinner or tea, or for their walks ; and they were in less
haste, especially in the evenings, to leave the table. This
did not escape Charlotte's observation : she watched them
both, to see whether one, more than the other, was the occa-
sion of it. But she could not perceive any difference.
They had both become more companionable. In their con-
versation they seemed to consider what was best adapted to
interest Ottilie, what was most on a level with her capaci-
ties and her general knowledge. If she left the room when
they were reading or telling stories, they would wait till she
returned. They had grown softer, and altogether more
united.
In return for this, Ottilie's anxiety to be of use increased
every day : the more she came to understand the house, its
inmates, and their circumstances, the more eagerly she
entered into every thing, caught every look and every mo-
tion ; half a word, a sound, was enough for her. With her
calm attentiveness, and her easy, unexcited activity, she
was always the same. Sitting, rising up, going, coming,
fetching, carrying, returning to her place again, it was all in
ELECTIVE AFFINITIES. 149
the most perfect repose ; a constant change, a constant
agreeable movement ; while, at the same time, slie went
about so lightly that her step was almost inaudible.
This becoming obligingness in Ottilie gave Charlotte the
greatest pleasure. There was one thing, however, which
she did not exactly like, of which she had to speak to her.
''It is very polite in you," she said one day to her, " when
people let any thing fall from their hand, to be so quick in
stooping and picking it up for them : at the same time, it is
a sort of confession that they have a right to require such
attention ; and, in the world, we are expected to be careful
to whom we pay it. I will not prescribe any rule towards
women. You are young. To those above you, and older
than you, services of this sort are a duty; towards your
equals, they are polite ; to those younger than yourself and
your inferiors, you may show yourself kind and good-natured
by such things, — only it is not becoming in a young lady
to do them for men."
" I will try to get rid of this habit," replied Ottilie : '' 1
think, however, you will in the mean time forgive me for my
wrait of manners, when 1 tell you how I came by it. We
were taught history at school. 1 have not retained as much of
it as I ought, for I never knew what use I was to make of it ;
a few little things, however, made a deep impression upon me,
among which was the following : When Charles the First of
England was standing before his so-called judges, the gold
top came off the stick which he had in his hand, and fell
down. Accustomed as he had been on such occasions to
have every thing done for him, he seemed to look round, and
expect that this time, too, some one would do him this little
service. No one stirred, and he stooped down for it himself.
It struck me as so piteous, that from that moment I ha\'e
never been able to see any one let a thing fall, without picking-
it up myself. But of course, as it is not always proper, and
as I cannot," she continued, smiling, "tell my story every
time I do it, in future I will try and contain myself."
In the mean time the tine arrangements the two friends
had been led to make for themselves went uninterruptedly
forward. Every day they found something new to think
about and undertake.
One day as they were w^alking together through the village,
they had to remark with dissatisfaction how far behindhand
it was in order and cleanliness, compared to villages where
the inhabitants were compelled by the expense of building-
ground to be careful about such things.
150 ELECTIVE AFFINITIES.
'' You remember a wish we once expressed when we were
travelling in Switzerland together," said the captain, "that
we might have the laying out some country park, and how
beautiful we would make it by introducing into some village
situated like this, not the Swiss style of building, but the
Swiss order and neatness which so much improve it."
" And how well it would answer here ! The hill on which
the castle stands slopes down to that projecting angle. The
village, you see, is built in a semicircle, regularly enough,
just opposite to it. The brook runs between. It is liable to
floods ; and do observe the way the people set about pro-
tecting themselves from them : one with stones, another with
stakes ; the next puts up a boarding, and a fourth tries beams
and planks ; no one, of course, doing any good to another
with his arrangement, but only hurting himself and the rest
too. And then, there is the road going along just in the
clumsiest way possible, — up hill and down, through the
water, and over the stones. If the people would only lay
their hands to the business together, it would cost them
nothing but a little labor to run a semicircular wall along
here, take the road in behind it, raising it to the level of the
houses, and so give themselves a fair open space in front,
making the whole place clean, and getting rid, once for all,
in one good general work, of all their little trifling ineffectual
makeshifts."
" Let us try it,'* said the captain, as he ran his eyes over
the lay of the ground, and saw quickly what was to be
done.
" I can undertake nothing in company with peasants and
shopkeepers," replied Edward, "unless I may have unre-
stricted authority over them."
"You are not so wrong in that," returned the captain:
"I have experienced too much trouble myself in life in
matters of that kind. How difficult it is to prevail on a man
to venture boldly on making a sacrifice for an after-advan-
tage ! How hard to get him to desire an end, and not to
disdain the means ! So many people confuse means with
ends : they keep hanging over the first, without having the
other before their eyes. Every evil is to be cured at the
place where it comes to the surface ; and they will not trouble
themselves to look for the cause which produces it, or the
remote effect which results from it. This is why it is so
difficult to get advice listened to, especially among the many :
they can see clearly enough from day to day, but their scope
ELECTIVE AFFINITIES. 151
seldom reaches beyond the morrow ,* and, if it comes to a
point where with some general arrangement one person will
gain while another will lose, there is no prevailing on them
to strike a balance. Works of public advantage can only
be carried through by an uncontrolled absolute authority."
While they were standing and talking, a man came up
begging. He looked more impudent than if he were really
in want ; and Edward, who was annoyed at being interrupted,
after two or three fruitless attempts to get rid of him by a
gentler refusal, spoke sharply to him. The fellow began to
grumble and mutter abusively : he went off with short steps,
talking about the right of beggars. It was all very well to
refuse them an alms, but that was no reason why they should
be insulted. A beggar, and everybody else too, was as much
under God's protection as a lord. It put Edward out of all
patience.
The captain, to pacify him, said, '' Let us make use of
this as an occasion for extending our rural police arrange-
ments to such cases. We are bound to give away money ;
but we do better in not giving it in person, especially at
home. We should be moderate and uniform in every thing,
in our charities as in all else : too great liberality attracts
beggars instead of helping them on their way. At the same
time, there is no harm when one is on a journey, or passing
through a strange place, in appearing to a poor man in the
street in the form of a chance deity of fortune, and making
him some present which shall surprise him. The position
of the village and of the castle makes it easy for us to put
our charities here on a proper footing. I have thought about
it before. The public-house is at one end of the village, a
respectable old couple live at the other. At each of these
places deposit a small sum of money ; and let every beggar,
not as he comes in, but as he goes out, receive something.
Both houses lie on the roads which lead to the castle, so
that any one who goes there can be referred to one or the
other."
" Come," said Edward, " we will settle that on the spot.
The exact sum can be made up another time."
They went to the innkeeper, and to the old couple ; and the
thing was done.
"I know very well," Edward said, as they were walking up
the hill to the castle together, "that every thing in this world
depends on distinctness of idea, and firmness of purpose.
Your judgment of what my wife has been doing in the park
152 ELECTIVE AFFINITIES.
was entirely right, and you have already given me a hint
how it might be improved. I will not deny that I told her
of it."
" So I have been led to suspect," rei5lied the captain,
" and I could not approve of your having done so. You have
perplexed her. She has left off doing any thing, and on this
one subject she is vexed with us. She avoids speaking of
it. She has never since invited us to go with her to the
summer-house, although at odd hours she goes up there with
Ottilie."
"We must not allow ourselves to be deterred by that,"
answered Edward. " If I am once convinced about any thing
good, which could and should be done, I can never rest till I
see it done. We are clever enough at other times in intro-
ducing what we want into the general conversation : suppose
we have out some descriptions of English parks, with copper-
plates, for our evening's amusement. Then we can follow
with your plan. We will treat it first problematically, and
as if we were only in jest. There will be no difficulty in
passing into earnest."
The scheme was concerted, and the books were opened.
In each group of designs they first saw a ground-plan of the
spot, with the general character of the landscape, drawn in
its rude, natural state. Then followed others, showing the
changes which had been produced by art, to employ and set
off the natural advantages of the locality. From these to
their own property and their own grounds the transition was
easy.
Everybody was pleased. The chart which the captain had
sketched was brought and spread out. The only difficulty
was, that they could not entirely free themselves of the
plan in which Charlotte had begun. However, an easier
way up the hill was found : a lodge was suggested to be built
on the height at the edge of the cliff, which was to have
an especial reference to the castle. It was to form a con-
spicuous object from the castle windows ; and from it the
spectator was to be able to overlook, both the castle and the
garden.
The captain had carefully considered it all, and taken his
measurements ; and now he brought up again the village-road
and the wall by the brook, and the ground which was to be
raised behind it.
"Here you see," said he, "while I make this charming
walk up the height, I gain exactly the quantity of stone
ELECTIVE AFFINITIES. 153
which I require for that wall. Let one piece of work help
the other, and both will be carried out most satisfactorily and
most rapidl}'."
" But now," said Charlotte, " comes my side of the busi-
ness. A certain definite outlay of money will have to be
made. We ought to know how much will be wanted for such
a purpose, and then we can apportion it out : so much work,
and so much money, if not by weeks, ^t least by months.
The cash-box is under my charge. I pay the bills, and I
keep the accounts."
" You do not appear to have overmuch confidence in us,"
said Edward.
"I have not much in arbitrary matters," Charlotte an-
swered. "Where it is a case of inclination, we women
know better how to control ourselves than you."
It was settled : the dispositions were made, and the work
was begun at once.
The captain being always on the spot, Charlotte was an
almost daily witness of the strength and clearness of his
understanding. He, too, learned to know her better ; and it
became easy for them both to work together, and thus bring
something to completeness. It is with work as with dancing,
— persons who keep the same step must grow indispensable
to one another. Out of this a mutual kindly feeling will
necessarily arise ; and that Charlotte had a real kind feeling
towards the captain, after she came to know him better, was
sufficiently proved by her allowing him to destroy her pretty
seat, — which in her first plans she had taken such pains in
ornamenting, — because it was in the way of his own, without
experiencing the slightest feeling about the matter.
CHAPTER VII.
Now that Charlotte was occupied with the captain, it was
a natural consequence that Edward should attach himself
more to Ottilie. Independently of this, indeed, for some time
past he had begun to feel a silent kind of attraction towards
her. Obliging and attentive she was to every one, but his
self-love whispered that towards him she was particularly so.
She had observed his little fancies about his food. She knew
154 ELECTIVE AFFINITIES.
exactly what things he liked, and the way in which he liked
them to be prepared ; the quantity of sugar which he liked in
his tea, and so on. Moreover, she was particularly care-
ful to prevent draughts, about which he was excessively sen-
sitive ; and, indeed, about which with his wife, who could
never have air enough, he was often at variance. So, too,
she had come to know about fruit-gardens and flower-gardens ;
whatever he liked, it was her constant effort to procure for
him, and to keep away whatever annoyed him ; so that very
soon she grew indispensable to him : she became like his
guardian angel, and he felt it keenly whenever she was ab-
sent. Besides all this, too, she appeared to become more
open and talkative as soon as they were alone together.
Edward, as he advanced in life, had retained something
childish about himself, which corresponded singularly well
with the youthfulness of Ottilie. They liked talking of early
times, when they had first seen each other ; and these remi-
niscences led them up to the first epoch of Edward's affection
for Charlotte. Ottilie declared that she remembered them
both as the handsomest pair at court ; and when Edward
would question the possibility of this, when she must have
been so exceedingly young, she insisted that she recollected
one particular incident as clearly as possible. He had come
into the room where her aunt was ; and she had hid her face
in Charlotte's lap, not from fear, but from a childish sur-
prise. She might have added, because he had made so
strong an impression upon her, — because she had liked him
so much.
While they were occupied in this way, much of the busi-
ness which the two friends had undertaken together had
come to a standstill ; so that they found it necessary to
inspect how things were going on, — to work up a few designs
and get letters written. For this purpose, they betook them-
selves to their office, where they found their old copyist at
his desk. They set to work, and soon gave the old man
enough to do, without observing that they were laying many
things on his shoulders which at other times they had always
done for themselves. At the same time, the first design the
captain tried would not answer ; and Edward was as unsuc-
cessful with his first letter. They fretted for a while, plan-
ning and erasing ; till at last Edward, who was getting on
the worst, asked what o'clock it was. And then it appeared
that the captain had forgotten, for the first time for many
years, to wind up his chronometer ; and they seemed, if not
ELECTIVE AFFINITIES. 155
to feel, at least to have a dim perception, that time was begin-
ning to be indifferent to them.
In tlie mean wliile, as the gentlemen were thus rather slack-
ening in their energy, the activity of the ladies increased all
the more. The e very-day life of a family, composed of a
given number of persons, is shaped out of necessary circum-
stances, may easily receive into itself an extraordinary affec-
tion, an incipient passion, — may receive it into itself as into
a vessel ; and a long time may elapse before the new ingre-
dient produces a visible effervescence, and runs foaming over
the edge.
With our friends, the feelings which were mutually arising
had the most agreeable effects. Their dispositions opened
out, and a general good-will arose out of the several individual
affections. Every member of the party was happy, andthey
each shared their happiness with the rest.
Such a temper elevates the spirit while it enlarges the
heart ; and every thing which, under the influence of it, peo-
ple do and undertake, has a tendency towards the illimitable.
The friends could no longer remain shut up at home : their
walks extended themselves farther and farther. Edward
would hurry on before with Ottilie, to choose the path or
pioneer the way ; and the captain and Charlotte would follow
quietly on the track of their more hasty precursors, talking
on some grave subject, or delighting themselves with some
spot they had newly discovered, or some unexpected natural
beauty.
One day their walk led them down from the gate at the
right wing of the castle, in the direction of the hotel, and
thence over the bridge towards the ponds, along the sides of
which they proceeded as far as it was generally thought
possible to follow the water ; thickly wooded hills sloping
directly up from the edge, and beyond these a wall of steep
rocks, making farther progress difficult, if not impossible.
But Edward, whose hunting experience had made him
thoroughly familiar with the spot, pushed forward along an
overgrown path with Ottilie, knowing well that the old mill
could not be far off, which was somewhere in the middle of
the rocks there. The path was so little frequented, that they
soon lost it ; and for a short time they were wandering among
mossy stones and thickets : it was not for long, however ; the
noise of the water-wheel speedily telling them that the place
which they were looking for was close at hand. Stepping
forward on a point of rock, they saw the strange, old, dark,
156 ELECTIVE AFFINITTES.
wooden building in the hollow before them, quite shadowed
over with precipitous crags and huge trees. They determined
without hesitation to descend across the moss and the blocks
of stone. Edward led the way ; and when he looked back
and saw Ottilie following, stepping lightly, without fear or
nervousness, from stone to stone, so beautifully balancing
herself, he fancied he was looking at some celestial creature
floating above him : while if, as she often did, she caught
the hand which in some difficult spot he would offer her, or
if she supported herself on his shoulder, then he was left in
no doubt that it was a very exquisite human creature who
touched him. He almost wished that she might slip or
stumble, that he might catch her in his arms and press her
to his heart. This, however, he would under no circumstances
have done, for more than one reason. He was afraid to
wound her, and he was afraid to do her some bodily injury.
What the meaning of this could be, we shall immediately
learn. When they had got down, and were seated opposite
each other at a table under the trees, and when the miller's
wife had gone for milk, and the miller, who had come out to
them, was sent to meet Charlotte and the captain, Edward,
with a little embarrassment, began to speak.
" I have a request to make, dear Ottilie : you will forgive
me for asking it, if j^ou will not grant it. You make no
secret (I am sure you need not make an}^) that you wear a
miniature under your dress against your breast. It is the
picture of your noble father, whom you hardly ever knew ;
but in every sense he deserves a place by your heart. But,
excuse me, the picture is much too large ; and the metal
frame and the glass, if you take up a child in your arms, if
you are carrying any thing, if the carriage swings violently,
if we are pushing through bushes, or just now, as we were
coming down these rocks, make me extremely anxious on
your account. Any unforeseen blow, a fall, a touch, may
be fatally injurious to you ; and I am terrified at the possi-
bility of it. For my sake do this : put away the picture, not
out of your affections, not out of your room ; let it have the
brightest, the holiest place which you can give it ; only do not
wear upon your breast a thing the presence of which seems
to me, perhaps from an extravagant anxiety, so dangerous."
Ottilie was silent : while he was speaking, she had kept her
eyes fixed straight before her ; then, witliout hesitation and
without haste, with a look turned more towards heaven than
on Edward, she unclasped the chain, drew out the picture,
ELECTIVE AFFINITIES. 16t
and pressed it against her forehead, and then reached it over
to her friend, with the words, —
"Keep it for me till we get home: I cannot give you a
better proof how deeply I thank you for your affectionate
care."
He did not venture to press the picture to his lips ; but he
seized her hand, and raised it to his eyes. They were per-
haps two of the most beautiful hands which had ever been
clasped together. He felt as if a stone had fallen from his
heart, as if a partition-wall had been thrown down between
him and Ottilie.
Under the miller's guidance, Charlotte and the captain
came down by an easier path, and now joined them. There
was the meeting, and a happy talk ; and then they took some
refreshments. They would not return by the same way as
they came ; and Edward struck into a rocky path on the
other side of the stream, from which the ponds were again
to be seen. They made their way along it with some effort,
and then had to cross a variety of wood and copse, getting
glimpses, on the land side, of a number of villages, and
manor-houses with their green lawns and fruit-gardens ;
while very near them, and sweetly situated on a rising
ground, a farm lay in the middle of the wood. From a
gentle ascent, they had a view before and behind which
showed them the richness of the country to the greatest
advantage ; and then, entering a grove of trees, they found
themselves, on again emerging from it, on the rock opposite
the castle.
They came upon it rather unexpectedly, and were of
course delighted. They had made the circuit of a little
world : they were standing on the spot where the new build-
ing was to be erected, and were looking again at the windows
of their own home.
The}' went down to the summer-house, and sat all four in
it for the first time together : nothing was more natural than
that with one voice it should be proposed to have the way
they had been that day, and which, as it was, had taken
them much time and trouble, properly laid out and gravelled,
so that people might loiter along it at their leisure. They
each said what they thought ; and they reckoned up that the
circuit, over which they had taken many hours, might be
travelled easily, with a good road all the way round to the
castle, in a single one.
Already a plan was being suggested for shortening the
158 ELECTIVE AFFINITIES.
distance, and adding a fresh beauty to the landscape, by
throwing a bridge across the stream, below the mill, where it
ran into the lake, when Charlotte brought their inventive
imagination somewhat to a standstill by putting them in
mind of the expense which such an undertaking would
involve.
"There are ways of meeting that too," replied Edward;
* ' we have only to dispose of that farm in the forest, which
is so pleasantly situated, and which brings in so little in the
way of rent : the sum which will be set free will more than
cover what we shall require ; and thus, having gained an
invaluable walk, we shall receive the interest of well-ex-
pended capital in substantial enjoyment, instead of, as now,
in the summing up at the end of the year, vexing and fret-
ting ourselves over the pitiful little income which is returned
for it."
Even Charlotte, with all her prudence, had little to urge
against this. There had been, indeed, a previous intention
of selling the farm. The captain was ready immediately
with a plan for breaking up the ground into small portions
among the peasantry of the forest. Edward, however, had
a simpler and shorter way of managing it. His present
steward had already proposed to take it off his hands : he
was to pay for it by instalments, and so gradually, as the
money came in, they would get their work forward from
point to point.
So reasonable and prudent a scheme was sure of universal
approbation ; and they began already in prospect to see
their new walk winding along its way, and to imagine the
many beautiful views and charming spots which they hoped
to discover in its neighborhood.
To bring it all before them with greater fulness of detail,
in the evening they produced the new chart. With the help
of this they went over again the way that they had come,
and found various places where the walk might take a rather
different direction with advantage. Their other scheme was
now once more talked through, and connected with the fresh
design. The site for the new house in the park, opposite
the castle, was a second time examined into and approved,
and fixed upon for the termination of the intended circuit.
Ottilie had said nothing all this time. At length Edward
pushed the chart, which had hitherto been lying before Char-
lotte, across to her, begging her to give her opinion : she
still hesitated for a moment. Edward in his gentlest way
ELECTIVE AFFINITIES. • 159
again pressed her to let them know what she thought : noth-
ing had as yet been settled, it was all as yet in embryo.
"I would have the house built here," she said, as she
pointed with her finger to the highest point of the slope on
the hill. "It is true you cannot see the castle from there,
for it is hidden by the wood ; but for that very reason you
find yourself in another quite new world : you lose village
and houses and all at the same time. The view of the
ponds, with the mill, and the hills and mountains in the dis-
tance, is singularly beautiful. I noticed it when passing."
"She is right!" Edward cried: "how could we have
overlooked it? This is what you mean, Ottilie, is it not? "
He took a lead-pencil, and drew a great black rectangular
figure on the summit of the hill.
It pierced the captain's soul to see his carefully and
clearly drawn chart disfigured in such a way. He collected
himself, however, after a slight expression of his disap-
proval, and took up the idea. "Ottilie is right," he said:
" we are ready enough to walk any distance to drink tea or
eat fish, because they would not have tasted as well at home :
we require change of scene and change of objects. Your
ancestors showed their judgment in choosing this spot for
their castle ; for it is sheltered from the wind, with the con-
veniences of life close at hand. A place, on the contrary,
which is more for pleasure-parties than for a regular resi-
dence would do very well there ; and in the fair time of the
year the most agreeable hours may be spent in it."
The more they talked it over, the more conclusive was
their judgment in favor of Ottilie ; and Edward could not
conceal his triumph that the thought had been hers. He
was as proud as if he had hit upon it himself.
CHAPTER VIII.
Early the following morning, the captain examined the
spot. He first threw off a sketch of what should be done ;
and afterwards, when the thing had been more completely
decided on, he made a complete design, with accurate calcu-
lations and measurements. It cost him a good deal of labor,
and the business connected with the sale of the farm had to
160 ELECTIVE AFFJNJTJES.
be gone into : so that both the gentlemen now found a fresh
impulse to activity.
The captain made Edward observe that it would be proper,
indeed that it would be a kind of duty, to celebrate Char-
lotte's birthday with laying the foundation-stone. Not much
was wanted to overcome Edward's disinclination for such
festivities ; for he quickly recollected, that, a little later,
Ottilie's birthday would follow, and that he could have a
magnificent celebration for that.
Charlotte, to whom all this work and what it would in-
volve was a subject for much serious and almost anxious
thought, busied herself in carefully going through the time
and outlay which it was calculated would be expended on it.
During the day they rarely saw each other : so that the
evening meeting was looked forward to with all the more
anxiety.
Ottilie was, in the mean time, complete mistress of the
household ; and how could it be otherwise, with her quick,
methodical ways of working? Indeed, her whole mode of
thought was suited better to home-life than to the world,
and to a more free existence. Edward soon observed that
she only walked about with them out of a desire to please ;
that, when she staid out late with thein in the evening, it
was because she thought it a sort of social duty ; and that
she would often find a pretext in some household matter for
going in again, — consequently, he soon managed so to
arrange the walks they took together, that they should be
at home before sunset ; and he began again, what he had
long left off, to read aloud poetry, particularly such as had
for its subject the expression of a pure but passionate love.
They ordinarily sat in the evening in the same places
round a small table, — Charlotte on the sofa, Ottilie on a
chair opposite to her, and the gentlemen on each side.
Ottilie's place was on Edward's right, the side where he put
the candle when he was reading : at such times she would
draw her chair a little nearer, to look over him ; for Ottilie
also trusted her own eyes better than another person's lips ;
and Edward would then always make a move towards her,
that it might be as easy as possible for her, — indeed, he
would frequently make longer stops than necessary, that he
might not turn over before she had got to the bottom of the
page.
('harlotte and tlie captain observed this, and would often
look at each other, smiling ; but tliey were both taken hy
ELECTIVE AFFINITIES. 161
surprise at another symptom, in which Ottilie's latent feeling
accidentally displayed itself.
One evening, which had been partly spoiled for them by a
tedious visit, Edward proposed that they should not separate
so early, — lie felt inclined for music, — he would take his
flute, which he had not done for many days past. Charlotte
looked for the sonatas they generally played together, and
they were not to be found. Ottilie, with some hesitation,
said she had taken them to her room.
'^ And you can, you will, accompany me on the piano?"
cried Edward, his eyes sparkling with pleasure. " I think
perhaps I can," Ottilie answered. She brought the music,
and sat down to the instrument. The others listened, and
W3re sufficiently surprised to hear how perfectly Ottilie had
t?iught herself the piece ; but far more surprised v^^ere they
at the way in which she contrived to adapt herself to Ed-
ward's style of playing. Adapt herself is not the right
expression : Charlotte's skill and power enabled her, in
order to please her husband, to keep up with him when he
played too fast, and hold in for him if he hesitated ; but
Ottilie, who had several times heard them play the sonata
together, seemed to have learned it according to the idea in
which they accompanied each other : she had so completely
made his defects her own, that a kind of living whole resulted
from it, which did not move, indeed, according to exact
rule ; but the effect of it was in the highest degree pleasant
and delightful. The composer himself would have been
pleased to hear his work disfigured in so charming a manner.
Charlotte and the captain watched this strange, unex-
pected occurrence in silence, with the kind of feeling with
which we often observe the actions of children, — unable,
exactly, to approve of them, from the serious consequences
which may follow, and yet without being able to find fault,
perhaps with a kind of envy. For, indeed, the regard of
these two for one another was growing also, as well as that
of the others ; and it was, perhaps, only the more perilous
because they were both more staid, more certain of them-
selves, and better able to restrain themselves.
The captain had already begun to feel that a habit he
could not resist was threatening to bind him to Charlotte.
He forced himself to stay away at the hour when she com-
monly used to be at the works ; by getting up very early in
the morning, he contrived to finish there whatever he had to
do, and vetired to the castle, in order to work in his own
162 ELECTIVE AFFINITIES.
room. The first day or two Charlotte thought it was an
accident: she looked for him in every place where she
thought he might possibly be. Then she thought she under-
stood him, and admired him all the more.
Avoiding, as the captain now did, being alone with Char-
lotte, the more industriously did he labor to hurry forward
the preparations for keeping her rapidly approaching birthday
with all splendor. While he was bringing up the new road
from below, behind the village, he made the men, under
pretence that he wanted stones, begin working at the top as
well, and work down, to meet the others ; and he had calcu-
lated his arrangements so that the two should exactly meet
on the eve of the day. The excavations for the new house
were already done : the rock was blown away with gun-
powder ; and a fair foundation-stone had been hewn, with a
hollow chamber, and a flat slab adjusted to cover it.
This outward activity, these little mysterious purposes of
friendship, prompted by feelings the}^ were obliged to repress
more or less, rather prevented the little party when together
from being as lively as usual. Edward, who felt that there
was a sort of void, one evening called upon the captain to
fetch his violin, — Charlotte should play the piano, and he
should accompany her. The captain was unable to refuse
the general request ; and they executed together one of the
most difficult pieces of music with an ease and freedom and
feeling which could not but afford themselves, and the two who
were listening to them, the greatest delight. They promised
themselves a frequent repetition of it, as well as further
practice together. " They do it better than we, Ottilie," said
Edward : *' we will admire them — but we can enjoy ourselves
together, too."
CHAPTER IX.
The birthday had come, and every thing was ready. The
wall was all complete which protected the raised village-road
against the water, and so was the walk : passing the church,
for a short time it followed the path which had been laid out
by Charlotte, and then, winding upwards among the rocks,
inclined first under the summer-house to the right, and then,
after a wide sweep, passed back above it to the right again,
ttnd so by degrees out on to the summit.
ELECTIVE AFFINITIES. 163
A large party had assembled for the occasion. They went
first to church, where they found the whole congregation col-
lected together in their holiday dresses. After service, they
filed out in order : first the boys, then the young men, then
the old ; after them came the party from the castle, with their
visitors and retinue ; and the village maidens, young girls,
and women brought up the rear.
At the turn of the walk, a raised stone seat had been con-
trived, where the captain made Charlotte and the visitors stop
and rest. From here they could look over the whole distance
from the beginning to the end, — the troops of men who
had gone up before them, the file of women following, and
now drawing up to where they were. It was lovely weather,
and the whole effect was singularly beautiful. Charlotte
was taken by surprise : she was touched, and she pressed
the captain's hand warmly.
They followed the crowd, who had slowly ascended, and
were now forming a circle round the spot where the future
house was to stand. The lord of the castle, his family, and
the principal strangers were now invited to descend into the
vault, where the foundation-stone, supported on one side, lay
ready to be let down. A well-dressed mason, a trowel in one
hand and a hammer in the other, came forward, and, with
much grace, spoke an address in verse, of which in prose we
can give but an imperfect rendering.
"Three things," he began, "are to be looked to in a
building ; that it stand on the right spot, that it be securely
founded, that it be successfully executed. The first is the
business of the master of the house, — his, and his only. As
in the city the prince and the council alone determine where
a building shall be : so in the country it is the right of the
lord of the soil that he shall say, ' Here my dwelling shall
stand, — here, and nowhere else.' "
Edward and Ottilie were standing opposite one another as
these words were spoken, but they did not venture to look
up and exchange glances.
"To the third, the execution, there is neither art nor handi-
craft which must not in some way contribute. But the second,
the founding, is the province of the mason ; and, boldly to
speak it out, it is the head and front of all the undertaking.
A solemn thing it is, and our bidding you descend hither is
full of meaning. You are celebrating your festival in the
depth of the earth. Here, within this naiTOw excavation,
you show us the honor of appearing as witnesses of our
Vol 3 aoethe 6
164 ELECTIVE AFFINITIES.
mysterious craft. Presently we shall lower down this care-
fully hewn stone into its place ; and soon these earth-walls,
now ornamented with fair and worthy persons, will be no
more accessible, but will be closed in forever.
" This foundation-stone, which with its angles typifies the
just angles of the building ; with the sharpness of its mould-
ing, the regularity of it ; and with the truth of its lines to the
horizontal and perpendicular, the uprightness and equal height
of all the walls, — we might now without more ado let down :
it would rest in its place with its own weight. But even here
there shall not fail of lime and means to bind it. For as
human beings, who may be well inclined to each other by
nature, yet hold more firmly together when the law cements
them : so are stones also, whose forms may already fit together,
united far better by these binding forces. It is not seemly to
be idle amidst the busy, and here you will not refuse to be
our fellow-laborer. '' With these words he reached the trowel
to Charlotte, who threw mortar with it under the stone ; sev-
eral of the others were then desired to do the same, and then
it was at once let fall. Upon which the hammer was placed
next in Charlotte's, and then in the others', hands, to strike
three times with it, and conclude, in this expression, the union
of the stone with the soil.
"The work of the mason," the speaker continued, "now
under the free sky as we are, if it be not done in concealment,
yet must pass into concealment ; the soil will be laid smoothly
in, and thrown over this stone ; and, w^ith the walls which we
rear into the daylight, we in the end are seldom remembered.
The works of the stone-cutter and the carver remain under
the eyes : but for us it is not to complain when the plasterer
blots out the last trace of our hands, and appropriates our
work to himself ; when he overlays, smooths, and colors it.
" Not from regard for the opinion of others, but from
respect for himself, the mason will be faithful in his calling.
There is no one who has more need to feel in himself the con-
sciousness of what he is. AYhen the house has been erected,
when the soil is levelled, and the surface paved, and the out-
side all overwrought with ornament, he can even see in yet
through all disguises, and still recognize those exact and
careful adjustments to which the whole is indebted for its
existence and support.
' ' But as the man who commits some evil deed has to fear,
that, notwithstanding all precautions, it will one day come to
light : so too must he expect who has done some good thing
ELECTIVE AFFINITIES. 165
in secret, that it also, in spite of him, will appear in the day ;
and therefore we make this foundation-stone at the same time
a memorial-stone. Here, in these various cavities which have
been hewn into it, many things are now to be buried, to bear
witness to distant posterity. These metal cases hermetically
sealed contain documents in writing ; matters of various note
are engraved on these plates ; in these beautiful glass bottles
we bui-y the best old wine, with the date of its vintage. We
have coins, too, of many kinds, from the mint of the current
year. All this we have received through the liberality of him
for whom we build. There is still some space left, if any
guest or spectator desire to offer something for postert,y."
After a slight pause the speaker looked round : but, as is
commonly the case on such occasions, no one was prepared ;
they were all taken by surprise. At last, a merry-looking
young officer set the example, and said, " If I am to con-
tribute any thing, which as yet is not to be found in this
treasure-chamber, it shall be a pair of buttons from my
uniform. — I don't see why they do not deserve to go down
to posterity!" No sooner said than done, and then a
number of persons found something of the same sort which
they could do : the young ladies did not hesitate to throw in
some of their side hair-combs ; smelling-bottles and other
trinkets were not spared. Only Ottilie hung back, till a
kind word from Edward roused her from the abstraction in
which she was watching the various things being heaped in.
Then she unclasped from her neck the gold chain on which
her father's picture had hung, and with a light, gentle hand
laid it down on the other jewels. Edward rather disar-
ranged the proceedings by at once, in some 'haste, having
the cover let fall, and fastened down.
The young journeyman mason who had been most active
through all this, again took his place as orator, and went on,
" We lay down this stone forever, for the establishing the
present and the future possessors of this house. But in
that we bury this treasure together with it, we do it in the
remembrance — in this most enduring of works — of the
perishableness of all human things. We remember that a
time may come when this lid so firmly sealed shall again be
lifted ; and that can only be when all shall again be destroyed,
which as yet we have not brought into being.
"But now — now that at once it may begin to be, back
with our thoughts out of the future, — back into the present.
At once, after the feast which we have this day kept together,
166 ELECTIVE AFFINITIES.
let us on with our labor : let no one of all those trades which
are to work on our foundation, through us keep unwilling
holiday. Let the building rise swiftly to its height ; and,
from the windows which as yet have no existence, may the
master of the house, his family, and guests look forth with
a glad heart over his broad lands. To him and to all here
present herewith be health and happiness."
With these words he drained a richly cut tumbler at a
draught, and flung it into the air, thereby to signify the
excess of pleasure by destroying the vessel which had served
for such a solemn occasion. This time, however, it fell out
otherwise. The glass did not fall back to the earth, and
indeed without a miracle.
In order to get forward with the buildings, they had already
excavated the whole ground at the opposite corner ; indeed,
they had begun to raise the wall, and, for this purpose, reared
a scaffold as high as was absolutely necessary. On the
occasion of the festival, boards had been laid along the top
of this ; and a number of spectators were allowed to stand
there. It had been meant principally for the advantage of
the workmen themselves. The glass had flown up there,
and had been caught by one of them, who took it as a sign
of good luck for himself. He waved it round without letting
it go from his hand ; and the letters E and O were to be seen
very richly cut upon it, running one into the other. It was
one of the glasses which had been made to order for Edward
when he was a boy.
The scaffoldings were again deserted ; and the most active
among the party climbed up to look round, and could not say
enough in praise of the beauty of the prospect on all sides.
How many new discoveries a person makes when, on some
high point, he ascends a somewhat higher eminence. Inland
many fresh villages came in sight. The line of the river
could be traced like a thread of silver ; indeed, one of the
party thought that he distinguished the spires of the capital.
On the other side, behind the wooded hill, the blue peaks
of the far-off mountains were seen rising ; and the country
immediately about them was spread out like a map.
" If the three ponds," cried some one, " were but thrown
together to make a single sheet of water, there would be
every thing here which is noblest and most excellent."
" That might easily be effected," the captain said. "In
early times they must have formed all one lake among the
hills here."
ELECTIVE AFFINITIES. 167
" Only I must beseech you to spare my clump of plane-
trees and poplars that stand so prettily by the centre pond,"
said Edward. " Look," he said, turning to Ottilie, bringing
her a few steps forward, and pointing down, " those trees I
planted myself."
" How long have they been standing there? " asked Ottilie.
" Just about as long as you have been in the world,"
replied Edward. ''Yes, my dear child, I planted them
when you were still lying in your cradle."
The party now betook themselves back to the castle.
When dinner was over, they were invited to walk through
the village to take a glance at what had been done there as
well. At a hint from the captain, the inhabitants had col-
lected in front of the houses. They were not standing in
rows, but formed in natural family groups, partly occupied
at their evening work, partly enjoying themselves on the
new benches. Tliey had determined, as an agreeable duty
which they imposed upon themselves, to have every thing in
its present order and cleanliness, at least every Sunday and
holiday.
A small party, held together by such feelings as had grown
up among our friends, is always unpleasantly interrupted by
a large concourse of people. All four were delighted to find
themselves again alone in the large drawing-room ; but this
sense of home was a little disturbed by a letter which was
brought to Edward, giving notice of fresh guests who were
to arrive the following day.
"It is as we supposed," Edward cried to Charlotte.
" The count will not stay away : he is coming to-morrow."
"Then, the baroness, too, is not far off,*" answered
Charlotte.
"Doubtless not," said Edward. "She is coming, too,
to-morrow, from another place. They only beg to be allowed
to stay for a night : the next day they will go on together. ' '
" We must prepare for them in time, Ottilie," said
Charlotte.
" What arrangement shall I desire to be made," Ottilie
asked.
Charlotte gave a general dire(jtion, and Ottilie left the
room.
The captain inquired in what relation these two persons
stood towards one another, and with which he was only very
generally acquainted. They had some time before, both
being already married, fallen violently in love with one
168 ELECTIVE AFFINITIES.
another : a double marriage was not to be interfered with
without attracting attention. A divorce was proposed. On
the baroness's side it could be effected, on that of the count
it could not. They were obliged seemingly to separate, but
their position towards one another remained unchanged ; and
though in winter at the Residence they were unable to be
together, they indemnified themselves in summer, while mak-
ing tours and staying at watering-places.
They were both slightly older than Edward and Charlotte,
and had been intimate with them from early times at court.
The connection had never been absolutely broken off, al-
though it was impossible to approve of their proceedings.
On the present occasion, their coming was most unwelcome
to Charlotte ; and, if she had looked closely into her reasons
for feeling it so, she would have found it was on account
of Ottilie. The poor, innocent girl should not have been
brougiit so early in contact with such an example.
"It would have been just as well if they had not come
till a couple of days later," Edward wrcs saying, as Ottilie
re-entered, "till we had finished with this business of the
farm. The deed of sale is complete. One copy of it I have
here ; but we want a second, and our old clerk has fallen
ill." The captain offered his services, and so did Charlotte ;
but therq was something or other to object to both of
them.
" Give it to me," cried Ottilie, a little hastily.
" You will never be able to finish it," said Charlotte.
" And really I must have it early the day after to-morrow,
and it is long," Edward added.
"It shall be ready," Ottilie cried; and the paper was
already in her hands.
The next morning, as they were looking out from their
highest windows for their visitors, whom they intended to go
some way and meet, Edward said, "Who is that yonder,
slowly riding along the road ? ' '
The captain described accurately the figure of the horse-
man.
"Then, it is he," said Edward: "the particulars, which
you can see better than I, agree very well with the general
figure, which I can see too. It is Mittler ; but what is he
doing, coming riding at such a pace as that? "
The figure came nearer, and Mittler it veritably was.
They received him with warm greetings, as he came slowly
up the steps.
I
ELECTIVE AFFINITIES. 169
*'"Why did you not come yesterday?" Edward cried, as
he approached.
*'I do not like your grand festivities," answered he;
" but I have come to-day to keep my friend's birthday with
you quietly."
" How are you able to find time enough?" asked Edward,
with a laugh.
" My visit, if you can value it, you owe to an observation
I made yesterday. I was spending a right happy afternoon
in a house where I had established peace, and then I heard
that a birthda}^ was being kept here. ' Now, this is what I
call selfish, after all,' said I to myself : ' you will only enjoy
yourself with those whose broken peace you have mended.
Why cannot you, for once, go and be happy with friends
who keep the peace for themselves? ' No sooner said than
done. Here I am, as I determined with myself that I would
be."
"Yesterday you would have met a large party here: to-
day you will find but a small one," said Charlotte. "You
will meet the count and the baroness, with whom you have
had enough to do already, I believe."
Out of the middle of the party, who had all four come
down to welcome him, the strange man dashed in the keenest
disgust, seizing, at the same time, his hat and whip. " Some
unlucky star is alwaj^s over me," he cried, "directly I try
to rest and enjoy myself. What business have I going out
of my proper character? I ought never to have come, and
now I am expelled. Under one roof with those two I will
not remain, and you take care of yourselves. They bring
nothing but mischief. Their nature is like leaven, and
propagates its own contagion."
They tried to pacify him, but it was in vain. "Whoever
strikes at marriage," he cried, — "whoever, either by word
or deed, undermines this, the foundation of all moral society,
that man has to settle with me ; and, if I cannot become his
master, I take care to settle myself out of his way. Mar-
riage is the beginning and end of all culture. It makes the
savage mild, and the most cultivated has no better oppor-
tunity for displaying his gentleness. Indissoluble it must
be, because it brings so much happiness that what small,
exceptional unhappiness it may bring counts for nothing in
the balance. And what do men mean by talking of unhap-
piness? All men have, at times, fits of impatience, when
they fancy themselves unhappy. Let them wait till the
170 ELECTIVE AFFINITIES.
moment is gone by, and then they will bless their good for-
tune that what has stood so long continues standing. There
never can be any adequate ground for separation. The
condition of man is pitched so high, in its joys and in its
sorrows, that what a married couple owe to one another
defies calculation. It is an infinite debt, which can only be
discharged through all eternity.
"Its annoyances marriage may often have: I can well
believe that, and it is as it should be. We are all married
to our consciences, and there are times when we should be
glad to be divorced from them. Mine gives me more annoy-
ance than ever a man or a woman can give."
Such were his words, uttered with great vivacity ; and he
would very likely have gone on speaking, had not the sound
of the postilions' horns announced the arrival of the visitors,
who, as if by a preconcerted arrangement, at the same mo-
ment drove into the castle-courtyard from opposite sides.
Mittler slipped away as their host hastened to receive them,
and, desiring that his horse might be brought out immedi-
ately, rode angrily off.
CHAPTER X.
The visitors were welcomed, and brought in. They were
delighted to find themselves again in the same house and in
the same rooms where in early times they had passed many
happy days, but which they had not seen for a long time.
Their friends, too, were very glad to see them. Both the
count and the baroness had those tall, fine figures, which
please in middle life almost better than in youth. For,
although their first bloom had somewhat faded, there was an
air in their appearance which was always irresistibly attrac-
tive. Their manners, too, were thoroughly charming. Their
free way of taking liold of life, and dealing with it, their
mirthfulness, apparent ease, and freedom from embarrass-
ment, communicated itself at once to the rest ; and a lighter
atmosphere hung about the whole party, without their having
observed it stealing on them.
The effect was immediately felt on the entrance of the
pew- comers. They were fresh from the fashionable world,
ELECTIVE AFFINITIES. 171
as was to be seen at once in tlieir dress, in their equipment,
and in every tiling about them ; and they formed a contrast,
not a little striking, with our friends, their rural style, and
the vehement feelings actuating them in secret. This, how-
ever, very soon disappeared in the stream of past recollection
and present interests ; and a rapid, lively conversation soon
united them all. After a short time, they again separated.
The ladies withdrew to their own apartments, and there
found amusement enough in the many things they had to tell
each other, and in setting to work, at the same time, to ex-
amine the new fashions, the spring-dresses, bonnets, and such
like ; while the gentlemen busied themselves looking at the
new travelling chariots, trotting out the horses, and begin-
ning at once to bargain and exchange.
They did not meet again till dinner : in the mean time
they had changed their dress. And here, too, the newly
arrived pair showed to all advantage. Every thing they
wore was new, and of a style such as their friends at the
castle had never seen ; and yet, being accustomed to it
themselves, it appeared perfectly natural and graceful.
The conversation was brilliant and varied ; as, indeed, in
the presence of such persons, every thing and nothing seems
to be of interest. They spoke in French, that the attendants
might not understand what they said, and swept, in happiest
humor, over all that was passing in the great or the middle
world. On one particular subject they remained, however,
longer than was desirable. It was occasioned by Charlotte
asking after one of her early friends, of whom she had to
learn, with some distress, that she was on the point of being
separated from her husband.
"It is a melancholy thing," Charlotte said, "when we
fancy our absent friends are finally settled, when we believe
persons very dear to us to be provided for for life, suddenly
to hear that their fortunes are cast loose once more ; that
they have to strike into a fresh path of life, and very likely
a most insecure one."
"Indeed, my dear friend," the count answered, "it is
our own fault if we allow ourselves to be surprised at such
things. We please ourselves with imagining matters of this
earth, and particularly matrimonial connections, as very en-
during : and, as concerns this last point, the plays which we
see over and over again help to mislead us ; being, as they
are, so untrue to the course of the world. In a comedy we
see a marriage as the last aim of a desire which is hindered
172 ELECTIVE AFFINITIES.
and crossed through a number of acts ; and at the instant
when it is reached the curtain falls, and the momentary
satisfaction continues to ring on in our ears. But in the
world it is very different. The play goes on still behind the
scenes ; and, when the curtain rises again, we may see and
hear, perhaps, little enough of the marriage."
"It cannot be so very bad, however," said Charlotte,
smiling. " We see people who have gone off the boards of
the theatre, ready enough to undertake a part upon them
again."
' ' There is nothing to be said against that, ' ' said the count.
" In a new character a man may readily venture on a second
trial ; and, when we know the world, we see clearly that it
is only this positive, eternal duration of marriage in a world
where every thing is in motion, which has any thing unbe-
coming about it. A friend of mine, whose good-humor
shone forth principally in suggestions for new laws, main-
tained that every marriage should be concluded only for five
years. Five, he said, was a sacred number, — pretty and
uneven. Such a period would be long enough for people to
learn one another's character, bring a child or two into the
world, quarrel, separate, and, what was best, get reconciled
again. He would often exclaim, 'How happily the first
part of the time would pass away ! ' Two or three years, at
least, would be perfect bliss. On one side or other, there
would not fail to be a wish to have the relation continue
longer ; and the amiability would increase, the nearer they
got to the time of parting. The indifferent, even the dis-
satisfied, party, would be softened and gained over by such
behavior : they would forget, as in pleasant company the
hours pass always unobserved, how the time went by, and
would be delightfully surprised when, after the term had
run out, they first observed that they had unknowingly pro-
longed it."
Charming and pleasant as all this sounded, and deep
(Charlotte felt it to her soul) as was the moral significance
which lay below it, expressions of this kind, on Ottilie's
account, were most distasteful to her. She knew very well
that nothing was more dangerous than the. licentious con-
versation which treats culpable or semi-culpable actions as
if they were common, ordinary, and even laudable ; and of
such undesirable kind assuredly was whatever touched on the
aacredness of marriage. She therefore endeavored, in her
skilful way, to give the conversation another turn ; and, when
ELECTIVE AFFINITIES. 173
she found that she could not, it vexed her that Ottilie had
managed every thing so well that there was no occasion for
her to leave the table. In her quiet, observant way, a nod or
a look was enough for her to signify to the head servant
whatever was to be done ; and every thing went off perfectly,
although there were a couple of strange men in livery in the
way, who were rather a trouble than a convenience. And so
the count, without perceiving Charlotte's hints, went on giv-
ing his opinions on the same subject. It was not his wont
to be tedious in conversation ; but this was a thing which
weighed so heavily on his heart, and the difficulties he found
in getting separated from his wife were so great, that it had
made him bitter against every thing concerning the marriage-
bond, — that very bond which, nevertheless, he so anxiously
desired for himself and the baroness.
"The same friend," he went on, "has another law^ to
propose. A marriage is to be held indissoluble, only either
when both parties, or at least one, enter into it for the third
time. Such persons must be supposed to acknowledge beyond
a doubt that they find marriage indispensable for themselves ;
they have had opportunities of thoroughly knowing them-
selves ; of knowing how they conducted themselves in their
earlier unions ; whether they have any peculiarities of
temper, which are a more frequent cause of separation than
bad dispositions. People would then observe one another
more closely : they would pay as much attention to the mar-
ried as to the unmarried, no one being able to tell how things
may turn out."
"That would add no little to the interest of society," said
Edward. "As things are now, when a man is married,
nobody cares any more, either for his virtues or for his
vices."
"Under this arrangement," the baroness rejoined, smil-
ing, "our dear hosts have passed successfully two stages,
and may make themselves ready for their third."
"Things have gone happily with them," said the count.
"In their case, death has done with a good grace what in
other cases the consistorial courts do with a very bad one."
"Let the dead rest," said Charlotte, with a half-serious
look.
"Why so," replied the count, "when we can remember
them with honor? They were generous enough to content
themselves with less than their number of years for the sake
of the larger good which they could leave behind them."
174 ELECTIVE AFFINITIES.
''Alas! that in such cases," said the baroness, with a
suppressed sigh, " happiness is only bought with the sacri-
fice of our fairest years."
" Yes, indeed," answered the count ; " and it might drive
us to despair, if it were not the same with every thing in this
world. Nothing goes as we hope. Children do not fulfil
what they promise ; young people very seldom ; and, if they
do, the world does not."
Charlotte, who was delighted that the conversation had
changed at last, replied cheerfully, —
"Well, then, we must content ourselves with enjoying
what good we are to have in fragments and pieces, as we
can get it ; and the sooner we can accustom ourselves to this
the better."
"Certainly," the count answered, "you two have had the
enjoyment of very happy times. When I recall the years
when you and Edward were the loveliest couple at the court,
I see nothing now to be compared with those brilliant times
and such magnificent figures. When you two used to dance
together, all eyes were turned upon you, fastened upon you ;
while you saw nothing but each other."
" So much has changed since those days," said Charlotte,
' ' that we can listen to such pretty things about ourselves
without our modesty being shocked at them."
" I often privately found fault with Edward," said the
count, " for not being more firm. Those singular parents
of his would certainly have given way at last, and ten fair
years is no trifle to gain."
"I must take Edward's part," struck in the baroness.
" Charlotte was not altogether without fault, — not altogether
free from what we must call prudential considerations : and
although she had a real, hearty love for Edward, and did in
her secret soul intend to marry him, I can bear witness how
sorely she often tried him ; and it was through this that he
was at last unluckily prevailed upon to leave her and go
abroad, and try to forget her."
Edward nodded to the baroness, and seemed grateful for
her advocacy.
" And then I must add this," she continued, " in excuse
for Charlotte. The man who was at that time wooing her,
had for a long time given proofs of his constant attachment
to her, and, when one came to know him well, was a far
more lovable person than the rest of you may like to
acknowledge."
ELECTIVE AFFINITIES. 175
*'Dear friend," the count replied, a little pointedly,
" confess, now, that he was not altogether indifferent to your-
self, and that Charlotte had more to fear from you than from
any other rival. I find it one of the highest traits in women,
that they preserve so long their regard for a man, and that
absence of no duration will serve to disturb or remove it."
"This fine feature men possess, perhaps, even more,"
answered the baroness. "At any rate, I have observed with
you, my dear count, that no one has more influence over you
than a lady to whom you were once attached. I have seen
you take more trouble to do things when a certain person
has asked you, than the friend of this moment would have
obtained of you, if she had tried."
" Such a charge as that one must bear the best way one
can," replied the count. "But, as to what concerns Char-
lotte's first husband, I could not endure him ; because he
parted so sweet a pair from one another, — a really pre-
destined pair, who, once brought together, have no reason
to fear the five years, or be thinking of a second or third
marriage."
"We must try," Charlotte said, "to make up for what we
then allowed to slip from us."
" Ay, and you must keep to that," said the count : "your
first marriages," he continued, with some vehemence, "were
exactly marriages of the true detestable sort. And, unhap-
pily, marriages generally, even the best, have (forgive me for
using a strong expression) something awkward about them.
They destroy the delicacy of the relation : every thing is made
to rest on the broad certainty out of which one side or
other, at least, is too apt to make their own advantage. It is
all a matter of course ; and they seem only to have got them-
selves tied together, that one or the other, or both, may go
their own way the more easily."
At this moment, Charlotte, who was determined once for
all that she would put an end to the conversation, made a
bold effort at turning it, and succeeded. It then became
more general. She and her husband and the captain were
able to take a part in it. Even Ottilie had to give her
opinion, and the dessert was enjoyed in the happiest humor.
It was particularly beautiful, being composed almost entii'ely
of the rich summer fruits in elegant baskets, with epergnoe
of lovely flowers arranged in exquisite taste.
The new laying-out of the park came to be spoken of, and
immediately after dinner they went to look at what was going
176 electivp: affinities.
on. Ottilie withdrew, under pretence of having household
matters to look to ; in reality, it was to set to work again at
the transcribing. The count fell into conversation with the
captain, and Charlotte afterwards joined them. When they
were at the summit, the captain good-naturedly ran back to
fetch the plan ; and, in his absence, the count said to Char-
lotte, —
" He is an exceedingly pleasing person. He is very well
informed, and his knowledge is always ready. His practi-
cal power, too, seems methodical and vigorous. What he
is doing here would be of great importance in some higher
sphere."
Charlotte listened to the captain's praises with an inward
delight. She collected herself, however, and composedly
and clearly confirmed what the count had said. But she was
not a little startled when he continued, —
*' This acquaintance falls most opportunely for me. I
know of a situation for which he is perfectly suited ; and
I shall be doing the greatest favor to a friend of mine, a
man of high rank, by recomihending to him a person who is
80 exactly every thing which he desires."
Charlotte felt as if a stroke of thunder had fallen on her.
The count did not observe it : women, being accustomed at
all times to hold themselves in restraint, are always able,
even in the most extraordinary cases, to maintain an appar-
ent composure ; but she heard not a word more of what the
count said, though he went on speaking.
*'When I have made up my mind upon a thing," he
added, " I am quick about it. I have put my letter together
already In my head, and I shall write it immediately. You
can find me some messenger, who can ride off with it this
evening."
Charlotte was suffering agonies. Startled with the pro-
posal, and shocked at herself, she was unable to utter a
word. Happily the count continued talking of his plans for
the captain, the desirableness of which was only too appar-
ent to Charlotte.
It was time that the captain returned. He came up, and
unrolled his design before the count. But with what changed
eyes Charlotte now looked at the friend whom she was to
lose ! In her necessity she bowed, and turned away, and
hurried down to the summer-house. Before she had gone
half-way, the tears were streaming from her eyes ; and she
flung herself into the narrow room in the little hermitage,
ELECTIVE AFFINITIES. 177
and gave herself up to an agony, a passion, a despair, of
the possibility of which, but a few moments before, she had
not had the slightest conception.
Edward had gone with the baroness in the other direction,
towards the ponds. This ready-witted lady, who liked to be
in the secret about every thing, soon observed, in a few con-
versational feelers which she threw out, that Edward was
very fluent and free-spoken in praise of Ottilie. She con-
trived in the most natural way to draw him out by degrees so
completely, that at last she had not a doubt remaining that
here was not merely an incipient fancy, but a veritable, full-
grown passion.
Married women, if they have no particular love for one
another, yet are silently in league together, especially against
young girls. The consequences of such an inclination pre-
sented themselves only too quickly to her world-experienced
spirit. Added to this, she had been already, in the course
of the day, talking to Charlotte about Ottilie : she had dis-
approved of her remaining in the country, particularly being
a girl of so retiring a character ; and she had proposed to
take Ottilie with her to the residence of a friend, who was
just then bestowing great expense on the education of an
only daughter, and who was only looking about to find some
well-disposed companion for her, to put her in the place
of a second child, and let her share in every advantage.
Charlotte had taken time to consider. But now this glimpse
of the baroness into Edward's heart changed what had been
but a suggestion at once into a settled determination ; and
the more rapidly she made up her mind about it, the more
she outwardly seemed to flatter Edward's wishes. Never
was there any one more self-possessed than this lady ; and
to have mastered ourselves in extraordinary cases disposes
us to treat even a common case with dissimulation : it makes
us inclined, as we have had to do so much violence to our-
selves, to extend our control over others, and hold ourselves
in a degree compensated in what we outwardly gain for what
we inwardly have been obliged to sacrifice. To this feeling
there is often joined a kind of secret, spiteful pleasure in
the blind, unconscious ignorance with which the victim walks
on into the snare. It is not immediate success we enjoy,
but the thought of the surprise and exposure which is to
follow. And thus was the baroness malicious enough to
invite Edward to come with Charlotte, and pay her a visit at
the grape-gathering, and, to his question whether they might
178 ELECTIVE AFFINITIES.
bring Ottilie with them, to frame an answer which, if he
pleased, he might interpret to his wishes.
Edward liad ah'eady begun to pour out his delight at the
beautiful scenery, the broad river, the hills, the rocks, the
vineyard, the old castles, the water-parties, and the jubilee
at the grape-gathering, the wine-pressing, etc., — in all of
which, in the innocence of his heart, he was only exuberat-
ing" in the anticipation of the impression which these scenes
were to make on the fresh spirit of Ottilie. At this moment
they saw her approach ; and the baroness said quickly to
Edward that he had better say nothing to her of this
intended autumn expedition, things which we set our hearts
upon so long before so often failing to come to pass. Edward
gave his promise : but he obliged his companion to move
more quickly to meet her ; and at last, when they came very
close, he ran on several steps in advance. A heartfelt hap-
piness was expressed in his whole being. He kissed her
hand as he pressed into it a nosegay of wild-flowers, which
he had gathered on his way.
The baroness felt bitter to her heart at the sight of it.
At the same time that she was able to disapprove of what
was really objectionable in this affection, she could not bear
to see what was sweet and beautiful in it thrown away on
such a poor, paltry girl.
When they had collected again at the supper-table, an
entirely different temper was spread over the party. The
count, who had in the mean time written his letter and de-
spatched a messenger with it, occupied himself with the
captain, whom he had been drawing out more and more,
spending the whole evening at his side, talking of serious
matters. The baroness, who sat on the count's right, found
but small amusement in this ; nor did Edward find any more.
The latter, first because he was thirsty, and then because he
was excited, did not spare the wine, and attached himself
entirely to Ottilie, whom he had made sit by him. On the
other side, next to the captain, sat Charlotte : for her it
was hard, it was almost impossible, to conceal the emotion
under which she was suffering.
The baroness had suflScient time to make her observations
at leisure. She perceived Charlotte's uneasiness, and, occu-
pied as she was with Edward's passion for Ottilie, easily
satisfied herself that her abstraction and distress were owing
to her husband's behavior ; and she set herself to consider
in what way she could best compass her ends.
ELECTIVE AFFINITIES. 179
Supper was over, and the party remained divided. The
count, whose object was to probe the captain to the bottom,
had to try many turns before he could arrive at what he
wished with so quiet, so little vain, but so exceedingly
laconic, a person. They walked up and down together on
one side of the saloon ; while Edward, excited with wine and
hope, was laughing with Ottilie at a window ; and Charlotte
and the baroness were walking backwards and forwards,
without speaking, on the other side. Their being so silent,
and their standing about in this uneasy, listless way, had its
effect at last in breaking up the rest of the party. The
ladies withdrew to their rooms, the gentlemen to the other
wing of the castle ; and so this day appeared to be concluded.
CHAPTER XI.
Edward went with the count to his room. They con-
tinued talking, and he was easily prevailed upon to stay a
little time longer there. The count lost himself in old times,
spoke eagerly of Charlotte's beauty, which, as a critic, he
dwelt upon with much warmth.
"A pretty foot is a great gift of nature," he said. "It
is a grace which never perishes. I observed it to-day, as
she was walking. I should almost have liked to have kissed
her shoe, and repeat that somewhat barbarous but significant
practice of the Sarmatians, who know no better way of
showing reverence for any one they love or respect, than by
using his shoe to drink his health out of."
The point of the foot did not remain the only subject of
praise between two old acquaintances : they went from the
person back upon old stories and adventures, and came on
the hinderances people at that time had thrown in the way of
the lovers' meetings, — what trouble they had taken, what
arts they had been obliged to devise, only to be able to tell
each other that they loved.
" Do you remember," continued the count, " an adventure
in which I most unselfishly stood your friend when their
Highnesses were on a visit to your uncle, and were all
together in that great, straggling castle ? The day went in
festivities and glitter of all sorts, and a part of the night at
least in pleasant conversation."
180 ELECTIVE AFFINITIES.
'' And you, in the mean time, had obsen^ed the back way
which led to the court-ladies' quarter," said Edward, *' and
so managed to effect an interview for me with my beloved."
"And she," replied the count, "thinking more of pro-
priety than of my enjoyment, had kept a frightful old duenna
with her. So that, while you two, between looks and words,
got on extremely well together, my lot, in the mean while,
was far from pleasant."
"Only yesterday," answered Edward, "when you sent
word you were coming, I was recalling the story to my wife,
and describing our adventure on returning. We missed the
road, and got into the entrance-hall from the garden. Know-
ing our way from thence so well as we did, we supposed we
could get along easily enough. But you remember our sur-
prise on opening the door. The floor was covered over with
mattresses, on which the giants lay in rows stretched- out
and sleeping. The single sentinel at his post looked won-
deringly at us ; but we, in the cool wa}'^ young men do things,
strode quietly on over the outstretched boots, without dis-
turbing a single one of the snoring children of Anak."
"I had the strongest inclination to stumble," the count
said, "that there might be an alarm given. What a resur-
rection we should have witnessed."
At this moment the castle-clock struck twelve.
" It is deep midnight," the count added, laughing, " and
just the proper time : I must ask you, my dear baron, to
show me a kindness. Do you guide me to-night, as I guided
you then. I promised the baroness that I would see her
before going to bed. We have had no opportunity of any
private talk together the whole day. We have not seen each
other for a long time, and it is only natural that we should
wish for a confidential hour. If you will show me the way
there, I will manage to get back again ; and, in any case,
there will be no boots for me to stumble over."
" I shall be very glad to show you such a piece of hospi-
tality," answered Edward, "only the three ladies are together
in the same wing. Who knows whether we shall not find
them still with one another, or make some other mistake,
which may have a strange appearance ? ' '
"Do not be afraid," said the count: "the baroness
expects me. She is sure by this time to be in her own room,
and alone."
" Well, then, the thing is easy enough," Edward answered.
He took a caudle, and lighted the count down a private
ELECTIVE AFFINITIES. 181
staircase leading into a long gallery. At the end of this,
he opened a small door. They mounted a winding flight
of stairs, which brought them out upon a narrow landing-
place ; and then, putting the candle in the count's hand,
he pointed to a tapestried door on the right, which opened
readily at the first trial, and admitted the count, leaving
Edward outside in the dark.
Another door on the left led into Charlotte's sleeping-
room. He heard her voice, and listened. She was speaking
to her maid. " Is Ottilie in bed? " she asked. " No," was
the answer : " she is sitting writing in the room below." —
" You may light the night-lamp," said Charlotte : "I shall
not want you any more. It is late. I can put out the
candle, and do whatever I may want else myself."
It was a delight to Edward to hear that Ottilie was still
writing. She is working for me, he thought triumphantly.
Through the darkness, he fancied he could see her sitting all
alone at her desk. He thought he would go to her, and see
her ; and how she would turn to receive him. He felt a
longing, which he could not resist, to be near her once more.
But, from where he was, there was no way to the apartments
which she occupied. He now found himself immediately at
his wife's door. A singular change of feeling came over
him. He tried the handle, but the door was bolted. He
knocked gentl}^ Charlotte did not hear him. She was
walking rapidly up and down in the large dressing-room
adjoining. She was repeating over and over what, since the
count's unexpected proposal, she had often enough. had to
say to herself. The captain seemed to stand before her. At
home and everywhere, he had become her all in all. And
now he was to go, and it was all to be desolate again. She
repeated whatever wise things one can say to one's self ; she
even anticipated, as people so often do, the wretched com-
fort, that time would come at last to her relief ; and then she
cursed the time which would have to pass before it could
lighten her sufferings — she cursed the dead, cold time when
they would be lightened. At last she burst into tears, which
were the more welcome as she rarely wept. She flung her-
self on the sofa, and gave herself up unreservedly to her
sufferings. Edward, meanwhile, could not take himself from
the door. He knocked again, and a third time somewhat
louder ; so that Charlotte, in the stillness of the night, dis-
tinctly heard it, and started up in fright. Her first thought
was, it can only be, it must be, the captain; her second.
182 ELECTIVE AFFINITIES.
that it was impossible. She thought she must have been
deceived. But surely she had heard it, and she wished
and she feared to have heard it. She went into her sleeping-
room, and walked lightly up to the bolted tapestry-door.
She blamed herself for her fears. " Possibly i. may be the
baroness wanting something," she said to herself; and she
called out quietly and calmly, " Is an3'body there? " A light
voice answered, ^'It is I." — "Who?" returned Charlotte,
not being able to make out the voice. She thought she saw
the captain's figure standing at the door. In a slightly louder
tone, she heard the word " Edward." She drew back the
bolt, and her husband stood before her. He greeted her
with some light jest. She was unable to reply in the same
tone. He complicated the mysterious visit by his mysterious
explanation of it.
"Well, then," he said at last, " I will confess, the real
reason why I am come is, that I have made a vow to kiss
your shoe this evening."
" It is long since you thought of such a thing as that,"
said Charlotte.
"So much the worse," he answered, " and so much the
better."
She had sat down in an arm-chair to prevent him from
seeing the scantiness of her dress. He flung himself down
before her, and she could not prevent him from giving her
shoe a kiss. And, when the shoe came off in his hand, he
caught her foot, and pressed it tenderly against his breast.
Charlotte was one of those women who, being of a natu-
rally calm temperament, continue in marriage, without any
purpose or an}' effort, the air and character of lovers. She
was never expressive towards her husband ; generally, indeed,
she rather shrank from any warm demonstration on his part.
It was not that she was cold, or at all hard and repulsive ;
but she remained always like a loving bride, who draws back
with a kind of shyness, even from what is permitted. And
so Edward fouud her this evening, in a double sense. How
greatly she longed that her husband would go : the figure of
his friend seemed to hover in the air aud reproach her. But
what should have had the effect of driving Edward away
only attracted him the more. There were visible traces of
emotion about her. She had been crying ; and tears, which
with weak persons detract from their graces, add immeas-
urably to the attractiveness of those whom we know com-
monly as strong and self-possessed.
ELECTIVE AFFINITIES. 183
Edward was so agreeable, so gentle, so pressing : he begged
to be allowed to stay with her. He did not demand it ; but
half in fun, half in earnest, he tried to persuade her : he
never thought of his rights. At last, as if in mischief, he
blew out the candle.
In the dim lamplight, the inward affection, the irnagina-
tion, maintained their rights over the real : . it was Ottilie
that was resting in Edward's arras ; and the captain, now
faintly, now clearly, hovered before Charlotte's soul. And
so, strangely intermingled, the absent and the present flowed
in a sweet enchantment one into the other.
And yet the present would not let itself be robbed of its
own unlovely right. They spent a part of the night talking
and laughing at all sorts of things, the more freely, as the
heart had no part in it. But when Edward awoke in the
morning, on the bosom of his wife, the da}^ seemed to stare m
with a sad, awful look, and the sun to be shining in upon a
crime. He stole lightly from her side ; and she found herself,
with strange enough feelings, when she awoke, alone.
CHAPTER XII.
When the party assembled again at breakfast, an attentive
observer might have read in the behavior of its various
members the different things which were passing in their inner
thoughts and feelings. The count and the baroness met with
the air of happiness which a pair of lovers feel, who, after
having been forced to endure a long separation, have mutually
assured each other of their unaltered affection. On the other
hand, Charlotte and Edward equally came into the presence
of the captain and Ottilie with a sense of shame and remorse.
For such is the nature of love that it believes in no rights
except its own, and all other rights vanish away before it.
Ottilie was in child-like spirits. For her, she was almost
what might be called open. The captain appeared serious.
His conversation with the count, which had roused in him
feelings that for some time past had been at rest and dor-
mant, had made him only too keenly conscious that here he
was not fulfilling his work, and at bottom was but squander-
ing himself in a half -activity of idleness.
184 ELECTIVE AFFINITIES.
Hardly had their guests departed, when fresh visitors were
announced, ^— to Charlotte most welcomely, all she wished
for being to be taken out of herself, and to have her atten-
tion dissipated. They annoyed Edward, who was longing to
devote himself to Ottilie ; and Ottilie did not wish for them
either, the copy which had to be finished the next morning
early being still incomplete. They staid a long time, and
immediately that they were gone she hurried off to her room.
It was now evening. Edward, Charlotte, and the captain
had accompanied the strangers some little way on foot, before
the latter got into their carriage ; and, previous to returning
home, they agreed to take a walk along the water-side.
A boat had come, which Edward liad had fetched from a
distance at no little expense ; and they decided that they
would try whether it was easy to manage. It was made fast
on the bank of the middle pond, not far from some old ash-
trees, on which they calculated to make an effect in their
future improvements. There was to be a landing-place made
there, and under the trees a seat was to l)e raised and archi-
tecturally adorned : it was to be the spot for which people
were to make when they went across the water.
' ' And where had we better have the landing-place on the
other side?" said Edward. "I should think, under my
plane-trees."
" They stand a little too far to the right," said the captain.
" You are nearer the castle if you land farther down. How-
ever, we must think about it."
The captain was already standing in the stern of the boat,
and had taken up an oar. Charlotte got in, and Edward with
her, — he took the other oar ; but, as he was on the point of
pushing off, he thought of Ottilie, — he recollected that jom-
ing in the sail would detain him too long ; who could tell
when he would get back ? He made up his mind shortly and
promptly, sprang back to the bank, and, reaching the other
oar to the captain, hurried home, making excuses to himself
as he ran.
Arriving there, he learned that Ottilie had shut herself up, —
she was writing. In spite of the agreeable feeling that she
was doing something for him, it was the keenest mortification
to him not to be able to see her. His impatience increased
every moment. lie walked up and down the large drawing-
room : he tried a thousand things, and could not fix his atten-
tion upon any. He was longing to see her alone, before
Charlotte came back with the captain. It was dark by this
time, and the caudles were lighted.
ELECTIVE AFFINITIES. 185
At last she came in, beaming with loveliness : the sense
that she had done something for her friend had lifted all her
being above itself. She put down the original and her tran-
script on the table before Edward.
*' Shall we collate them? " she said, with a smile.
Edward did not know what to answer. He looked at her
— he looked at the transcript. The first few sheets were
written with the greatest carefulness in a delicate woman's
hand ; then the strokes appeared to alter, to become more
light and free ; but who can describe his surprise as he ran
his eyes over the concluding page? '' For Heaven's sake,"
he cried, "what is this? this is my hand! " He looked at
Ottilie, and again at the paper : the conclusion, especially,
was exactly as if he had written it himself. Ottilie said noth-
ing, but she looked at him with her eyes full of the warmest
delight. Edward stretched out his arms. " You love me ! "
he cried : " Ottilie, you love me ! " They fell on each other's
breast : which had been the first to catch the other it would
have been impossible to distinguish.
From that moment the world was all changed for Fxlward.
He was no lono;er what he had been, and the world was no
longer what it had been. They parted — he held her hands ;
they gazed in each other's eyes. They were on the point of
embracing each other again.
Charlotte entered with the captain. Edward inwardly
smiled at their excuses for having staid out so long. "Oh !
how far too soon you have returned," he said to himself.
They sat down to supper. They talked about the people
who had been there that day. Edward, full of love and
ecstasy, spoke well of every one, — always sparing, often ap-
proving. Charlotte, who was not altogether of his opinion,
remarked this temper in him, and jested with him about it, —
he, who had always the sharpest thing to say on departed
visitors, was this evening so gentle and tolerant.
With fervor and heartfelt conviction, Edward cried, " One
has only to love a single creature with all one's heart, and
the whole world at once looks lovely I "
Ottilie drox)ped her eyes on the ground, and Charlotte
looked straight before her.
The captain took up the word, and said, "It is the same
with deep feelings of respect and reverence : we first learn to
recognize wliat there is that is to be valued in the world,
when we find occasion to entertain such sentiments towards
a pai'ticular object."
186 ELECTIVE AFFINITIES.
Charlotte made an excuse to retire early to her room,
where she could give lierself up to thinking over what had
passed in the course of the evening between herself and the
captain.
When Edward, jumping on shore, and, pushing off the
boat, had himself committed his wife and his friend to the
uncertain element, Charlotte found hei'self face to face with
the man on whose account she had been alread}^ secretly
suffering so bitterly, sitting in the twilight before her, and
sweeping along the boat with the sculls in easy motion. She
felt a depth of sadness, very rare with her, weighing on her
spirits. The undulating movement of the boat, the splash of
the oars, the faint breeze playing over the watery mirror, the
sighing of the reeds, the long flight of the birds, the fitful
twinkling of the first stars, — there was something spectral
about it all in the universal stillness. She fancied her friend
was bearing her away to set her on some far-off shore, and
leave her there alone : strange emotions were passing through
her, and she could not give way to them and weep.
The captain was describing to her the manner in which,
according to his opinion, the improvements should be con-
tinued. He praised the construction of the boat : it was so
convenient, he said, because one person could so easily
manage it with a pair of oars. She should herself leara
how to do this : there was often a delicious feeling in floating
along alone upon the water, one's own ferryman and
steersman.
The parting which was impending sank on Charlotte's
heart as he was speaking. Is he saying this on purpose?
she thought to herself . Does he know it yet ? Does he sus-
pect it ? or is it only accident, and is he unconsciously fore-
telling me my fate?
A weary, impatient heaviness took hold of her : she begged
him to make for land as soon as possible, and return with her
to the castle.
It was the first time the captain had sailed on the
ponds ; and although he had, upon the whole, ascertained
their depth, he did not know accurately the particular spots.
Dusk was coming on : he directed his course to a place where
he thought it would be easy to get on shore, and from which
he knew the footpath which led to the castle was not far
distant. Charlotte, however, repeated her wish to get to
land quickly ; and the place which he thought of being at a
short distance, he gave it up, and, exerting himself as much
ELECTIVE AFFINITIES. 187
as he possibly could, made straight for the bank. Unhap-
pily the water was shallow, and he ran aground some way
off from it. Owing to the rate at which he was going, the
boat got stuck ; and all his efforts to move it were in vain.
What was to be done? There was no alternative but to get
into the water and carry his companion ashore.
It was done without difficulty or danger. He was strong
enough not to totter with her, or give her any cause for
anxiety ; but in her agitation she had thrown her arms about
his neck. He held her fast, and pressed her to himsel?,
and at last laid her down upon a grassy bank, not
without emotion and confusion . . . she was still lying
on his neck ... he once more locked her in his arms,
and pressed a warm kiss upon her lips. The next moment
he was at her feet: he took her hand, and held it to his
mouth, and cried, —
" Charlotte, will you forgive me? "
The kiss which he had ventured to give, and which she had
all but returned to him, brought Charlotte to herself again :
she pressed his hand, but she did not attempt to raise him
up. She bent down over him, and laid her hand upon his
shoulder, and said, —
"We cannot now prevent this moment from forming an
epoch in our lives, but it depends on us to bear ourselves in
a manner which shall be worthy of us. You must go away,
my dear friend ; and you are going. The count has plans
for you, to give you better prospects : 1 am glad, and I am
sorry. I did not mean to speak of it till it was certain,
but this moment obliges me to tell you my secret. . . .
Since it does not depend on ourselves to alter our feelings,
I can onl}' forgive you, I can only forgive myself, if we
have the courage to alter our situation." She raised him up,
took his arm to support herself, and they walked back to the
castle without speaking.
But now she was standing in her own room, where she
could not but feel and know that she was Edward's wife.
Her strength, and the various discipline in which through
life she had trained herself, came to her assistance in the
conflict. Accustomed as she had always been to look
steadily into herself and to control herself, she did not now
find it difficult, with an earnest effort, to come to the reso-
lution which she desired. She could almost smile when she
remembered the strange visit of the night before. Sud-
denly she was seized with a wonderful instinctive feeling, a
188 EJ.ECTIVE AFFINITIES.
thrill of fearful delight which changed into holy hope and
longing. She knelt earnestly down, and repeated the oath
which she had taken to Edward before the altar.
Friendship, affection, renunciation, floated in glad, happy
images before her. She felt restored to health and to her-
self. A sweet weariness came over her, and she calmly fell
asleep.
CHAPTER XIII.
Edavard, on his part, was in a ver\' different temper.
So little he thought of sleeping, that it did not once occur
to him even to undress himself. A thousand times he
kissed the transcript of the document ; but it was the begin-
ning of it, in Ottilie's childish, timid hand : the end he
scarcely dared to kiss, for he thought it was his own hand
which he saw. Oh, that it were another document ! he
whispered to himself ; and, as it was, he felt it was the
sweetest assurance that his highest wish would be fulfilled.
Thus it remained in his hands, thus he continued to press
it to his heart, although disfigured by a third name sub-
scribed to it. The waning moon rose up over the wood.
The warmth of the night drew Edward out into the free
air. He wandered this way and that w^ay : he was at once
the most restless and the happiest of mortals. He strayed
through the gardens — they seemed too narrow for him ;
he hurried out into the park, and it was too wide. He w^as
drawn back toward the castle : he stood under Ottilie's
window. He threw himself down on the steps of the terrace
below. '' Walls and bolts," he said to himself, '•' may still
divide us, but our hearts are not divided. If she were here
before me, into my arms she would fall, and I into hers ;
and what can one desire but that sweet certainty!" All
was stillness round him ; not a breath was moving ; so
still it was, that he could hear the unresting creatures un-
derground at their work, to whom day or night are alike.
He abandoned himself to his delicious dreams : at last he
fell asleep, and did not wake till the sun with his royal
beams was mounting up in the sky and scattering the early
mists.
He found that he was the first person awake on his do-
ELECTIVE AFFINITIES. 189
main. The laborers seemed to be staying away too long ;
they came ; he thought the}^ were too few, and tlie work set
out for the day too slight for his desires. He inquired for
more workmen : the}' were i)romised, and in the course of
the day they came. But these, too, were not enough for
him to carr}^ his plans out as rapidly as he wished. To
do the work gave him no pleasure any longer: it should
all be done. And for whom? The paths should be grav-
elled, that Ottilie might walk pleasantly upon them ; seats
should be made at every spot and corner, that Ottilie might
rest on them. The new building, too, was hurried for^
ward. It should be finished for Ottilie 's birthday. In all
he thought and all he did, there was no more moderation.
The sense of loving and of being loved urged him out into
the unlimited. How changed was now to him the look of
all the rooms, their furniture and tiieir decorations ! He
did not feel as if he was in his own house any more.
Ottilie 's presence absorbed every thing. He was utterly lost
in her : no other thought ever rose before him, no con-
science disturbed him, every restraint which had been laid
upon his nature burst loose. His whole being centred upon
Ottilie. This impetuosity of passion did not escape the
captain, who longed to prevent, if he could, its evil conse-
quences. All those plans which were now being Imrried
on with this immoderate speed had been drawn out and
calculated for a long, quiet, easy execution. The sale of
the farm had been completed, the first instalment had been
paid. Charlotte, according to the arrangement, had taken
possession of it. But the very first week after, she found
it more than usually necessar}^ to exercise patience and
resolution, and to keep her eye on what was being done.
In the present hasty style of proceeding, the money which
had been set apart for the purpose would not go far.
Much had been begun, and much yet remained to be done.
How could the captain leave Charlotte in such a situation?
They consulted togethtnj, and agreed that it would be better
that they themselves should hurry on the works, and for this
purpose employ money which could be made good again at
the period fixed for the discharge of the second instalment of
what was to be paid for the farm. It could be done almost
without loss. They would have a freer hand. Every thing
would progress simultaneously. There were laborers enough
at hand ; and they could get more accomplished at once, and
arrive swiftly and surely at their aim. Edward gladly gave
190 ELECTIVE AFFINITIES.
his consent to a plan which so entirely coincided with his
own views.
During this time Charlotte persisted with all her heart in
what she had determined for herself, and her friend stood by
her with a like purpose manfully. This very circumstance,
however, produced a greater intimacy between them. They
spoke openly to one another of Edward's passion, and con-
sulted what had better be done. Charlotte kept Ottilie more
about herself, watching her narrowly ; and, the more she
understood her own heart, the deeper she was able to pene-
trate into the heart of the poor girl. She saw no help for
it, except in sending her away.
It now appeared a happy thing to her that Luciana had
gained such high honors at the school ; for her great aunt,
as soon as she heard of it, desired to take her entirely to
herself, to keep her with her, and bring her out into the
world. Ottilie could, therefore, return thither. The cap-
tain would leave them well provided for, and every thing
would be as it had been a few months before ; indeed, in
many respects better. Charlotte thought she could soon
recover her own place in Edward's affection ; and she settled
it all, and laid it all out before herself so sensibly, that she
only strengthened herself more completely in her delusion —
as if it were possible for them to return within their old
limits, — as if a bond which had been violently broken could
again be joined together as before.
In the mean time, Edward felt very deeplj^ the hinderances
which were thrown in his way. He soon observed that they
were keeping him and Ottilie separate ; that they made it
difficult for him to speak with her alone, or even to approach
her, except in the presence of others. And, while he was
angry about this, he was angry at many things besides. If
he caught an opportunity for a few hasty words with Ottilie,
it was not only to assure her of his love, but to complain of
his wife and of the captain. He never felt, that, with his own
irrational haste, he was on the way to exhaust the cash-box.
He bitterly complained, that, in the execution of the work,
they were not keeping to the first agreement : and yet he had
been himself a consenting party to the second ; indeed, it
was he who had occasioned it and made it necessary.
Hatred is a partisan, but love is even more so. Ottilie
also estranged herself from Charlotte and the captain. As
Edward was complaining one day to Ottilie of the latter,
saying that he was not treating him like a friend, or, under
ELECTIVE AFFINITIES. 191
the circumstances, acting quite uprightly, she answered un-
thinkingly, " I have once or twice had a painful feeling that
he was not quite honest with you. I heard him say once to
Charlotte, ' If Edward would but spare us that eternal flute
of his ! He can make nothing of it, and it is too disagreea-
ble to listen to him.' You may imagine how it hurt me,
when I like accompanying you so much."
She had scarcely uttered the words when her conscience
whispered to her that she had much better have been silent.
However, the thing was said. Edward's features worked
violently. Never had any thing stung him more. He was
touched on his tenderest point. It was his amusement : he
followed it like a child. He never made the slightest pre-
tensions : what gave him pleasure should be treated with
forbearance by his friends. He never thought how intoler-
able it is for a third person to have his ears offended by in-
sufficient skill. He was indignant : he was hurt in a way
which he could not forgive. He felt himself discharged
from all obligations.
The necessity of being with Ottilie, of seeing her, whisper-
ing to her, exchanging his confidence with her, increased with
every day. He determined to write to her, and ask her to
carry on a secret correspondence with him. The strip of
paper on which he had, laconically enough, made his request,
lay on his writing-table, and was swept off by a draught of
wind as his valet entered to dress his hair. The latter was
in the habit of picking up bits of paper which might be lying
about, to try the heat of the iron. This time he got hold of
the little note, and he twisted it up hastily : it was singed.
Edward, observing the mistake, snatched it out of his hand.
After the man was gone, he sat down to write it over again.
The second time it would not run so readily off his pen. It
gave him a little uneasiness : he hesitated, but he got over
it. He squeezed the paper into Ottilie 's hand the first mo-
ment he was able to approach her. Ottilie answered him
immediately. He put the note unread in his waistcoat
pocket, which, being made short in the fashion of the time,
was shallow, and did not hold it as it ought. It worked out,
and fell without his observing it on the ground. Charlotte
saw it, picked it up, and, after giving a hasty glance at it,
reached it to him.
*'Here is something in your handwriting," she said,
" which you may be sorry to lose."
He was perplexed. Is she dissembling? he thought.
192 ELECTIVE AFFINITIES.
Does she know what is in the note, or is she deceived by the
resemblance of the liand? He hoped, he believed, the latter.
He was warned — doubly warned ; but those strange acci-
dents, through which a higher intelligence seems to be speak-
ing to us, his passion was not able to interpret. Rather,
as he went farther and farther on, he felt the restraint under
which his friend and his wife seemed to be holding him the
more intolerable. His pleasure in their society was gone.
His heart was closed against them ; and, though he was
obliged to endure their society, he could not succeed in re-
discovering or in re-animating within his heart any thing of
his old affection for them. The silent reproaches which he
was forced to make to himself about it were disagreeable to
him. He tried to help himself with a kind of humor, which,
however, being without love, was also without its usual
grace.
Over all such trials, Charlotte found assistance to rise in
her own inward feelings. She knew her own determination.
Her own affection, fair and noble as it was, she would utterly
renounce.
And sorely she longed to go to the assistance of the other
two. Separation, she knew well, would not alone suffice to
heal so deep a wound. She resolved that she would speak
openly about it to Ottilie herself. But she could not do it.
The recollection of her own weakness stood in her way.
She thought she could talk generall}^ to her about the sort of
thing. But general expressions about ''the sort of thing"
fitted her own case equally well, and she could not bear to
touch it. Whatever hint she would give Ottilie recoiled
back on her own heart. She would warn, and she was obliged
to feel that she might herself still be in need of warning.
She contented herself, therefore, with silently keeping the
lovers more apart, and by this gained nothing. The slight
hints which frequently escaped her had no effect upon Ottilie ;
for Ottilie had been assured i)y Edward that Charlotte was
devoted to the captain, that Charlotte herself wished for a
separation, and that he was at this moment considering the
readiest means by which it could be brought about.
Ottilie, led by the sense of her own innocence along the
road to the happiness for which she longed, only lived for
Edward. Strengthened by her love for him in all good, more
light and happy in her work for his sake, and more frank and
open towards others, she found herself in a heaven upoa
earth.
ELECTIVE AFFINITIES. 193
So, all together, each in his or her own fashion, reflecting
or unreflecting, they continued the routine of their Uves.
All seemed to go its ordinary way ; as, in monstrous cases,
when every thing is at stake, men will still live on, as if it
were all nothing.
CHAPTER XIV.
In the mean time, a letter came from the count to the
captain, — two indeed, — one which he might produce, hold-
ing out fair, excellent prospects in the distance ; the other
containing a distinct offer of an immediate situation, a place
of high importance and responsibility at the court, his rank
as major, a very considerable salary, and other advantages.
A number of circumstances, however, made it desirable, that,
for the moment, he should not speak of it ; and consequently
he only informed his friends of his remote expectations,
concealing what was so close at hand.
He went warmly on, at the same time, with his present-
occupation, and quietly made arrangements to secure the
works being all continued without interruption after his
departure. He was now himself desirous that as much as
possible should be finished off at once, and was ready to
hasten things forward to prepare for Ottilie's birthday.
And so, though without having come to any express under-
standing, the two friends worked side by side together.
Edward was now well pleased that the cash-box was filled
by their having taken up money. The whole affair went
forward at fullest speed.
The captain had done his best to oppose the plan of
throwing the three ponds together into a single sheet of
water. The lower embankment would have to be made
much stronger, the two intermediate embankments to be
taken away ; and altogether, in more than one sense, it
seemed a very questionable proceeding. However, both
these schemes had been already undertaken ; the soil which
was removed above, being carried at once down to where it
was wanted. And here there came opportunely on the
scene a young architect, an old pupil of the captain, who,
partly by introducing workmen who understood work of this
194 ELECTIVE AFFINITIES.
nature, and partly by himself, whenever it was possible,
contracting for the work itself, advanced things not a little ;
while, at the same time, they could feel more confidence in
their being securely and lastingly executed. In secret, this
was a great pleasure to the captain. He could now be con-
fident that his absence would not be so severely felt. It
was one of the points on which he was most resolute with
himself, never to leave any thing which he had taken in
hand uncompleted, unless he could see his place satisfac-
torily supplied. And he could not but hold in small respect
persons who introduce confusion arouud themselves only to
make their absence felt, and are ready jto disturb, in wanton
selfishness, what fhey will not be at hand to restore.
So they labored on, straining every nerve to make Ottilie's
birthday splendid, without any open acknowledgment that
this was what they were aiming at, or, indeed, without their
directly acknowledging it to themselves. Charlotte, wholly
free from jealousy as she was, could not think it right to
keep it as a real festival. Ottilie's youth, the circumstances
of her fortune, and her relationship to their family, were not
at all such as made it fit that she should appear as the queen
of the day ; and Edward would not have it talked about,
because every thing was to spring out, as it were, of itself,
with a natural and delightful surprise.
They therefore came, all of them, to a sort of tacit under-
standing, that on this day, without further circumstance, the
new house in the park was to be opened, and they might
take the occasion to invite the neighborhood, and give a
holiday to their own people. Edward's passion, however,
knew no bounds. Longing as he did to give himself to
Ottilie, his presents and promises there were no limits to.
The birthday gifts which on the great occasion he was
to offer to her seemed, as Charlotte had arranged them, far
too insignificant. He spoke to his valet, who had the care
of his wardrobe, and who, consequently, had extensive
acquaintance among the tailors and mercers and fashionable
milliners ; and he, who not only understood himself what
valuable presents were, but also the most graceful way in
which they should be offered, immediately ordered an elegant
box, covered with red morocco, and studded with steel nails,
to be filled with presents worthy of such a shell. Another
thing, too, he suggested to Edward. Among the stores at
the castle was a, small stock of fireworks which had never
been let off. It would be easy to get some more, and have
ELECTIVE AFFINITIES 195
something really fine. Edward caught the idea, and his
servant promised to see to its being executed. This matt^
was to remain a secret.
While this was going on, the captain, as the day drew
nearer, had been making arrangements for a body of police
to be present, — a precaution which he always thought de-
sirable when large numbers of men are to be brought together.
And, indeed, against beggars, and against all other incon-
veniences by which the pleasure of a festival might be dis-
turbed, he had made effectual provision.
Edward and his confidant, on the contrai-y, were mainly
occupied with their fireworks. They were to be let off on
the side of the middle water in front of the great ash- tree.
The party were to take up their station on the opposite side,
under the planes, that at a sufficient distance from the
scene, in ease and safety, they might see them to the best
effect, with the reflections on the water, the water-rockets,
and floating-lights, and all the other designs.
Under some other pretext, Edward had the ground under-
neath the plane-trees cleared of bushes and grass and moss.
And now first could be seen the beauty of their forms, to-
gether with their full height and spread right up from the
earth. He was delighted with them. It was just this very
time of the year that he had planted them. " How long ago
could it have been ? " he said to himself. As soon as he got
home, he turned over the old diary-books, which his father,
especially when in the country, was very careful in keeping.
He might not find an entry of this particular planting ; but
another important domestic matter, which Edward well re-
membered, and which had occurred on the same day, would
surely be mentioned. He turned over a few volumes. The
circumstance he was looking for was there. How amazed,
how overjoyed he was, when he discovered the strangest
coincidence ! The day and the year on which he had planted
those trees, was the very day, the very year, when Ottilie
was born.
CHAPTER XV.
The long-wished-for morning dawned at last on Edward,
foid very soon a number of guests arrived. They had sent
Vol 3 Goethe — 7
196 ELECTIVE AFFINITIES.
out a large number of invitations ; and many who had missed
the laying of the foundation-stone, which was reported to
have been so charming, were the more careful not to be
absent on the second festivity.
Before dinner the carpenter's people appeared, with music,
in the court of the castle. They bore an immense garland
of flowers, composed of a number of single wreaths, winding
in and out, one above the other ; saluting the company, they
made request, according to custom, for silk handkerchiefs
and ribbons, at the hands of the fair sex, with which to dress
themselves out. While dinner was going on in the castle,
they marched off, singing and shouting ; and, after amusing
themselves a while in the village, and coaxing many a ribbon
out of the women there, old and young, they came at last,
with crowds behind them, and crowds expecting them, out
upon the height where the park-house was now standing.
After dinner, Charlotte rather held back her guests. She
did not wish that there should be any solemn or formal pro-
cession ; and they found their way in little parties, broken
up as they pleased, without rule or order, to the scene of
action. Charlotte staid behind with Ottilie, and did not
improve matters by doing so. For Ottilie being really the
last that appeared, it seemed as if the trumpets and the
clarionets had only been waiting for her, and as if the gayeties
had been ordered to commence directly on her arrival.
To remove the rough exterior from the house, it had been
hung with green boughs and flowers. They had dressed it
out in an architectural fashion, according to a design of the
captain's : only that, without his knowledge, Edward had
desired the architect to work in the date upon the cornice in
flowers ; and this was necessarily permitted to remain. The
captain had only arrived on the scene in time to prevent
Ottilie's name from figuring in splendor on the gable. The
beginning, which had been made for this, he contrived to
turn skilfully to some other use, and to get rid of such of
the letters as had been already finished.
The wreath was set up, and was to be seen far and wide
about the country. The flags and the ribbons fluttered gayly
in the air ; and a short oration was, the greater part of it,
dispersed by the wind. The solemnity was at an end. There
was now to be a dance on the smooth lawn in front of the
building, which had been enclosed with boughs and branches.
A handsome journeyman carpenter led up to Edward a bright
gii'l of the village, and called himself upon Ottilie, who stood
ELECTIVE AFFINITIES. 197
out with him. These two couples speedily found others to
follow them ; and Edward contrived pretty soon to change
partners, catching Ottilie, and making the round with her.
The younger part of the company joined merrily in the
dance with the people, while the elder among them stood
and looked on.
Then, before they broke up and walked about^ an order
was given that they should all collect again at sunset under
the plane-trees. Edward was the first upon the spot, ordering
every thing, and making his arrangements with his valet, who
was to be on the other side, in company with the firework-
maker, managing his exhibition of the spectacle.
The captain was far from satisfied at some of the prepa-
rations which he saw made, and he endeavored to get a
word with Edward about the crush of spectators which was
to be expected. But the latter, somewhat hastily, begged
that he might be allowed to manage this part of the day's
amusements himself.
The upper end of the embankment, having been recently
raised, was still far from compact. It had been staked ; but
there was no grass upon it, and the earth was uneven and
insecure. The crowd pressed on, however, in gfeat num-
bers. The sun went down ; and the company was served
with refreshments under the plane-trees, to pass the time
till it should have become sufficiently dark. The place was
approved of beyond measure ; and they looked forward to
frequently enjoying the view, over so lovely a sheet of water,
on future occasions.
A calm evening — a perfect calm — promised every thing
in favor of the spectacle, when suddenly loud and violent
shrieks were heard. Large masses of the earth had given
way on the edge of the embankment, and a number of
people were precipitated into the water. The pressure fix)m
the throng had gone on increasing till at last it had become
more than the newly-laid soil would bear, and the bank had
fallen in. Ever3^body wanted to obtain the best place, and
now there was no getting either backwards or forwards.
People ran this and that way, more to see what was
going on than to render assistance. What could be done
when no one could reach the place ?
The captain, with a few determined persons, hurried down
and drove the crowd off the embankment back upon the shore,
in order that those who were really of service might have
free room to move. One way or another they contrived to
198 ELECTIVE AFFINITIES.
seize hold of such as were sinking ; and, with or without as-
sistance, all who had been in the water were got out safe upon
the bank, with the exception of one boy, whose struggles in
his fright, instead of bringing him nearer to the embankment,
had only carried him farther from it. His strength seemed
to be failing — now only a hand was seen above the surface,
and now a foot. By an unlucky chance the boat was on the
opposite shore filled with fireworks : it was a long business
to unload it, and help was slow in coming. The captain's
resolution was taken : he flung off his coat ; all eyes were
directed towards him, and his sturdy, vigorous figure gave
every one hope and confidence ; but a cry of surprise rose out
of the crowd as they saw him fling himself into the water ;
every eye watched him as the strong swimmer swiftly reached
the boy, and bore him, although to appearance dead, to the
embankment. •
Now the boat came up. The captain stepped in, and
inquired of those who were present whether all had been
saved. The surgeon was speedily on the spot, and took
charge of the inanimate boy. Charlotte joined them, and
entreated the captain to go now and take care of himself, to
hurry back to the castle and change his clothes. He would
not go, however, till persons on whose sense he could rely,
who had been close to the spot at the time of the accident,
and who had assisted in saving those who had fallen in,
assured him that all were safe.
Charlotte saw him on his way to the house ; and then she
remembered that the wine and the tea, and every thing else
which he could want, had been locked up, for fear any of the
servants should take advantage of the disorder of the holiday,
as on such occasions they are too apt to do. She hurried
through the scattered groups of her company, which were
loitering about the plane-trees. Edward was there, talking
to every one — beseeching every one to stay. He would give
the signal directly, and the fireworks should begin. Charlotte
went up to him, and entreated him to put off an amusement
which was no longer in place, and which at the present mo-
ment no one could enjoy. She reminded him of what ought
to be done for the boy who had been saved, and for his pre-
server.
"The surgeon will do whatever is right, no doubt,*' replied
Edward. "He is provided with every thing which he can
want, and we should only be in the way if we crowded about
him with our anxieties."
ELECTIVE AFFINITIES. 199
Charlotte persisted in her opinion, and made a sign to
Ottilie, who at once prepared to retire with her. Edward
seized her hand, and cried, " We will not end this day in a
lazaretto. She is too good for a sister of mercy. Without
us, I should think, the half -dead may wake, and the living
dry themselves."
Charlotte did not answer, but went. Some followed her ;
others followed these ; in the end, no one wished to be the
last, and all followed. Edward and Ottilie found themselves
alone under the plane-trees. He most urgently insisted on
staying, notwithstanding the anxiety with which she entreated
him to go back with her to the castle. " No, Ottilie ! " he
cried: "the extraordinary is not brought to pass in the
smooth, common way, — the wonderful accident of this even-
ing brings us more speedily together. You are mine, — I
have often said it to you, and sworn it to you. We will not
say it and swear it any more — we will make it be."
The boat came over from the other side. The valet was
in it : he asked, with some embarrassment, what his master
wished to have done with the fireworks.
" Let them off ! " Edward cried to him, " let them off ! —
It was only for you that they were provided, Ottilie ; and you
shall be the only one to see them. Let me sit beside you,
and enjoy them with you." Tenderly, timidly, he sat down
at her side, without touching her.
Rockets went hissing up, cannon thundered, Roman candles
shot out their blazing balls, squibs flashed and darted, wheels
spun round, first singly, then in pairs, then all at once, faster
and faster, one after the other, and more and more together.
Edward, whose bosom was on fire, watched the blazing spec-
tacle with eyes gleaming with delight ; but Ottilie, with her
delicate and nervous feelings, in all this noise and fitful
blazing and flashing found more to distress her than to please.
She leaned shrinking against Edward ; and he, as she drew
to him and clung to him, felt the delightful sense that she
belonged entirely to him.
The night had scarcely re-assumed its rights, when the
moon rose, and lighted their path as they walked back. A
figure, with his hat in his hand, stepped across their way, and
begged an alms of them : in the general holiday he said that
he had been forgotten. The moon shone upon his face, and
Edward recognized the features of the importunate beggar ;
but, happy as he then was, it was impossible for him to be
angry with any one. He could not recollect, that, especially
200 ELECTIVE AFFINITIES.
for that particular day, begging had been forbidden under
the heaviest penalties : he thrust his hand into his pocket,
took the first coin which he found, and gave the fellow a
piece of gold. His own happiness was so unbounded that
he would have liked to have shared it with every one.
In the mean time all had gone well at the castle. The skill
of the surgeon, ever}' thing which was required being ready at
hand, Charlotte's assistance, — all had worked together, and
the boy was brought to life again. The guests dispersed,
wishing to catch a glimpse or two of what was to be seen of
the fireworks from the distance ; and, after a scene of such
confusion, were glad to get back to their own quiet homes.
The captain also, after having rapidly changed his dress,
had taken an active part in what required to be done. It
was now all quiet again, and he found himself alone with
Charlotte. Gently and affectionately he now told her that his
time for leaving them approached. She had gone through
so much that evening that this discovery made but a slight
impression upon her : she had seen how her friend could
sacrifice himself ; how he had saved another, and had himself
been saved. These strange incidents seemed to foretell an
important future to her, but not an unhappy one.
Edward, who now entered with Ottilie, was likewise in-
formed of the captain's impending departure. He suspected
that Charlotte had known longer how near it was ; but he was
far too much occupied with himself, and with his own plans,
to take it amiss, or care about it.
On the contrary, he listened attentively, and with signs of
pleasure, to the account of the excellent and honorable posi-
tion in which the captain was to be placed. The course of
the future was hurried impetuously forward by his own secret
wishes. Already he saw the captain married to Charlotte,
and himself married to Ottilie. It would have been the
richest present which any one could have made him, on the
occasion of the day's festival.
But how surprised was Ottilie, when, on going to her
room, she found upon the table the beautiful box I Instantly
she opened it ; inside, all the things were so nicely packed and
arranged, that she did not venture to take them out, she scarcely
even ventured to lift them. There were muslin, cambric, silk,
shawls, and lace, all rivalling each other in delicacy, beauty,
and costliness : nor were oi'nnments forgotten. The intention
had been, as she saw well, to supply her with more than one
complete suit of clothes ; but it was all so costly, so little like
ELECTIVE AFFINITIES. 201
what she had been accustomed to, that she scarcely dared,
even in thought, to beheve it could be really for her.
CHAPTER XVI.
The next morning the captain had disappeared, having left
a grateful, feeling letter, addressed to his friends, upon his
table. He and Charlotte had already taken a half -leave of
each other the evening before. She felt that the parting was
forever, and she resigned herself to it ; for in the count's
second letter, which the captain had at last shown to her,
there was a hint of a prospect of an advantageous marriage ;
and, although he had paid no attention to it at all, she
accepted it for as good as certain, and gave him up firmly
and fully.
Now, therefore, she thought that she had a right to require
of others the same control over themselves which she had
exercised herself : it had not been impossible to her, and it
ought not to be impossible to them. With this feeling, she
began the conversation with her husband ; and she entered
upon it the more openly and easily, from a sense that the
question must now, once for all, be decisively set at rest.
"Our friend has left us," she said: "we are now once
more together as we were, and it depends upon ourselves
whether we choose to return altogether into our old position."
Edward, who heard nothing except what flattered his own
passion, believed that Charlotte, in these words, was alluding
to her previous widowed state, and, in a roundabout way, was
making a suggestion for a separation ; so that he answered,
with a laugh, " Why not? all we want is, to come to an under-
standing." But he found himself sorely enough undeceived,
as Charlotte continued, "And we have now a choice of
opportunities for placing Ottilie in another situation. Two
openings have offered themselves for her, either of which will
do very well. Either she can return to the school, as my
daughter has left it, and is with her gTeat-aunt ; or she can
be received into a desirable family, where, as the companion
of an only child, she will enjoy all the advantages of a solid
education."
Edward, with a tolerably successful effort at commanding
202 ELECTIVE AFFINITIES.
himself, replied, " Ottilie has been so much spoiled, by living
so long with us here, that she will scarcely like to leave us
now."
"We have all of us been too much spoiled," said Charlotte,
*' and yourself not least. This is an epoch which requires us
seriously to bethink ourselves. It is a solemn warning to us to
consider what is really for the good of all the members of our
little circle, and we ourselves must not be afraid of making
sacrifices."
"At any rate, I cannot see that it is right that Ottilie
should be sacrificed," replied Edward ; " and that would be
the case if we were now to allow her to be sent away among
strangers. The captain's good genius has sought him out
here ; we can feel easy, we can feel happy, at seeing him
leave us : but Who can tell what may be before Ottilie ?
There is no occasion for haste."
" What is before us is sufficiently clear," Charlotte
answered with some emotion ; and, as she was determined
to have it all out at once, she went on, " You love Ottilie :
every day you are becoming more attached to her. A recip-
rocal feeling is rising on her side as well, and feeding itself
in the same way. Why should we not acknowledge in
words what every hour makes obvious? And are we not to
have the common prudence to ask ourselves in what it is
to end?"
" We may not be able to find an answer on the moment,"
replied Edward, collecting himself; "but so much maybe
said, that, if we cannot exactly tell what will come of it,
we may resign ourselves to wait and see what the future
may tell us about it."
" No great wisdom is required to prophesy here," answered
Charlotte ; " and, at any rate, we ought to feel that you and
I are past the age when people may walk blindly where they
should not or ought not to go. There is no one else to take
care of us : we must be our own friends, our own managers.
No one expects us to commit ourselves in an outrage upon
decency ; no one expects that we are going to expose our-
selves to censure or to ridicule."
"How can you so mistake me?" said Edward, unable to
reply to his wife's clear, open words. "Can you find it a
fault in me, if I am anxious about Ottilie's happiness? I do
not mean future happiness, — no one can count on that, —
but what is present, palpable, and immediate. Consider
— don't deceive yourself — consider frankly Ottilie's case,
ELECTIVE AFFINITIES. 203
torn away from us, and sent to live among strangers. I, at
least, am not cruel enough to propose such a change for
her.'*
Charlotte saw too clearly into her husband's intentions
through this disguise. For the first time she felt how far
he had estranged himself from her. Her voice shook a
little. "Will Ottilie be happy if she divides us?" she
said. '' If she deprives me of a husband, and his children
of a father?"
"Our children, I should have thought, were sufficiently
provided for," said Edward with a cold smile, adding rather
more kindly, " but why at once expect the very worst? "
' ' The very worst is too sure to follow this passion of
yours," returned Charlotte. "Do not refuse good advice
while there is yet time ; do not throw away the means which
I propose to save us. In troubled cases those must work
and help who see the clearest : this time it is I. Dear, dear-
est Edward ! listen to me ! Can you propose to me that
now at once I shall renounce my happiness, renounce my
fairest rights, renounce you? "
" Who says that? " replied Edward with some embarrass-
ment.
"You yourself," answered Charlotte: "in determining
to keep Ottilie here, are you not acknowledging every thing
which must arise out of it ? I will urge nothing on you ;
but, if you cannot conquer yourself, at least you will not be
able much longer to deceive yourself."
Edward felt how right she was. It is fearful to hear
spoken out in words wha^t the heart has gone on long per-
mitting to itself in secret. To escape only for a moment,
Edward answered, "It is not yet clear to me what you
want."
" My intention," she replied, " was to talk over with you
these two proposals : each of them has its advantages. The
school would be best suited to her, as she now is ; but the
other situation is larger and wider, and promises more, when
I think what she may become." She then detailed to her
husband circumstantially what would lie before Ottilie in
each position, and concluded with the words, " For my own
part, I should prefer the lady's house to the school, for more
reasons than one, but particularly because I should not like
the affection, the love indeed, of the young man there which
Ottilie has gained, to increase."
Edward appeared to assent, but only in order to find some
204 ELECTIVE AFFINITIES.
means of delay. Charlotte, who desired to commit him to
a definite step, seized the opportunity, as Edward made
no immediate opposition, to settle Ottilie's departure, foi
which she had already privately made all preparations, for the
next day.
Edward shuddered : he thought he was betrayed. His
wife's affectionate speech he fancied was an artfully con-
trived trick to separate him forever from his happiness. He
appeared to leave the thing entirely to her, but in his heart
his resolution was already taken. To gain time to breathe,
to put off the immediate, intolerable misery of Ottilie's
being sent away, he determined to leave his house. He told
Charlotte he was going ; but he had blinded her to his real
reason by telling her that he would not be present at Ottilie's
departure, indeed, that from that moment he would see her
no more. Charlotte, who believed that she had gained her
point, approved most cordially. He ordered his horse, gave
his valet the necessary directions what to pack up, and
where he should follow him ; and then, on the point of
departure, he sat down and wrote, —
" EDVTARD TO CHARLOTTE.
*'The misfortune, my love, which has befallen us may or
may not admit of remedy ; only this I feel, that, if I am not
at once to be driven to despair, I must find some means of
delay for myself and for all of us. In making myself the
sacrifice, I have a right to make a request. I am leaving
my home, and I only return to it under happier and more
peaceful auspices. While I am away, you keep possession
of it — but with Ottilie. I choose to know that she is with
you, and not among strangers. Take care of her : treat her
as you have treated her, only more lovingly, more kindly,
more tenderly I I promise that I will not attempt any secret
intercourse with her. Leave me, as long a time as you
please, without knowing any thing about you. I will not
allow myself to be anxious, nor need you be uneasy about
me ; onlj^, with all my heart and soul, I beseech you, make
no attempt to send Ottilie away, or to introduce her into
any other situation. Beyond the circle of the castle and the
park, placed in the hands of strangers, she belongs to me ;
and I will take possession of her ! If you have any regard
for my affection, for my wishes, for my sufferings, you will
leave me alone to my madness ; and, if any hope of recovery
ELECTIVE AFFINITIES. 20B
from it should ever hereafter offer itself to me, I will not
resist."
This last sentence had proceeded from his pen, not from
his heart. Even when he saw it upon the paper, he began
bitterly to weep. That he, under any circumstances, should
renounce the happiness — even the wretchedness — of loving
Ottilie ! He only now began to feel what he was doing : he
was going away without knowing what was to be the result.
At any rate, he was not to see her again now: with what
certainty could he promise himself that he would ever see
her again? But the letter was written, the horses were at
the door : every moment he was afraid he might see Ottilie
somewhere, and then his whole purpose would go to the winds.
He collected himself : he remembered, that, at any rate, he
would be able to return at any moment he pleased, and that
by his absence he would have advanced nearer to his wishes ;
on thu other side, he pictured Ottilie to himself forced to
leave the house if he staid. He sealed the letter, ran
down the steps, and sprang upon his horse.
As he rode past the inn, he saw the beggar to whom he had
given so much money the night before, sitting under the trees :
the man was comfortably enjoying his dinner, and, as Edward
passed, stood up, and made him the humblest obeisance.
That figure had appeared to him yesterday, when Ottilie was
on his arm ; now it only served as a bitter reminiscence of the
happiest hour of his life. His grief redoubled. The feeling
of what he was leaving behind was intolerable. He looked
again at the beggar. ''Happy wretch ! " he cried, "you can
still feed upon the alms of yesterday, and I cannot any
more on the happiness of yesterday ! * '
CHAPTER XVII.
Ottilie heard some one ride away, and went to the win-
dow in time just to catch a sight of Edward's back. It was
strange, she thought, that he should have left the house with-
out seeing her, without having even wished her good-morning.
She grew uncomfortable ; and her anxiety did not diminish
when Charlotte took her out for a long walk, and talked of
206 ELECTIVE AFFINITIES.
various other things, but not once, tind apparently on pur-
pose, mentioning her husband. Wlicn they returned, she
found the table laid only with two covers.
It is unpleasant to miss even the most trifling thing to which
we have been accustomed. In serious things, such a loss
becomes miserably painful. Edward and the captain were
not there. This had been the first time after a long interval
that Charlotte herself had set out the table, and it seemed
to Ottilie as if she was deposed. The two ladies sat opposite
each other : Charlotte talked, without the least embarrass-
ment, of the captain and his appointment, and of the little
hope there was of seeing him again for a long time. The
only comfort Ottilie could find for herself was in the idea that
Edward had ridden after his friend, to accompany him a part
of his journey.
On rising from table, however, they saw Edward's travel-
ling carriage under the window. Charlotte, a little as if she
was put out, asked who had had it brought round there. She
was told it was the valet, who had some things there to pack
up. It required ail Ottilie's self-command to conceal her
wonder and her distress.
The valet came in, and asked if they would be so good as
to let him have a drinking-cup of his master's, a pair of silver
spoons, and a number of other things, which seemed to Ottilie
to imply that he had gone some distance, and would be away
for a long time.
Charlotte gave him a very cold, dry answer. She did not
know what he meant, — he had every thing belonging to his
master under his own care. What the man wanted was, to
speak a word to Ottilie, and on some pretence or other to get
her out of the room : he made some clever excuse, and per-
sisted in his request so far that Ottilie asked if she should go
to look for the things for him ? But Charlotte quietly said
that she had better not. The valet had to depart, and the
carriage rolled away.
It was a dreadful moment for Ottilie. She understood
nothing, comprehended nothing. She could only feel that
Edward had been parted from her for a long time. Charlotte
felt for her situation, and left her to herself.
We will not attempt to describe what she went through,
or how she wept. She suffered infinitely. She prayed that
God would help her only over this one day. The day passed,
and the night ; and, when she came to herself again, she felt
lierself a changed being.
ELECTIVE AFFINITIES. 207
She had not regained her composure. She was not re-
signed : but, after having lost what she had lost, she was still
alive ; and there was still something for her to fear. Her
anxiety, after returning to consciousness, was at once lest,
now that the gentlemen were gone, she might be sent away
too. She never guessed at Edward's threats, which had
secured her remaining with her aunt. Yet Charlotte's man-
ner served partially to re-assure her. The latter exerted her-
self to find employment for the poor girl, and hardly ever —
never if she could help it — left her out of her sight ; and
although she knew well how little words can do against the
power of passion, yet she knew, too, the sure though slow
influence of thought and reflection, and therefore missed no
opportunity of inducing Ottilie to talk with her on every
variety of subject.
It was no little comfort to Ottilie when one day Charlotte
took an opportunity of making (she did it on purpose) the
wise observation, " How keenly grateful people were to us
when we were able by stilling and calming them to help them
out of the entanglements of passion ! Let us set cheerfully
to work," she said, '^ at what the men have left incomplete :
we shall be preparing the most charming surprise for them
when they return to us, and our temperate proceedings will
have carried through and executed what their impatient
natures would have spoiled."
" Speaking of temperance, my dear aunt, I cannot help
saying how I am struck with the intemperance of men,
particularly in respect of wine. It has often pained and
distressed me, when I have observed how, for hours together,
clearness of understanding, judgment, considerateness, and
whatever is most amiable about them, will be utterly gone,
and, instead of the good which they might have done if they
had been themselves, most disagreeable things sometimes
threaten. How often may not wrong, rash determinations
have arisen entirely from that one cause ! ' '
Charlotte assented, but she did not go on with the subject.
She saw only too clearly that it was Edward of whom Ottilie
was thinking. It was not exactly habitual with him, but
he allowed himself much more frequently than was at all
desirable to stimulate his enjoyment and his power of talk-
ing and acting by such indulgence. If what Charlotte had
just said had set Ottilie thinking again about men, and
particularly about Edward, she was all the more struck and
startled when her aunt began to speak of the impending
208 ELECTIVE AFFINITIES.
, marriage of the captain as of a thing quite settled and ac-
knowledged, whereby every thing appeared quite different
from what Edward had previously led her to entertain. It
made her watch every expression of Charlotte's, every hint,
every action, evary step. Ottilie had become jealous, sharp-
eyed, and suspicious, without knowing it.
Meanwhile, Charlotte with her clear glance looked through
• all the circumstances of their situation, and made arrange-
ments which would provide, among other advantages, full
employment for Ottilie. She contracted her household, not
parsimoniously, but into narrower dimensions ; and indeed,
in one point of view, these moral aberrations might be taken
for a not unfortunate accident. For in the style in which
they had been going on, they had fallen imperceptibly into
extravagance ; and from a want of seasonable reflection, from
the rate at which they had been living, and from the variety
of schemes into which they had been launching out, their
fine fortune, which had been in excellent condition, had been
shaken, if not seriously injured.
She did not interfere with the improvements going on in
the park, but, on the contrary, sought to advance whatever
might form a basis for future operations. But here, too, she
assigned herself a limit. Her husband on his return should
still find abundance to amuse himself with.
In all this work she could not sufficiently value the assist-
ance of the young architect. In a short time the lake lay
stretched out under her eyes, its new shores turfed and
planted with the most discriminating and excellent judgment.
The rough work at the new house was all finished. Every
thing which was necessary to protect it from the weather she
took care to see provided, and there for the present she
allowed it to rest in a condition in which what remained to
be done could hereafter be readily commenced again. Thus
hour by hour she recovered her spirits and her cheerfulness.
Ottilie only seemed to have done so. She was only forever
watcl^ing, in all that was said and done, for symptoms which
might show her whether Edward would be soon returning ;
and this one thought was the only one in which she felt any
interest.
She therefore welcomed the proposal that they should get
together the boys of the peasants, and employ them in keep-
ing the park clean and neat. Edward had long entertained
the idea. A pleasant-looking sort of uniform was made for
them, which they were to put on in the evenings, after they
KLECTIVE AFFINITIES. 209
had been properly cleaned and washed. The wardrobe was
kept in the castle ; the more sensible and ready of the boys
themselves were intrusted with the management of it, the
architect acting as chief director. In a very short time, the
children acquired a kind of character. It was found easy to
mould them into what was desired, and they went through
their work not without a sort of manoeuvre. As they marched
along, with their garden-shears, their long-handled pruning-
knives, their rakes, their little spades and hoes and sweeping-
brooms ; others following after these with baskets to carry
off the stones and rubbish ; and others, last of all, trailing
along the heavy iron roller, — it was a thoroughly pretty,
delightful procession. The architect observed in it a beau-
tiful series of situations and occupations to ornament the
frieze of a garden-house. Ottilie, on the other hand^ could
see nothing in it but a kind of parade, to salute the master
of the house on his near return.
And this stimulated her, and made her wish to begin some-
thing of the sort herself. They had before endeavored to
encourage the girls of the village in knitting and sewing
and spinning, and whatever else women could da ; and^ since
what had l)een done for the improvement of the village itself,
thei-e had been a perceptible advance in these descriptions of
industry. Ottilie had given what assistance was in her power ;
but she had given it at random, as opportunity or inclination
prompted her : now she thought she would go to work more
satisfactorily and methodically. But a company is not to be
formed out of a number of girls as easily as out of a number
of boysi She followed her own good sense : and, without
being exactly conscious of it, her efforts were solely directed
towards connecting every girl as closely as possible each with
her Own home, her own parents, brothers, and sisters; and
she succeeded with many of them. One lively little creature
only was incessantly complained of £ls showing no capacity
for work, and as never likely to do any thing if she tvere
left at home.
Ottilie could not be angry with the girl, for to herself the
little thing was especially attached : she clung to her^ went
after her, and ran about with her, whenever she was per-
mitted ; and then she would be active and cheerful, and never
tire. It appeared to be a necessity of the child's nature to
hang about a beautiful mistress. At first Ottilie allowed her
to be her companion ; then she herself began to feel a sort of
affection for her ; and, at hist, they never parted at all, and
Nanny attended her mistress wherever she went.
210 ELFXTIVE AFFINITIES.
The latter's footsteps were often bent towards the garden,
where she liked to watch the beautiful show of fruit. It was;
just the end of the raspberry and cherry season, the few re«
mains of which were no little delight to Nanny. On the
other trees there was a promise of a magnificent crop for the
autumn ; and the gardener talked of nothing but his master,
and how he wished that he might be at home to enjoy it.
Ottilie could listen to the good old man forever ! He thor-
oughly understood his business ; and Edward — Edward • —
Edward — was forever the theme of his praise.
Ottilie observed how well all the grafts which had been
budded in the spring had taken. " I only wish," the gardener
answered, ''my good master may come to enjoy them. If
he were here this autumn, he would see what beautiful sorts
there are in the old castle garden, which the late lord, his
honored father, put there. I think the fruit-gardeners that
are now don't succeed as well as the Carthusians used to do.
We find many fine names in the catalogue ; and then we
bud from them, and bring up the shoots ; and, at last, when
they come to bear, it is not worth while to have such trees
standing in our garden."
Over and over again, whenever the faithful old sei'vant saw
Ottilie, he asked when his master might be expected home ;
and, when Ottilie had nothing to tell him, he would look vexed
and let her see in his manner that he thought she did not
care to tell him : the sense of uncertainty which was thus
forced upon her became painful beyond measure, and yet
she could never be absent from these beds and borders.
What ^he and Edward had sown and planted together were
now in full flower, requiring no further care from her, except
that Nanny should be at hand with the watering-pot : and
who shall say with what sensations she watched the later
flowers, which were just beginning to show, and which were
to be in the bloom of their beauty on Edward's birthday, the
holiday to which she had looked forward with such eagerness,
when these flowers were to have expressed her affection and
her gratitude to him ; but the hopes which she had formed
of that festival were dead now, and doubt and anxiety never
ceased to haunt the soul of the poor girl.
Into real, open, hearty understanding with Charlotte, there
was no more a chance of her being able to return ; for,
indeed, the position of these two ladies was very different.
If things could remain in their old state, if it were possible
that they could return again into the smooth, even way of
ELECTIVE AFFINITIES. 211
calm, ordered life, Charlotte gained every thing : she gained
jiappiness for the present, and a happy future opened before
her. On the other hand, for Ottilie all was lost, — one may
say all, for she had first found in Edward what life and
happiness meant ; and, in her present position, she felt an
infinite and dreary chasm of which before she could have
formed no conception. For a heart which seeks, does indeed
feel that it wants something ; a heart which has lost, feels
that something is gone, — its yearning and its longing changes
into uneasy impatience : and a woman's spirit, which is accus-
tomed to waiting and to enduring, must now pass out from
its proper sphere, become active, and attempt and do some-
thing to make its own happiness.
Ottilie had not given up Edward — how could she ? — al-
though Charlotte, wisely enough, in spite of her conviction
to the contrary, assumed it as a thing of course, and reso-
lutely took it as decided that a quiet, rational regard was
possible between her husband and Ottilie. How often, how-
ever, did not Ottilie remain at nights, after bolting herself
into her room, on her knees before the open box, gazing at
the birthday presents, of which as yet she had not touched a
single thing, — not cut out or made up a single dress ! How
often with the sunrise did the poor girl hurry out of the
house, in which she once had found all her happiness, away
into the free air, into the country which then had had no
charms for her. Even on the solid earth she could not bear to
stay : she would spring into the boat, and row out into the mid-
dle of the lake, and there, drawing out some book of travels,
lie rocked by the motion of the waves, reading and dreaming
that she was far away, where she would never fail to find
her friend, — she remaining ever nearest to his heart, and he
to hers.
CHAPTER XVIIJ.
It may easily be supposed that Mittler, — the strange, busy
gentleman, whose acquaintance we have already made, —
when he had received information of the calamity that had
come upon his friends, felt desirous, though neither side had
as yet called on him for assistance, to give proof of his
friendship, and do what he could to hel]) them in their mis-
212 ELECTIVE AFFINITIES.
fortune. He thought it advisable, however, to wait first a
little while ; knowing too well, as he did, that it was more
difficult to persons of culture in their moral perplexities, than
the uncultivated. He left them, therefore, for some time to
themselves : but at last he could withhold no longer ; and he
hastened to find Edward, whom he had already traced. His
road led him to a pleasant valley, with green, sweetly wooded
meadows, down the centre of which ran a never-failing
stream, sometimes winding slowly along, then tumbling and
rushing among rocks and stones. The gently sloping hills
were covered with rich corn-fields and well-kept orchards.
The villages not being situated too near each other, the whole
had a peaceful character about it ; and the detached scenes
seemed designed expressly, if not for painting, at least for
life.
At last he caught sight of a neatly-kept farm, with a clean,
modest dwelling-house situated in the middle of a garden.
He conjectured that this was Edward's present abode, and
he was not mistaken.
As for the latter, in his solitude he gave himself up entirely
to his passion, thinking out plan after plan, and indulging
in all sorts of hopes. He could not deny that he longed to
see Ottilie there ; that he would like to carry her off there,
to tempt her there ; and whatever else (putting, as he now
did, no check upon his thoughts) pleased to suggest itself,
whether permitted or unpermitted. Then his imagination
wavered, picturing every manner of possibility. If he could
not have her there, if he could not lawfully possess her, he
would secure to her the possession of the property for her
own. There she should live for herself, silently, independ-
ently ; she should be happy in that spot, — sometimes his
self-torturing mood would lead him farther, — be happy in it,
perhaps, with another.
Thus days passed in incessant oscillation between hope
and suffering, between tears and happiness, between pur-
poses, preparations, and despair. The sight of Mittler did
not surprise him : he had long expected that he would come ;
and, now that he did, he was rather glad to see him. He
believed that he had been sent by Charlotte. He had pre-
pared all manner of excuses and delays, and, if these would
not serve, decided refusals ; or else, perhaps, he might hope
to lenrn something of Ottilie, — and then he would welcome
him as a messenger from heaven.
Not a little vexed and annoyed was Edward, therefore,
ELECTIVE AFFINITIES. 213
when Mittler told him he had not come from the castle, but
of his own accord. His heait closed up, and at first the
conversation was at a standstill. Mittler, however, knew
very well that a heart pre-occupied with love has urgent need
of utterance, of fully confiding to a friend what is passing
within it ; and he allowed himself, therefore, after a short
interchange of words, for this once to go out of his charac-
ter, and act the part of confidant in place of mediator. He
had calculated justly. He had been finding fault in a good-
natured way with Edward, for burying himself in that lonely
place, whereupon Edward replied, —
" I do not know how I could spend my time more agree-
ably. I am always occupied with her, I am always close to
her. I have the inestimable comfort of being able to think
where Ottilie is at each moment, — where she is going, where
she is standing, where she is reposing. I see her moving
and acting before me as usual, ever doing or designing
something which is to give me pleasure. But this will not
always answer, for how can I be happy away from her?
And then my fancy begins to work : I think what Ottilie
should do to come to me ; I write sweet, loving letters in her
name to mj^self ; and then I answer them, and collect the
sheets. I have promised that I will take no steps to seek
her, and that promise I will keep. But what ties her, that
she should make no advances to me? Has Charlotte had the
barbarity to exact a promise, to exact an oath, from her, not
to write to me, not to send me a word, a hint, about herself?
Very likely she has. It is but natural ; and 3^et to me it is
monstrous, it is horrible. If she loves me, — as I think, as I
know, she does, — why does not she come to a resolution ?
why does not she venture to flee to me, and throw herself
into my arms ? I often think she ought to do it ; and she
could do it. If I ever hear a noise in the hall, I look towards
the door. It must be she — she is coming — I look up to see
her enter. Alas ! because the possible is impossible, I let
myself imagine that the impossible must become possible. At
night, when I lie awake, and the lamp is casting an uncertain
light about the room, I wish her form, her spirit, a sense of
her presence, to hover past me, approach me, seize me, but
for a moment, so that I might have an assurance that she is
thinking of me, that she is mine. Only one pleasure remains
to me. When I was with her I never dreamed of her ; now
when I am far away, and, oddly enough, since I have made
the acquaintance of other attractive persons in this neigh-
214 ELECTIVE AFFINITIES.
borhood, for the first time her figure appears to me in my
dreams, as if she would say to me, ' Look at them, and at
me. You will not find one more beautiful, more lovely,
than L' And thus her image mingles with my every dream.
In whatever happens to me with her, our two beings become
intertwined. Now we are signing a contract together. There
is her handwriting, and there is mine ; there is her name,
and there is mine ; and they are interwoven with, extin-
guished by, each other. Sometimes she does something
which injures the pure idea I have of her ; and then I feel
how intensely I love her, by the indescribable anguish it
causes me. Again, unlike herself, she will tease and vex
me ; and then at once the figure changes, her sweet, round,
heavenly face becomes lengthened : it is not she, it is
another ; but I lie vexed, dissatisfied, and wretched. Laugh
not, dear Mittler, or laugh on as you will. I am not ashamed
of this attachment, of this — if you please to call it so —
foolish, frantic passion. No, I never loved before. It is
only now that I know what to love means. Till now, what
I have called life was nothing but its prelude, — amusement,
sport to kill the time with. I never lived till I knew her,
till I loved her — entirely and only loved her. People have
often said of me, not to my face, but behind my back, that
in most things I was but a botcher and a bungler. It may
be so, for I had not then found in what I could show myself
a master. I should like to see the man who outdoes me in
the talent of love. A miserable life it is, full of anguish
and tears ; but it is so natural, so dear, to me, that I could
hardly change it for another."
Edward had relieved himself slightly by this violent un-
loading of his heart. But, in doing so, every feature of his
strange condition had been brought out so clearly before his
eyes, that, overpowered by the pain of the struggle, he burst
into tears, which flowed all the more freely as his heart had
been made weak by telling it all.
Mittler, who was the less disposed to put a check on his
inexorable good sense and strong, vigorous feeling, because
by this violent outbreak of passion on Edward's part he saw
himself driven far from the purpose of his coming, showed
sufficiently decided marks of his disapprobation. Edward
should act as a man, he said : he should remember what he
owed to himself as a man. He should not forget that the
highest honor was to command ourselves in misfortune ; to
bear pain, if it must be so, with equanimity and self -collect-
ELECTIVE AFFINITIES. 215
edness. That was what wc should do, if wc wished to be
vakied and looked up to as examples of what was right.
Stirred and penetrated as Edward was with the bitterest
feelings, words like these could but have a hollow, worthless
sound.
" It is well," he cried, " for the man who is happy, who
has all that he desires, to talk ; but he would be ashamed
of it if he could see how intolerable it was to the sufferer.
Nothing short of an infinite endurance would be enough ; and,
easy and contented as he was, what could he know of an
infinite agony? There are cases," he continued, "yes,
there are, where comfort is a lie, and despair is a duty. Go,
heap your scorn upon the noble Greek, who well knows how
to delineate heroes, when in their anguish he lets those heroes
weep. He has even a proverb, ' Men who can weep are
good.' Leave me, all you with dry heart and dry eye.
Curses on the happy, to whom the wretched serve but for a
spectacle ! When body and soul are torn in pieces with
agony, they are to bear it, — yes, to be noble and bear it, if
they are to be allowed to go off the scene with applause.
Like the gladiators, they must die gracefully before the eyes
of the multitude. My dear Mittler, I thank you for your
visit ; but really you would oblige me much, if you would go
out, and look about you in the garden. We will meet again.
I will try to compose myself, and become more like you."
Mittler was unwilling to let a conversation drop, 'which
it might be difficult to begin again, and still persevered.
Edward, too, was quite ready go on with it ; besides that of
itself, it was tending towards the issue which he desired.
"Indeed," said the latter, "this thinking and arguing
backwards and forwards leads to nothing. In this very con-
versation I myself have first come to understand myself : I
have first felt decided as to what I must make up my mind
to do. My present and my future life I see before me : I
have to choose only between misery and happiness. Do you,
my best friend, bring about the separation which 'must take
place, which, in fact, is already made ; gain Charlotte's con-
sent for me. I will not enter into the reasons why I believe
there will be the less difficulty in prevailing upon her. You,
my dear friend, must go. Go, and give us all peace ; make
us all happy."
Mittler hesitated. Edward continued, —
" My fate and Ottilie's cannot be divided, and shall not be
shipwrecked. Look at this glass : our initials are engraved
216 ELECTIVE AFFINITIES.
upon it. A gay reveller fliiug it into the air, that no oue
should driuk of it more. It was to fall on the rock and be
dashed to pieces ; ])iit it did not fall, it was caught. At a
high price I bought it back : and now I drink out of it daily
to convince myself that the connection between us cannot
be broken ; that Destiny has decided."
"Alas, alas!" cried Mittler, "what must I not endure
with my friends? Here comes superstition, which of all
things I hate the worst, — the most mischievous and accursed
of all the plagues of mankind. We trifle with prophecies,
with forebodings, and dreams, and give a seriousness to our
©very-day life with them ; but when the seriousness of life
itself begins to show, when every thing around us is heaving
and rolling, then come in these spectres to make the storm
more terrible."
"In this uncertainty of life," cried Edward, "poised as
it is between hope and fear, leave the poor heart its guidiug-
star. It may gaze towards it, if it cannot steer towards
it."
"Yes, I might leave it; and it would be very well,"
replied Mittler, " if there were but one consequence to
expect : but I have always found that nobody will attend
to symptoms of warning. Man cares for nothing except
what flatters him, and promises him fair ; and his faith is
alive exclusively for the sunny side."
Mittler, finding himself carried off into the shadowy re-
gions, in which the longer he remained in them the more
uncomfortable he always felt, was the more ready to assent to
Pklward's eager wish that he should go to Charlotte. Indeed,
if he staid, what was there further which at that moment
he could urge on Edward ? To gain time, to inquire in what
state things were with the ladies, was the best thing which
even he himself could suggest as at present possible.
He hastened to Charlotte, whom he found as usual, calm
and in good spirits. She told him readily of every thing
which had" occurred ; for, from what Edward had said, he
had only been able to gather the effects. On his own side,
he felt his way with the utmost caution. He could not pre-
vail upon himself even cursorily to mention the word separa-
tion. It was indeed a surprise to him, but, from his point
of view, an unspeakably delightful one, when Charlotte, at
the end of a number of unpleasant things, finished with
saying, —
"I must believe, I must hope, that things will all work
ELECTIVE AFFINITIES. 217
round again, and that Edward will return to me. How can
it be otherwise, as soon as I become a mother? "
' ' Do I understand you right ? ' ' returned Mittler.
"Perfectly," Charlotte answered.
''A thousand times blessed be this news!" he cried,
clasping his hands together. "I know the strength of this
argument on the mind of a man. Many a marriage have I
seen first cemented by it, and restored again when broken.
Such a good hope as this is worth more than a thousand
words. Now, indeed, it is the best hope which we can have.
For myself, though," he continued, " I have all reason to be
vexed about it. In this case I can see clearly no self-love
of mine will be flattered. I shall earn no thanks from you
by my services : my case is the same as that of a certain
medical friend of mine, who succeeds in all cures which he
undertakes with the poor for the love of God, but can seldom
do any thing for the rich who will pay him. Here, thank
Grod, the thing cures itself, after all my talking and trying
had proved fruitless I ' '
Charlotte now asked him if he would carry the news to
Edward ; if he would take a letter to him from her, and
then see what should be done. But he declined under-
taking this. " All is done," he cried : "do you write your
letter — any messenger will do as well as I — I will come
back to wish you joy. I will come to the christening ! "
For this refusal she was vexed with him, as she fre-
quently was. His eager, impetuous character brought about
much good ; but his over-haste was the occasion of many
a failure. No one was more dependent than he on the im-
pressions which he formed on the moment.
Charlotte's messenger came to Edward, who received him
half in terror. The letter was to decide his fate, and it
might as well contain No as Yes. He did not venture, for
a long time, to open it. At last he tore off the cover, and
stood petrified at the following passage, with which it con-
cluded : —
' ' Remember the night- adventure when you visited your
wife as a lover, — how you drew her to you, and clasped
her as a well-beloved bride in your arms. In this strange
accident let us revere the providence of heaven, which has
woven a new link to bind us, at the moment when the
happiness of our lives was threatening to fall asunder, and
to vanish."
218 ELECTIVE AFFINITIES.
What passed from that moment in Edward's soul it
would be difficult to describe. Under the weight of such
a stroke, old habits and fancies come out again to assist
to kill the time and fill up the chasms of life. Hunting
and fighting are an ever-ready resource of this kind for
a nobleman : Edward longed for some outward peril, as a
counterbalance to the storm within him. He craved for
death, because the burden of life threatened to become
too heavy for him to bear. It comforted him to think that
he would soon cease to be, and so would make those whom
he loved happy by his departure.
No one made any difficulty in his doing what he pur-
posed, because he kept his intention a secret. He made
his will with all due formalities. It gave him a very sweet
feeling to secure Ottilie's fortune : provision was made for
Charlotte, for the unborn child, for the captain, and for
the servants. The war, which had again broken out, fa-
vored his wishes : he had disliked exceedingly the half-
soldiering which had fallen to him in his youth, and that
was the reason why he had left the service. Now it gave
him a fine exhilarating feeling to be able to rejoin it, under
a commander of whom it could be said, that under his con-
duct death was likely and victory was sure.
Ottilie, when Charlotte's secret was made known to her,
bewildered by it, like Edward, and more than he, retired
into herself, — she had nothing further to say : hope she
could not, and wish she dared not. A glimpse into what
was passing in her we can gather from her diary, some pas-
sages of which we think to communicate.
ELECTIVE AFFINITIES. 219
PART n.
CHAPTER I.
There often happens to us in common life what, in an
epic poem, we are accustomed to praise as a stroke of art
in the poet ; namely, that when the chief figures go off the
scene, withdraw into inactivity, some other or others, whom
hitherto we have scarcely observed, come forward and fill
their places. And these, putting out all their force, at once
fix our attention and sympathy on themselves, and earn our
praise and admiration.
Thus, after the captain and Edward were gone, the archi-
tect, of whom we have spoken, appeared every day a more
important person. The ordering and executing of a number
of undertakings depended entirely upon him, and he proved
himself thoroughly understanding and business-like in the
style in which he went to work ; while in a number of other
ways he was able also to make himself of assistance to the
ladies, and find amusement for their weary hours. His
outward air and appearance were of the kind which win
confidence and awake affection. A youth in the full sense
of the word, well-formed, tall, perhaps a little too stout ;
modest without being timid, and easy without being ob-
trusive, — there was no work and no trouble which he was
not delighted to take upon himself ; and, as he could keep
accounts with great facility, the whole economy of the
household soon was no secret to him : and everywhere his
salutary influence made itself felt. Any stranger who came
he was commonly set to entertain ; and he was skilful,
either at declining unexpected visits, or at least so far
preparing the ladies for them as to spare them any disa-
greeableness.
One day he had a good deal of trouble with a young
lawyer, who had been sent by a neighboring nobleman to
speak about a matter which, although of no particular mo-
ment, yet touched Charlotte to the quick. We have to
mention this incident because it gave occasion for a number
220 ELECTIVE AFFINITIES.
of things which otherwise might perhaps have remained long
untouched.
We remember certain alterations which Charlotte had
made in the churchyard. The entire body of the monu-
ments had been removed from their places, and had been
ranged along the walls of the church, leaning against the
string-course. The remaining space had been levelled, ex-
cept a broad walk which led up to the church, and past it
to the opposite gate ; and it had been all sown with various
kinds of trefoil, which had shot up and flowered most beau-
tifully.
The new graves were to follow one after another in a
regular order from the end, but the spot on each occasion
was to be carefully smoothed over and again sown. No
one could deny, that on Sundays and holidays, when the
people went to church, the change had given it a most cheer-
ful and pleasant appearance. At the same time, the cler-
gyman, an old man clinging to old customs, who at first
had not been especially pleased with the alteration, had
become thoroughly delighted with it, all the more because
when, like Philemon with his Baucis, resting under the old
linden-trees at his back door, instead of the humps and
mounds, he had a beautiful, clean lawn to look out upon ;
which, moreover, Charlotte having secured the use of the
spot to the parsonage, was no little convenience to his
household.
Notwithstanding this, however, many members of the
congregation had been displeased that the means of mark-
ing the spots where their forefathers rested had been re-
moved, and all memorials of them thereby obliterated.
However well preserved the monuments might be, they
could only show who had been buried, but not where he
had been buried ; and the ivhere, as many maintained, was
every thing.
Of this opinion was a family in the neighborliood, who
for many years had been in possession of a considerable
vault for a general resting-place of themselves and their
relations, and in consequence had settled a small annual
sum for the use of the church. And now this young law-
yer had been sent to cancel this settlement, and to show
that his client did not intend to pay it any more, because the
condition under which it had been hitherto made had not
been observed by the other party, and no regard had been
paid to objection and remonstrance. Charlotte, who was
ELECTIVE AFFINITIES. 221
the originator of the alteration herself, chose to speak to
the young man, who, in a decided though not a violent
manner, laid down the grounds on which his client proceeded,
and gave occasion in what he said for much serious re-
flection.
"You see," he said, after a slight introduction, in which
he sought to justify his peremptoriness, " you see, it is right
for the lowest as well as for the highest to mark the spot
which holds those who are dearest to him. The poorest
peasant, who buries a child, finds it some consolation to
plant a light wooden cross upon the grave, and hang a gar-
land upon it, to keep alive the memorial, at least as long as
the sorrow remains ; although such a mark, like the mourn-
ing, will pass away with time. Those better off exchange
these wooden crosses for others made of iron, and fix and
protect them in various ways ; and here we have endurance
for many years. But because this too will sink at last,
and become invisible, those who are able to bear the ex-
pense see nothing fitter than to raise a stone which shall
promise to endure for generations, and which can be restored
and made fresh again l)y posterity. Yet it is not this stone
which attracts us : it is that which is contained beneath it,
which is intrusted, where it stands, to the earth. It is not
the memorial so much, of which we speak, as the person
himself ; not of what once was, but of what is. Far better,
far more closely, can I embrace some dear departed one in
the mound which rises over his bed, than in a monumental
writing which only tells us that once he was. In itself,
indeed, it is but little ; but around it, as around a central
mark, the wife, the husband, the kinsman, the friend, after
their departure, shall gather again : and the living shall
have the right to keep far off all strangers and evil-wishers
from the side of the dear one who is sleeping there.
"And, therefore, I hold it quite fair and fitting that my
principal shall withdraw his grant to you. It is, indeed, but
too reasonable that he should do it ; for the members of his
family are injured in a way for which no compensation
could be even proposed. They are deprived of the sad,
sweet feelings of laying offerings on the remains of their
dead, and of the one comfort in their sorrow of one day
lying down at their side."
"The matter is not of that importance," Charlotte an-
swered, " that we should disquiet ourselves about it with the
vexation of a lawsuit. 1 regret so little what I have done,
222 ELECTIVE AFFINITIES.
that I will gladly myself indemnify the church for what it
loses through you. Only I must confess candidly to you.
your arguments have not convinced me : the pure feeling of
a universal equality at last after death seems to me more
composing than this hard, determined persistence in our
personalities, and in the conditions and circumstances of
our lives. What do you say to it? " she added, turning to
the architect.
"It is not for me," replied he, "either to argue or to
attempt to judge in such a case. Let me venture, how-
ever, to say what my own art and my own habits of think-
ing suggest to me. Since we are no longer so happy as to
be able to press to our breasts the inurned remains of those
we hate loved ; since we are neither wealthy enough nor of
cheerful heart enough to preserve them undecayed in large
elaborate sarcophagi ; since, indeed, we cannot even find
place any more for ourselves and ours in the churches, and
are banished out into the open air, — we all, I think, ought
to approve the method which you, my gracious lady, have
mtroduced. If the members of a congregation are laid out
side by side, they are resting by the side of and among their
kindred : and, since the earth has to receive us all, I can
find nothing more natural or more desirable than that the
mounds, which, if they are thrown up, are sure to sink
slowly in again together, should be smoothed off at once ;
and the covering, which all bear alike, will press lighter
upon each,"
"And is it all, is it all to pass away," said Ottilie,
"without one token of remembrance, without any thing to
call back the past ? ' '
" B}^ no means," continued the architect : " it is not from
remembrance, it is from place ^ that men should be set free.
The architect, the sculptor, are highly interested that men
should look to their art, to their hand, for a continuance of
their being ; and, tlierefore, I sliould wish to see well-
designed, well-executed monuments, not sown up and down
by themselves at random, but erected all in a single spot,
where they can promise themselves endurance. Inasmuch
as even the good and the groat are contented to surrender
the privilege of resting in person in the churches, we may, at
least, erect there, or in some fair hall near the burying-place.
either monuments or monumental writings. A thousand
forms might be suggested for them, and a thousand orna-
ments with which they might be decorated."
ELECTIVE AFFINITIES. 223
" If the artists are so rich," replied Charlotte, " then, tell
me how it is that they are never able to escape from little
obelisks, dwarf pillars, and urns for ashes. Instead of
your thousand forms of which you boast, I have never seen
any thing but a thousand repetitions."
^' It is very generally so with us," returned the architect,
*' but it is not universal ; and very likely the right taste and
the proper application of it ma}' be a peculiar art. In this
case especially we have this great difficulty, that the monu-
ment must be something cheerful, and yet commemorate a
solemn subject ; while its matter is melancholy, it must not
itself be melancholy. As regards designs for monuments of
all kinds, I have collected numbers of them ; and I will take
some opportunity of showing them to you: but at all times
the fairest memorial of a man remains some likeness of him-
self. This, better than any thing else, will give a notion of
what he was : it is the best text for many or for few notes, —
only it ought to be made when he is at his best age, and that
is generally neglected. No one thinks of preserving forms
while they are alive ; and, if it is done at all, it is done care-
lessly and incompletely : and then comes death ; a cast is
swiftly taken, this mask is set upon a block of stone, — and
that is what is called a bust. How seldom is the artist in
a position to put any real life into such things as these ! "
"You have contrived," said Charlotte, "without perhaps
knowing it or wishing it, to lead the conversation altogether
in my favor. The likeness of a man is quite independent :
everywhere that it stands, it stands for itself ; and we do not
require it to mark the site of a particular grave. But I
must acknowledge to you to having a strange feeling : even
to portraits I have a kind of dislike. Whenever I see them,
they seem to be silentl}' reproaching me. They point to
something far away from us, gone from us ; and they remind
me how difficult it is to pay right honor to the present. If
we think how man}' people we have seen and known, and
consider how little we have been to them, and how little they
have been to us, it is no very pleasant reflection. We have
met a man of genius without having enjoyed much with him,
a learned man without having learned from him, a traveller
without having been instructed, a man to love without hav-
ing shown him any kindness.
"And unhappily this is not the case only with accidental
meetings. Societies and families behave in the same way
towards their dearest members, towns towards their worthi-
224 ELECTIVE AFFINITIES.
est citizens, people towards their most admirable princes,
nations towards tlieir most distinguished men.
''I have heard people asked why we heard nothing but
good spoken of the dead, while of the living it is never
without some exception. The reply was, because from the
former we have nothing any more to fear ; while the latter
may still, here or there, fall in our way. So unreal is our
anxiety to preserve the memory of others, generally no more
than a mere selfish amusement; and the real, holy, earnest
feeling would be what should prompt us to be more diligent
and assiduous in our attentions toward those who still are
left to us.'*
CHAPTER II.
Under the stimulus of this accident, and of the conversa-
tions which arose out of it, they went the following day to
look over the burying-place, for the ornamenting of which,
and relieving it in some degree of its sombre look, the archi-
tect made many a happy proposal. His interest, too, had
to extend itself to the church as well, a building which had
attracted his attention from the moment of his arrival.
It had been standing for many centuries, built in old Ger-
man style, the proportions good, the decorating elaborate
and excellent ; and one might easily gather that the archi-
tect of the neighboring monastery had left the stamp of his
art and of his love on this smaller building also : on the
spectator it still made a solemn and agreeable impression,
although the change in its internal arrangements for the
Protestant service had taken from it something of its repose
and majesty.
The architect found no great difficulty in prevailing on
Charlotte to give him a considerable sum of money to restore
it externally and internally, in the original spirit; and thus,
as he thought, to bring it into harmony with the resui'rec-
tion-field which lay in front of it. He had himself much
practical skill ; and a few laborers, who were still busy at the
lodge, might easily be kept together until this pious work,
too, should be completed.
The building itself, therefore, with all its environs, and
whatever was attached to it, was now carefully and thor-
ELECTIVE AFFINITIES. 225
oiighly examined; and then showed itself, to the greatest
surprise and delight of the architect, a little side chapel,
which nobody had thought of, beautifully and delicately
proportioned, and displaying still greater care and pains in
its decoration. It contained, at the same time, many rem-
nants, carved and painted, of the implements used in the
old services, when the different festivals were distinguished
by a variety of pictures and ceremonies, and each was cele-
brated in its own peculiar style.
It was impossible for him not at once to take this chapel
into his plan ; and he determined to bestow especial pains
on the restoring of this little spot as a memoriid of old times,
and of their taste. He saw exactly how he would like to
have the vacant surfaces of the walls ornamented, and de-
lighted himself with the prospect of exercising his talent for
painting upon them ; but of this, at first, he made a secret to
the rest of the party.
Before doing any thing else, he fulfilled his promise of
showing the ladies the various imitations of, and designs
from, old monuments, vases, and other such things which
he had made ; and, when they came to speak of the simple
barrow-sepulchres of the northern nations, he brought a col-
lection of weapons and implements which had been found in
them. He had got them exceedingly nicely and conven-
iently arranged in drawers and compartments, laid on boards
cut to fit them, and covered over with cloth ; so that these
solemn old things, in the way he treated them, had a smart,
dressy appearance ; and it was like looking into the box of
a trinket merchant.
Having once begun to show his curiosities, and finding
them prove serviceable to entertain our friends in their lone-
liness, every evening he would produce one or other of his
treasures. They were most of them of German origin, —
pieces of metal, old coins, seals, and such like. All these
things directed the imagination back upon old times ; and
when at last they came to amuse themselves with the first
specimens of printing, woodcuts, and the earliest copper-
plate engraving ; and when the church, in the same spirit,
was growing out, every day, more and more in form and
color like the past, — they had almost to ask themselves
whether they really were living in a modern time, whether
it were not a dream that manners, customs, modes of life,
and convictions were all really so changed.
After such preparation, a great portfolio, which at last
226 ELECTIVE AFFINITIES.
he produced, had the best possible effect. It contained,
indeed, principally only outlines and figures ; but, as these
had been traced upon original pictures, they retained per-
fectly their ancient character ; and most captivating indeed
this character was to the spectators. All the figures breathed
only the purest feeling ; every one, if not noble, at any rate
was good ; cheerful composure, ready recognition of One
above us, to whom all reverence is due ; silent devotion, in
love and tranquil expectation, was expressed on every face,
on every gesture. The old bald-headed man, the curly-pated
boy, the light-hearted youth, the earnest man, the glorified
saint, the angel hovering in the air, — all seemed happy in
an innocent, satisfied, pious expectation. The commonest
object had a trait of celestial life ; and every nature seemed
adapted to the service of God, and to be, in some way or
other, employed upon it.
Towards such a region most of them gazed as towards a
vanished golden age, or on some lost paradise ; only, per-
haps, Ottilie had a chance of finding herself among beings
of her own nature. Who could offer any opiX)sition when
the architect asked to be allowed to paint the spaces between
the arches and the walls of the chapel in the style of these
old pictures, and thereby leave his own distinct memorial at
a place where life had gone so pleasantly with him ?
He spoke of it with some sadness ; for he could see, in
the state in which things were, that his sojourn in such de-
lightful society could not last forever, — indeed, that perhaps
it would now soon be ended.
For the rest, these days were not rich in incidents, yet
full of occasions for serious entertainment. We therefore
take the opportunity of communicating something of the
remarks Ottilie noted down among her manuscripts, to which
we cannot find a fitter transition than through a simile that
suggested itself to us on contemplating her exquisite pages.
There is, we are told, a curious contrivance in the service
of the English marine. The ropes in use in the royal navy,
from the largest to the smallest, are so twisted that a red
thread runs through them from end to end, which cannot be
extracted without undoing the whole, and by which the
smallest pieces maybe recognized as belonging to the crown.
Just so is there drawn through Ottilie 's diary a thread of
attachment and affection which connects it all together and
characterizes the whole. And thus these remarks, these
observations, these extracted sentences, and whatever else it
ELECTIVE AFFINITIES. 227
may contain, were, to the writer, of peculiar meaning. Even
the few separate pieces which we select and transcribe will
suflSciently explain our meaning.
FROM OTTILIE's DIARY.
"To rest hereafter at the side of those whom we love is
the most delightful thought which man can have when once
he looks out beyond the boundary of life. What a sweet
expression is that, ' He was gathered to his fathers ! ' "
'' Of the various memorials and tokens which bring nearer
to us the distant and the separated, none is so satisfactory
as a pictu*3. To sit and talk to a beloved picture, even
though it be unlike, has a charm in it, like the charm which
there sometimes is in quarrelling with a friend. We feel,
in a strange, sweet way, that we are divided and yet cannot
separate."
"A person, in whose company we happen to be, affords us,
sometimes, entertainment similar to that of a picture. He
need not speak to us, he need not look at us, or take an}^
notice of us ; we look at him, we feel the relation in which
we stand to him ; such relation can even grow without his
doing any thing towards it, without his having any feeling
of it : he is to us exactly as a picture."
"One is never satisfied with a portrait of a person that
one knows. I have always felt for the portrait-painter on
this account. One so seldom requires of people what is
impossible, and of them we do really require what is impos-
sible : they must gather up into their picture the relation of
everybody to its subject, all their likings and all dislikings ;
they must not only paint a man as they see him, but as
every one else sees him. It does not surprise me if such
artists become by degree stunted, indifferent, and of but one
idea ; and, indeed, it would not matter what came of it, if it
were not that in consequence we have to go without the pic-
tures of so many persons near and dear to us."
"It is too true, the architect's collection of weapons and
old implements, which were found with the bodies of their
owners, covered in with great hills of earth and rock, proves
to us how useless is man's so great anxiety to preserve his
Vol 3 Goethe— 8
228 ELECTIVE AFFINITIES..
personality after he is dead ; and so inconsistent people are !
The architect confesses to have himself opened these barrows
of his forefathers, and yet goes on occupying himself with
memorials for posterity."
"But after all why should we take it so much to heart?
Is all that we do, done for eternity? Do we not put on our
dress in the morning, to throw it off again at night? Do
we not go abroad to return home again ? And why should we
not wish to rest by the side of our friends, though it were
but for a century ? ' '
" When we see the many gravestones which have fallen
in, which have been defaced by the footsteps of the congre-
gation which lie buried under the ruins of the churches, that
have themselves crumbled together over them, we may fancy
the life after death to be as a second life, into which a man
enters in the figure, or the picture, or the inscription, and
lives longer there than when he was really alive. But this
figure also, this second existence, dies out too, sooner or
later. Time will not allow himself to be cheated of his
rights with the monuments of men or with themselves."
CHAPTER III.
It causes us so agreeable a sensation to occupy ourselves
with what we can only half do, that no person ought to find
fault with the amateur applying himself to an art he can
never learn, nor blame an artist disposed to pass beyond
the boundaries of his art, and amuse himself in some other
branch of art akin to his own. With such complacency of
feeling we regard the preparation of the architect for the
painting the chapel. The colors were got ready, the meas-
urements taken, the cartoons designed. He had made no
attempt at originality, but kept close to his outlines : his
only care was to make a proper distribution of the sitting
and floating figures, so as tastefully to ornament his space
with them.
The scaffoldings were erected. The work went forward ;
and, as soon as any thing had been done on which the eye
ELECTIVE AFFINITIES. 229
could rest, he could have no objection to Charlotte and Ottilie
coming to see how he was getting on.
The life-like faces of the angels, their robes waving against
the blue sky-ground, delighted the eye ; while their still and
holy air calmed and composed the spirit, and produced the
most delicate effect.
The ladies had joined him on the scaffolding ; and Ottilie
had scarcely observed how easily and regularly the work was
being done, than the power which had been fostered in her
by her early education at once appeared to develop. She
took a brush, and, with a few words of direction, painted a
richly folding robe with as much delicacy as skill.
Charlotte, who was always glad when Ottilie would occupy
or amuse herself with any thing, left them both in the chapel,
and went to follow the train of her own thoughts, and work
her way for herself through her cares and anxieties which
she was unable to communicate to a creature.
When ordinary men allow themselves to be worked up by
common, every-day difficulties into fever-fits of passion, we can
give them nothing but a compassionate smile. But we look
with a kind of awe on a spirit in which the seed of a great
destiny has been sown, which must abide the unfolding of the
germ, and neither dare nor can do any thing to precipitate
either the good or the ill, either the happiness or the misery,
which is to arise out of it.
Edward had sent an answer by Charlotte's messenger, who
had come to him in his solitude. It was written with kind-
ness and interest, but was rather composed and serious than
warm and affectionate. He had vanished almost immediately
after, and Charlotte could learn no news about him ; till,
at last, she accidentally found his name in the newspaper,
where he was mentioned with honor among those who had
most distinguished themselves in a late important engagement.
She now understood the method which he had taken ; she
perceived that he had escaped from great danger ; only she
was convinced at the same time that he would seek out
greater ; and it was all too clear to her, that, in every sense,
he would hardly be withheld from any extremity.
She had to bear about this perpetual anxiety in her
thoughts ; and, turn which way she would, there was no light
in which she could look at it that would give her comfort.
Ottilie, never dreaming of any thing of this, had taken to
the work in the chapel with the greatest interest ; and she
had easily obtained Charlotte's permission to go on with it
230 ELECTIVE AFFINITIES.
regularly. So now all went swiftly forward, and the azure
heaven was soon peopled with worthy inhabitants. By con-
tinual practice, both Ottilie and the architect had gained more
freedom with the last figures : they became perceptibly better.
The faces, too, which had been all left to the architect to
paint, showed by degrees a very singular peculiarity. They
began all of them to resemble Ottilie. The contact with the
beautiful girl had made so strong an impression on the soul
of the young man, who had no variety of faces precoijceived
in his mind, that by degrees, on the way from the eye to the
hand, nothing was lost, and both worked in exact harmony
together. Enough ; one of the last faces succeeded perfectly,
so that it seemed as if Ottilie herself was looking down out
of the spaces of the sky.
They had finished the vault. The walls they proposed to
leave plain, and only to cover them over with a bright brown
color. The delicate pillars and the quaintly moulded orna-
ments were to be distinguished from them by a dark shade.
But, as in such things one thing always leads on to another,
they determined at least on having festoons of flowers and
fruit, which should, as it were, unite together heaven and
earth. Here Ottilie was in her element. The gardens pro-
vided the most perfect patterns ; and, although the wreaths
were as rich as they could make them, it was all finished
sooner than they had supposed possible.
It was still looking rough and disorderly. The scaffolding-
poles had been run together, the planks thrown one on the
top of the other, the uneven pavement was yet more disfigured
by the party-colored stains of the paint which had been spilt
on it.
The architect begged that the ladies would give him a week
to himself, and during that time would not enter the chapel.
One fine evening he came to them, and begged them both to
go and see it. He did not wish to accompany them, he said,
and at once took his leave.
"Whatever surprise he may have designed for us," said
Charlotte, as soon as he was gone, "I cannot myself just
now go down there. You can go by yourself, and tell me
all about it. No doubt he has been doing something which
we shall like. I will enjoy it first in your description, and
afterwards it will be the more charming in the reality."
Ottilie, who knew well that in many cases Charlotte took
care to avoid every thing which could produce emotion, and
particularly disliked to be surprised, set off down the walk by
ELECTIVE AFFINITIES. 231
herself, and looked round involuntarily for the architect, who,
however, was nowhere to be seen, and must have concealed
himself somewhere. She walked into the church, which she
found open. It had been finished before, cleaned, and con-
secrated. She went on to the chapel-door ; its heavy mass,
all overlaid with iron, yielded easily to her touch ; and she
found an unexpected sight in a familiar spot.
A solemn, beautiful light streamed in through the one
tall window. It was filled with stained glass, gracefully put
together. The entire chapel had thus received a strange tone,
and called forth a peculiar frame of mind. The beauty of
the vaulted ceiling and the walls was set off by the elegance
of the pavement, which was composed of peculiarly shaped
tiles, fastened together with gypsum, and forming exquisite
patterns as they lay. This, and the colored glass for the
windows, the architect had prepared without their knowledge ;
and a short time was sufficient to have it put in its place.
Seats had been provided as well. Among the relics of
the old church some finely carved chancel-chairs had been
discovered, which now were standing about at convenient
places along the walls.
The parts which she knew so well, now meeting her as
an unfamiliar whole, delighted Ottilie. She stood still,
walked up and down, looked and looked again. At last she
seated herself in one of the chairs ; and it seemed, as she
gazed up and down, as if she was, and yet was not ; as if
she felt, and did not feel ; as if all this would vanish from
before her, and she would vanish from herself ; and it was
only when the sun left the window, on which before it had
been shining full, that she awoke to possession of herself,
and hastened back to the castle.
She did not hide from herself the strange epoch at which
this surprise had occurred to her. It was the evening of
Edward's birthday. Very differently she had hoped to
keep it. How was not every thing to be dressed out for
this festival ! and now all the splendor of the autumn
flowers remained ungathered. Those sunflowers were still
turned to the sky ; those asters still looked out with quiet,
modest eye ; and whatever of them all had been wound into
wreaths had served as patterns for the decorating a spot
which, if it was not to remain a mere artist's fancy, was
only adapted as a general mausoleum.
And then she had to remember the impetuous eagerness
with which Edward had kept her birthday - feast. She
232 ELECTIVE AFFINITIES.
thought of the newly erected lodge, under the roof of
which they had promised themselves so much enjoyment.
The fireworks flashed and hissed again before her eyes and
ears : the more lonely she was, the more keenly her imagi-
nation brought it all before her. But she felt herself only
the more alone. She no longer leaned upon his arm, and she
had no hope ever any more to rest herself upon it.
FROM OTTILIE's DIARY.
*'I have been struck with an observation of the young
architect.
*'In the case of the creative artist, as in that of the
artisan, it is clear that man is least permitted to appro-
priate to himself what is most entirely his own. His works
forsake him as the birds forsake the nest in which they were
hatched.
*'The fate of the architect is the strangest of all in this
way. How often he expends his whole soul, his whole
heart and passion, to produce buildings into which he him-
self may never enter. The halls of kings owe their mag-
nificence to him, but he has no enjoyment of them in
their splendor. In the temple he draws a partition-line
between himself and the Holy of holies : he may never
more set his foot upon the steps which he has laid down
for the heart-thrilling ceremonial, as the goldsmith ma}'
only adore from far off the monstrance whose enamel and
whose jewels he has himself set together. The builder sur-
renders to the rich man, with the key of his palace, all
pleasure and all right there, and never shares with him in
the enjoyment of it. And must not art in this way. step
by step, draw off from the artist, when the work, like a
child who is provided for, has no more to fall back upon
its father? And what a power there must be in art itself,
for its own self-advancing, when it has been obliged to shape
itself almost solely out of what was open to all, only out
of what was the property of every one, and therefore also of
the artist! "
" There is a conception among ancient nations, which is
awful, and may almost seem terrible. They pictured their
forefathers to themselves sitting round on thrones, in enor-
mous caverns, in silent converse ; when a new - comer en-
tered, if he were worthy enough, they rose up, and inclined
ELECTIVE AFFINITIES. 233
their heads to welcome him. Yesterday, as I was sitting in
the chapel, and other carved chairs stood round like that in
which I was, the thought of this came over me, with a soft,
pleasant feeling. Why cannot you stay sitting here? I
said to myself ; stay here sitting, meditating with yourself
long, long, long, till at last your friends come, and you rise
up to them, and with a gentle inclination direct them to
their places. The colored window-panes convert the day
into a solemn twilight ; and some one should set up for us
an ever-burning lamp, that the night might not be utter
darkness."
"We may imagine ourselves in what situation we please,
we always conceive ourselves as seeing. I believe man
dreams only so that he may never cease to see. Some day,
perhaps, the inner light will come out from within us ; and we
shall not any more require another.
" The year dies away : the wind sweeps over the stubble,
and there is nothinsf left to stir under its touch. But the
red berries on yonder tall tree seem as if they would still
remind us of brighter things, and the stroke of the thrasher's
flail awakes the thought how much of nourishment and life
lies buried in the mowed ear."
CHAPTER W,
How strangely, after all this, with the sense so vividly
impressed on her of mutability and perishableuess, must
Ottilie have been affected by the news which could not any
longer be kept concealed from her, that Edward had ex-
posed himself to the uncertain chances of war ! Unhap-
pily, none of the observations which she had occasion to
make upon it escaped her. But it is well for us that man
can only endure a certain degree of unhappiness : what is
beyond that either annihilates him, or passes by him, and
leaves him apathetic. There arc situations in which hope
and fear run together, in which they mutually destroy one
another, and lose themselves in a dull indifference. If it
were not so, how could we bear to know of those who are
most dear to us being in hourly peril, and yet go on as usual
with our ordinary every-day life ?
234 ELECTIVE AFFINITIES.
It was, therefore, as if some good genius was caring for
Ottilie, that, all at once, this stillness, in which she seemed
to be sinking from loneliness and want of occupation, was
suddenly invaded by a wild army, which, while it gave her
externally abundance of employment, and so took her out
of herself, at the same time awoke in her the consciousness
of her own power.
Charlotte's daughter, Luciana, had scarcely left the school
and gone out into the great world ; scarcely had she found
herself at her aunt's house in the midst of a large society, —
than her anxiety to please produced its effect in really
pleasing : and a young, very wealthy, man, soon experi-
enced a passionate desire to make her his own. His large
property gave him a right to have the best of every thing
for his use ; and nothing seemed to be wanting to him ex-
cept a perfect wife, for whom, as for the rest of his good
fortune, he should be the envy of the world.
This incident in her family had been for some time occu-
pying Charlotte. It had engaged all her attention, and
taken up her whole correspondence, except so far as this
was directed to the obtaining news of Edward : so that
latterly Ottilie had been left more than was usual to herself.
She knew, indeed, of an intended visit from Luciana. She
had been making various changes and arrangements in the
house in preparation for it, but she had no notion that it was
so near. Letters, she supposed, would first have to pass,
settling the time, and making arrangements : when the storm
broke suddenly over the castle and over herself.
Up drove, first, lady's maids and men-servants, their car-
riage loaded with trunks and boxes. The household was
already swelled to double or to treble its size, and then
appeared the visitors themselves. There was the great-aunt,
with Luciana and some of her friends, and then the bride-
groom with some of his friends. The entrance-hall was full
of things, — bags, portmanteaus, and leather articles of every
sort. The boxes had to be got out of their covers, and that
was infinite trouble ; and of luggage and of rummage there
was no end. At intervals, moreover, there were violent
showers, giving rise to much inconvenience. Ottilie en-
countered all this confusion with the easiest equanimity,
and her happy talent showed in its fairest light. In a very
little time she had brouoht things to order, and disposed of
them. Every one found his room ; every one had his things
exactly as they wished ; and all thought themselves well
ELECTIVE AFFINITIES. 235
attended to, because they were not prevented from attending
on themselves.
The journey had been long and fatiguing, and they would
all have been glad of a little rest after it. The bridegroom
would have liked to pay his respects to his mother-in-law,
express his pleasure, his gratitude, and so on. But Luciana
could not rest. She had now arrived at the happiness of
being able to mount a horse. The bridegroom had beautiful
horses, and mount they must on the spot. Clouds and wind,
rain and storm, they were nothing to Luciana ; and now it
was as if they only lived to get wet through, and to dry
themselves again. If she took a fancy to go out walking,
she never thought what sort of dress she had on, or what her
shoes were like ; she must go and see the grounds of which
she had heard so much : what could not be done on horse-
back, she ran through on foot. In a little while she had
seen every thing, and given her opinion about every thing,
and with such rapidity of character it was not easy to con-
tradict or oppose her. The whole household had much
to suffer, but most particularly the lady's maids, who were
at work from morning to night, washing and ironing and
stitching.
As soon as she had exhausted the house and the park, she
thought it was her duty to pay visits all round the neighbor-
hood. As they rode and drove very fast, the visits extended
to a considerable distance. The castle was overran with
people returning visits ,• and, that they might not miss one
another, certain days were set apart for being at home.
Charlotte, in the mean time, with her aunt, and the man
of business of the bridegroom, were occupied in determining
about the settlements ; and it was left to Ottilie, with those
under her, to take care that all this crowd of people were
properly provided for. Game-keepers and gardeners, fisher-
men and shop-dealers, were set in motion ; Luciana always
showing herself like the blazing nucleus of a comet with its
long tail trailing behind it. The ordinary amusements of
the parties soon became too insipid for her taste. Hardly
would she leave the old people in peace at the card- table.
Whoever could by any means be set moving (and who could
resist the charm of being pressed by her into service?) must
up, if not to dance, then to play at forfeits, or some other
game, where they were to be victimized and tormented.
Notwithstanding all that, however, and although afterwards
the redeeming of the forfeits had to be settled with herself,
236 ELECTIVK AFFINITIES.
yet of those who played with her, never any one, especially
never any man, let him be of what sort he would, went quite
empty-handed away. Indeed, some old people of rank who
were there, she succeeded in completely winning over to
herself, by having contrived to find out their birthdays or
christening-days, and marking them with some particular
celebration. In all this she showed a skill not a little
remarkable. Every one saw himself favored, and each con-
sidered himself to be the one most favored, — a weakness of
which the oldest person of the party was the most notably
guilty.
It seemed to be a sort of pride with her, that men who had
any thing remarkable about them, — rank, character, or fame,
— she must and would gain for herself. Gravity and serious-
ness she made give way to her ; and, wild, strange creature
as she was, she found favor even with discretion itself. Not
that the young were at all cut short in consequence. Every-
body had his share, his day, his hour, in which she contrived
to charm and to enchain hnn. It was, therefore, natural
enough that before long she should have had the architect in
her eye, looking out so unconsciously as he did from under
his long black hair, and standing so calm and quiet in the
background. To all her questions she received short, sensi-
ble answers ; but he did not seem inclined to allow himself
to be carried away farther : and at last, half-provoked, half
in malice, she resolved that she would make him the hero of
a day, and so gain him for her court.
It was not for nothing that she had brought that quantity
of luggage with her. Much, indeed, had followed her after-
wards. She had provided herself with an endless variety of
dresses. When it took her fancy, she would change her dress
three or four times a day, usually wearing something of an
ordinary kind, but making her ai)pearance suddenly at inter-
vals in a thorough masquerade-dress, as a peasant-girl or a
fish-maiden, as a fairy or a llower-girl ; and this would go on
from morning till night. Sometimes she would even disguise
herself as an old woman, that her young face might peep
out the fresher from under the cap ; and so utterly in this
way did she confuse and mix together the actual and the
fantastic, that people thought they were living with a sort of
drawing-room witch.
But the principal use which she had for these disguises
were pantomimic tableaux and dances, in which she was
Bkilful in expressing a variety of character. A cavalier
ELECTIVE AFFINITIES. 237
in her suite had arranged to play on the piano, by way
of accompaniment to her gestures, what little music was
required : they needed only to exchange a few words, and
they at once understood one another.
One day, in a pause of a brilliant ball, they were called
upon suddenly to extemporize (it was on a private hint from
themselves) one of these exhibitions. Luciana seemed em-
barrassed, taken by surprise, and, contrary to her custom, let
herself be asked more than once. She could not decide upon
her character, desired the party to choose, and asked, like
an improvvisatore^ for a subject. At last her musical assist-
ant, with whom all had been previously arranged, sat down
at the instrument, and began to play a mourning-march,
calling on her to give them the ' ' Artemisia ' ' which she had
been studying so admirably. She consented, and, after a
short absence, re-appeared, to the sad, tender music of the
dead march, in the form of the royal widow, with measured
step, carrying an urn of ashes before her. A large black
tablet was borne in after her, and a carefully cut piece of
chalk in a gold pencil-case.
One of her admirers and helpers, into whose ear she whis-
pered something, went directly to call the architect, to desire
him, and, if he would not come, to drag him up. as master-
builder, to draw the grave for the mausoleum, and to tell him
at the same time that he was not to play the statist, but
enter earnestly into his part as one of the perfoi-mers.
Embarrassed as the architect outwardly appeared (for in
his black, close-fitting, modern civilian's dress, he formed a
wonderful contrast with the gauze, crape, fringes, tinsel, tas-
sels, and crown), he very soon composed himself internally;
and the scene became all the more strange. With the
greatest gravity he placed himself in front of the tablet, which
was supported by a couple of pages, and drew carefully an
elaborate tomb, which, indeed, would have suited better a
Lombard than a Carian prince ; but it was in such beautiful
proportions, so solemn in its parts, so full of genius in its
decoration, that the spectators watched it growing with
delight, and wondered at it when it was finished.
All this time he had not once turned towards the queen,
but had given his whole attention to what he was doing.
At last, when, bowing to her, he signified that he thought he
had fulfilled her commands, she reached out the urn to him,
expressing her desire to see it represented on the top of the
monument. He complied, although unwillingly ; as it would
238 ELECTIVE AFFINITIES.
not suit the character of the rest of his design. Luciana
was now at last freed from her impatience. Her intention
had been by no means to get a scientific drawing out of him.
If he had only made a few strokes, sketched something
which should have looked like a monument, and devoted the
rest of his time to her, it would have been far more what
she had wished, and would have pleased her a great deal
better. His manner of proceeding had thrown her into the
greatest embarrassment. For although in her sorrow, in her
directions, in her gestures, in her approbation of the work
as it slowly rose before her, she had tried to manage some
sort of change of expression, and although she had hung
about close to him, only to place herself into some sort of
relation to him, yet he had kept himself throughout too stiff ;
so that too often she had been driven to take refuge with her
urn : she had to press it to her heart and look up to heaven ;
and at last, a situation of that kind having a necessary ten-
dency to intensify, she made herself more like a widow of
Ephesus than a Queen of Caria. Thus the representation
lasted a long time. The musician, who had usually patience
enough, did not know any more what strain to strike up.
He thanked God when he saw the urn stand on the pyramid,
and involuntarily his tune, as the queen was going to express
her gratitude, changed to a merry air, by which the whole
thing lost its character. The company, however, was quite
cheered up b}^ it, and forthwith separated ; some going up to
express their delight and admiration of the lady for her
excellent performance, and some praising the architect for
his most artist-like and beautiful drawing.
The bridegroom especially paid marked attention to the
architect. "I am vexed," he said, '' that the drawing should
be so perishable : you will permit me, however, to have it
taken to my room, where I should much like to talk to you
about it."
"If it would give you any pleasure," said the architect,
" I can lay before you a number of highly finished designs
for buildings and monuments of this kind, of which this is
but a mere hasty sketch."
Ottilie was standing at no great distance, and went up to
them. " Do not forget," she said to the architect, " to take
an opportunity of letting tlie baron see your collection. He
is a friend of art and of antiquity. I should like you to be-
come better acquainted."
Luciana was passing at the moment. "What are they
speaking of ? " she asked.
ELECTIVE AFFINITIES. 239
*' Of a collection of works of art," replied the baron,
'' which this gentleman possesses, and which he is good
enough to say that he will show us."
"Oh, let him bring them immediately! " cried Luciana:
"you will bring them, will you not?" she added, in a soft
and sweet tone, taking both his hands in hers.
"The present is scarcely a fitting time," the architect
answered.
" What ! " Luciana cried, in a tone of authority : "you will
not obey the command of your queen ? ' ' and then she begged
him again with some piece of aljsurdity.
" Do not be obstinate," said Ottilie, in a scarcely audible
voice.
The architect left them with a bow, signifying neither assent
nor refusal.
He was hardly gone, when Luciana was flying up and down
the saloon with a greyhound. "Alas ! " she exclaimed, as
she ran accidentally against her mother, " am I not an unfor-
tunate creature? I have not brought my monkey with me.
They told me I had better not, but I am sure it was nothing
but the laziness of my people ; and it is such a delight to me.
But I will have it brought after me : somebody shall go and
fetch it. If I could only see a picture of the dear creature,
it would be a comfort to me : I certainly will have his picture
taken, and it shall never be out of my sight."
" Perhaps I can comfort you," replied Charlotte. " There
is a whole volume full of the most wonderful ape-faces in
the library, which j^ou can have fetched if you like."
Luciana shrieked for joy. The great folio was produced
instantly. The sight of these hideous creatures, so like to
men, and with the resemblance even more caricatured by the
artist, gave Luciana the greatest delight. It was her especial
delight to find some one of her acquaintance whom the ani-
mals resembled. " Is that not like my uncle ! " she remorse-
lessly exclaimed; "and here, look, here is my milliner
M ; and here is Parson S ; and here the image of
that creature — bodily! After all, these monkeys are the
real incroyahles; and it is inconceivable why they are not
admitted into the best society."
It was in the best society that she said this, and yet no one
took it ill of her. People had become accustomed to allow
her so many liberties in her prettinesses, that at last they
came to allow them in what was unpretty.
During this time, Ottilie was talking to the bridegroom : she
240 ELECTIVE AFFINITIES.
was looking anxiously for the return of the architect, whose
serious and tasteful collection was to deliver the party from
the apes ; and, in the expectation of it, she had made it the
subject of her conversation with the baron, and directed his
attention on various things which he was to see. But the
architect staid away ; and when at last he made his appear-
ance, he lost himself in the crowd, without having brought
any thing with him, and without seeming as if he had been
asked for any thing.
For a moment Ottilie became — what shall we call it ? —
annoyed, put out, perplexed. She had been saying so much
about him — she had promised the bridegroom an hour of
enjoyment after his own heart ; and, with all the depth of his
love for Luciana, he was evidently suffering from her present
behavior.
The monkeys had to give place to a collation. Round
games followed, and then more dancing ; at last, a general
uneasy vacancy, with fruitless attempts at resuscitating ex-
hausted amusements, which lasted this time, as indeed they
usually did, long past midnight. It had already become a
habit with Luciana to be never able to get out of bed in the
morning or into it at night.
About this time, the incidents noticed in Ottilie' s diary
become more rare ; while we find a larger number of maxims
and sentences drawn from life and relating to life. It is not
conceivable that the larger proportion of these could have
arisen from her own reflection ; and most likely some one had
shown her varieties of them, and she had written out what
took her fancy. Many, however, with an internal bearing,
^an be easily recognized by the red thread.
FROM OTTILIE 'S DIARY.
" We like to look into the future, because we feel as if we
could guide by our silent wishes in our own favor the chances
hovering in it."
" We seldom find ourselves in a large party without think-
ing, the accident which brings so many here together,
should bring our friends to us as well."
" Let us live in as small a circle as we will, we are either
debtors or creditors before we have had time to look round."
ELECTIVE AFFINITIES. 241
"If we meet a person who is under an obligation to us, we
l-emember it immediately. But how often may we meet people
to whom we are ourselves under obligation, without its even
occurring to us ! "
"•It is nature to communicate one's self: it is culture to
receive what is communicated as it is given."
'' No one would talk much in society, if he only knew how
often he misunderstands others.
" One alters so much what one has heard from others in
repeating it, only because one has not understood it.'*
" Whoever indulges long in monologue in the presence of
others, without flattering his listeners, provokes ill-will."
''Every' word a man utters provokes the opposite opinion.'
' ' Argument and flattery are but poor elements out of which
to form a conversation."
" The most pleasant kind of society is that in which those
composing it have an easy and natural respect for one an-
other,"
''There is nothing wherein people betray their character
more than in what they find to laugh at."
" The ridiculous arises out of a moral contrast, in which
two things are brought together before the mind in an
innocent way." '
" The material man often laughs where there is nothing
to laugh at. Whatever moves him, his inner nature comes to
the surface."
"The man of understanding finds almost every thing ri-.
diculous ; the man of higher insight scarcely any thing."
"Some one found fault with an elderly man for continuing
to pay attention to young ladies. ' It is the only means,' he
replied, ' of keeping one's self young ; and everybody likes
to do that.'"
242 ELECTIVE AFFINITIES.
" People will allow their faults to he shown them ; they
will let themselves be punished for them ; they will patiently
endure many things because of them ; they only become
impatient when they have to lay them aside.'*
"Certain defects are necessary for the existence of indi-
viduality. We should not be pleased if old friends were to
lay aside certain peculiarities."
'' There is a saying, ' He will die soon,' when a man acts
unlike himself."
" What kind of defects may we bear with and even cul-
tivate in ourselves ? Such as rather give pleasure to others
than injure them."
"The passions are defects or excellencies only in excess."
"Our passions are true phoenixes: as the old burn out,
the new straight rise up out of the ashes."
"Violent passions are incurable diseases: the means
which will cure them are what first make them thoroughly
dangerous."
"Passion is both raised and softened by confession. In
nothing, perhaps, were the middle way more desirable, than in
knowing what to say and what not to say to those we love."
CHAPTER V.
So swept on Luciana in the social whirlpool, driving the
rush of life along before her. Her court multiplied daily,
partly because her impetuosity roused and attracted so many,
partly because she knew how to attach the rest to her by
kindness and attention. Generous she was in the highest
degree : her aunt's affection for her, and her bridegroom's
love, had heaped her with beautiful and costly presents ; but
she seemed as if nothing which she had was her own, and as
if she did not know the value of the thinofs which had
ELECTIVE AFFINITfES. 243
streamed in upon her. One day she saw ii young lady look-
ing rather poorly dressed by the side of the rest of the party ;
and she did not hesitate a moment to take off a rich shawl
which she was wearing, and hang it over her, — doing it, at
the same time, in such a humorous, graceful way, that no one
could refuse such a present so given. One of her courtiers
always carried about a purse, with orders to inquire, in what-
ever place they passed through, for the most aged and most
helpless persons, and give them relief, at least for the mo-
ment. In this way she gained for herself all round the
countr}' a reputation for charitableness, which grew, at times,
somewhat inconvenient, through beiilg molested by far too
many persons needing help.
Nothing, however, so much added to her popularity as
her steady and consistent kindness towards an unhappy
young man, who shrank from society because, while other-
wise handsome and well formed, he had lost his right hand,
although with high honor, in action. This mutilation
weighed so heavily upon his spirits, it was so annoying to
him that every new acquaintance he made had to be told the
story of his misfortune, that he chose rather to shut himself
up altogether, devoting himself to reading and other studious
pursuits, and would have no dealings whatever with society.
She heard of the state of this young man. At once she con-
trived to prevail upon him to come to her, first to small parties,
then to greater, and then out into the world with her. She
showed more attention to him than to any other person :
particularly she endeavored, by the services which she
pressed upon him, to' make him sensible of what he had lost
in laboring herself to supply it. At dinner, she would make
him sit next to her : she cut up his food for him, that he
might only have to use his fork. If people older or of higher
rank prevented her from being close to him, she would ex-
tend her attention to him across the entire table ; and the
servants were hurried off to supply to him what distance
threatened to deprive liim of. At last she encouraged him
to write with his left hand. All his attempts he was to
address to her ; and thus, whether far or near, she always
kept herself in correspondence with him. The young man
did not know what had happened to him, and from that
moment a new life opened out before him.
One may perhaps suppose that such behavior must have
caused some uneasiness to her bridegroom. But, in fact, it
was quite the reverse. He admired her exceedingly for her
244 ELECTIVE AFFINITIES.
exertions, and had the more reason for feeling entirely sat-
isfied about lier, as she had certain features in her character
almost in excess, which kept any thing in the slightest degree
dangerous utterly at a distance. She would run about with
anybody, just as she fancied : no one was free from danger
of a push or a pull, or of being made the object of some
sort of freak ; but no person ever ventured to do the same to
her, — no person dared to touch her, or return, in the remot-
est degree, any liberty which she had taken herself. She
kept every one within the strictest bounds of propriety in
their behavior to herself ; while she, in her own behavior,
was every moment overleaping them.
On the whole, one might have supposed it to be a maxim
with her to expose herself indifferently to praise or blame,
to regard or to dislike. If in various ways she took pains
to win people's favor, she commonly herself spoiled all the
good she had done, by an ill tongue which spared no one.
Not a visit was ever paid in the neighborhood, not a single
piece of hospitality was ever shown to herself and her party
among the surrounding castles or mansions, but what on
her return her excessive recklessness let it appear that all
men and all human things she was only inclined to see on the
ridiculous side.
There were three brothers, who, purely out of compliment
to each other which should marry first, had been overtaken
by old age before they had got the question settled : here was
a little, young wife with a great, old husband ; there, on the
other hand, was a dapper little man and an unwieldy giantess.
In one house, every step one took one stumbled over a child ;
another, however many people were crammed into it, never
would seem full, because there were no children there at all.
Old couples (supposing the estate was not entailed) should
get themselves buried as quickly as possible, that such a
thing as a laugh might be heard again in the house. Young
married people should travel : housekeeping did not sit well
upon them. And as she treated the persons, so she treated
what belonged to them, — their houses, their furniture, their
dinner-services, — every thing. The ornaments of the walls of
the rooms most particularly provoked her funny remarks.
From the oldest tapestry to the most modern printed paper ;
from the noblest family pictures to the most frivolous new
copperplate, — one as well as the other had to suffer, one as
well as the other had to be pulled in pieces by her satirical
tongue : so that, indeed, one had to wonder how, for twenty
miles round, any thing continued to exist.
ELECTIVE AFFINITIES. 245
It was not, perhaps, exactly malice which produced all
this destructiveness ; it was wilfulness and selfishness that
ordinarily set her off upon it : but a genuine bitterness grew
up in her feelings towards Ottilie.
She looked down with disdain on the calm, uninterrupted
activit}^ of the sweet girl, which every one had observed and
admired : and, when something was said of the care which
Ottilie took of the garden and of the hot-houses, she not only
spoke scornfully of it, in affecting to be surprised, if it were
so, at there being neither flowers nor fruit to be seen, not
caring to consider that they were living in the depth of winter,
but every faintest scrap of green, every leaf, every bud which
showed, she chose to have picked every day, and squandered
on ornamenting the rooms and ta]>les; and Ottilie and the
gardener were not a little distressed to see their hopes for
the next year, and perhaps for a longer time, destroyed in
this wanton recklessness.
As little would she be content to leave Ottilie to her quiet
work at home, in which she could live with so much comfort.
Ottilie had to go with them on their pleasure-parties and
sleighing-parties : she had to be at the balls which were being
got up all about the neighborhood. She was not to mind
the snow, or the cold, or the night-air, or the storm : other
people did not die of such things, and why should she? The
delicate girl suffered not a little from it all, but Luciana
gained nothing. For although Ottilie went about very sim-
ply dressed, she was always, at least so the men thought, the
most beautiful. A soft attractiveness gathered them all
about her : no matter whereabouts in the great rooms she
was, first or last, it was always the same. Even Luciana's
bridegroom often conversed with her, — the more so, indeed,
because he desired her advice and assistance in a matter just
then engaging his attention.
He had cultivated the acquaintance of the architects On
seeing his collection of works of art, he had taken occasion
to talk much with him on history and on other matters, and
especially from seeing the chapel had learned to appreciate
his talent. The baron was young and wealthy. He was a
collector : he wished to build. His love for the arts was
keen, his knowledge slight. In the architect he thought that
he had found the man he wanted, that with his assistance
there was more than one aim at which he could arrive at once.
He had spoken to his bride of what he wished. She praised
him for it, and was infinitely delighted with the proposal.
246 ELECTIVE AFFINITIES.
Bnt it was more, perhaps, that she might withdraw this
young man from Ottilie (with whom she fancied she saw
that he was somewhat in love) , than because she thought of
applying his talents to any purpose. He had shown himself,
indeed, ver}' read}' to help at any of her extemporized fes-
tivities, and had suggested various resources for this thing
and that. But she always thought she understood better
than he what should be done ; and, as her inventive genius
was usually somewhat common, her designs could be as well
executed with the help of a clever valet de chambre as with
that of the most finished artist. Further than to an altar on
which something was to be offered, or to a crowning, whether
of a living head or of one of plaster of Paris, the force of
her imagination could not ascend, when a birthday, or other
such occasion, made her wish to pay some one an especial
compliment.
Ottilie was able to give the baron the most satisfactory
answer to his inquiries as to the position the architect held
in their family. Charlotte had already, as she was aware,
been exerting herself to find some situation for him : had it
not been indeed for the arrival of the party, the young man
would have left them immediately on the completion of the
chapel, the winter having brought all building operations to
a standstill ; and it was, therefore, most fortunate if a new
patron could be found to assist him, and to make use of his
talents.
Ottilie 's own intercourse with the architect was as pure and
unconscious as possible. His agreeable presence and his
industrious nature had charmed and entertained her, as the
presence of an elder brother might. Her feelings for him
remained at the calm, unimpassioned level of blood relation-
ship : for in her heart there was no room for more, — it was
filled to overflowing with love for Edward ; only God, who
interpenetrates all things, could share with him the posses-
sion of that heart.
Soon they were in the depth of winter : the weather grew
wilder, the roads more impracticable ; and therefore it seemed
all the pleasanter to spend the waning days in agreeable
society. With short intervals of ebb, the crowd from time
to time flooded up over the house. Officers found their way
there from distant garrison -towns ; the cultivated among
them being a most welcome addition, tlie ruder the incon-
venience of every one. Of civilians, too, there was no lack ;
and one day the count and the baroness quite unexpectedly
came driving up together
ELECTIVE AFFINITIES. 247
Their presence gave the castle the air of a genuine court.
The men of rank and character formed a circle about the
baron, and the ladies yielded precedence to the baroness.
The surprise at seeing both together, and in such high
spirits, was not allowed to be of long continuance. There
was a report that the count's wife was dead, and the new
marriage was to take place as soon as ever decency would
allow it.
Well did Ottilie remember their first visit, and every word
which was then uttered about marriage and separation, bind-
ing and dividing, hope, expectation, disappointment, renun-
ciation. Here were these two persons, at that time without
prospect for the future, now standing before her, so near
their wished-for happiness ; and an involuntary sigh escaped
from her heart.
No sooner did Luciana hear that the count was an ama-
teur of music, than at once she must get up something of a
concert. She herself would sing, and accompany herself on
the guitar. It was done. The instrument she did not play
without skill ; her voice was agreeable ; as for the words,
one understood about as little of them as one commonly
does when a German beauty sings to the guitar. However,
every one assured her that she had sung with exquisite
expression ; and she found quite enough approbation to sat-
isfy her. A singular misfortune befell her, however, on
this occasion. Among the parly there happened to be a
poet, whom she hoped particularly to attach to herself, wish-
ing to induce him to write a song or two, and address them
to her. This evening, therefore, she produced scarcely any
thing except songs of his composing. Like the rest of the
party, he was perfectly courteous to her ; but she had looked
for more. She spoke to him several times, going as near
the subject as she dared ; but nothing further could she get.
At last, unable to bear it any longer, she sent one of her
train to him, to sound him, and find out whether he had not
been delighted to hear his beautiful poems so beautifully
executed.
"My poems?" he replied with amazement. "Pray ex-
cuse me, my dear sir," he added : " I heard nothing but the
vowels, and not all of those ; however, I am in duty bound
to express my gratitude for so amiable an intention." The
dandy said nothing, and kept his secret : the other endeav-
ored to get himself out of the scrape by a few well-timed
compliments. She did not conceal her desire to have some-
thing of his which should b** written for herself.
248 ELECTIVE AFFmiTIES.
If it would not have been too ill-natured, he might have
handed her the alphabet, to imagine for herself, out of that,
such laudatory poem as would please her, and set it to the
first melody that came to hand ; but she was not to escape out
of this business without mortification. A short time after,
she had to learn that the very same evening he had written
to one of Ottilie's favorite melodies a most lovely poem,
which was something more than complimentary.
Luciana, like all persons of her sort, who never can dis-
tinguish between where they show to advantage and where
to disadvantage, now determined to try her fortune in recit-
ing. Her memory was good : but, if the truth must be told,
her execution was spiritless ; and she was vehement without
being passionate. She recited ballad stories, and whatever
else is usually delivered in declamation. At the same time
she had contracted an unhappy habit of accompanying what
she recited with gestures, by which, in a disagreeable way,
what is purely epic and lyric is more confused than con-
nected with the dramatic.
The count, a keen-sighted man, soon saw through the
party, — their inclinations, dispositions, wishes, and capa-
bilities, — and by some means or other contrived to bring
Luciana to a new kind of exhibition, which was perfectly
suited to her.
"I see here," he said, "a number of persons with fine
figures, who would surely be able to imitate picturesque
movements and postures. Suppose they were to try, if the
thing is new to them, to represent some real and well-known
picture. An imitation of this kind, if it requires some
labor in arrangement, has an inconceivably charming effect."
Luciana was quick enough in perceiving that here she was
on her own ground entirely. Her fine shape, her well-
rounded form, the regularity and yet expressiveness of her
features, her light-brown braided hair, her long neck, — she
ran them all over in her mind, and calculated on their picto-
rial effects ; and if she had only known that her beauty
showed to more advantage when she was still than when she
was in motion, because in the last case certain ungraceful-
nesses continually escai)ed her, she would have entered even
more eagerly than she did into this natural picture-making.
They brought forth some engravings of celebrated pic-
tures, and the first which they chose was Van Dyck's '' Belisa-
rius." A large, well-proportioned man, somewhat advanced
in years, was to represent the seated blind general. The
ELECTIVE AFFINITIES. 249
architect was to be the affectionate soldier standing sorrow-
ing before him. there really being som(! resemblance between
them. Lnciana, half from modesty, had chosen the part of
the yonng woman in the background, counting out ample
alms into the palm of his hand ; while an old woman beside
her is trying to prevent her, and representing that she is
giving too much. Nor wiis anotlier woman who is in the act
of giving him something forgotten. Into this and other
pictures the}" threw themselves with all earnestness. The
count gave the architect a few hints as to the best st3de of
arrangement ; and he at once set up a kind of theatre, all
necessary pains being taken for the [)roper lighting of it.
They had already made many preparations, before they
observed how large an ontla}' what they were undertaking
would require, and that, in the country, in the middle of the
winter, many things which the}' required, would be difficult
to procure ; consequently, to prevent a stoppage, Lnciana
had nearly her whole wardrobe cut in pieces, to supply the
various costumes which the original artist had arbitrarily
selected.
The appointed evening came ; and the exhibition was car-
ried out in the presence of a large assemblage, and to the
universal satisfaction. They had some good music to excite
expectation, and the performance opened with the " Belisa-
rius." The figures were so successful, the colors were so
happily distributed, and the lighting managed so skilfully,
that they might really have fancied themselves in another
world ; only that the presence of the real, instead of the
apparent, produced a kind of uncomfortable sensation.
The curtain fell, and was more than once raised again
by general desire. A musical interlude kept the assembly
amused while preparation was going forward to surprise
them with a picture of a higher stamp : it was the well-known
design of Poussin, Ahasuerus and Esther. This time Lnci-
ana had done better for herself. As the fainting, sinking
queen, she had put out all her charms ; and, for the attendant
maidens who were supporting her, she had cunningly selected
pretty, well-shaped figures, not one among whom, however,
had the slightest pretension to be compared with herself.
From this picture, as from all the rest, Ottilie remained
excluded. To sit on the golden tin-one, and represent the
Zeus-like monarch, Lnciana had picked out the finest and
handsomest man of the party : so that this picture was really
of incomparable perfection.
250 ELECTIVE AFFINITIES.
For a third, they had taken the so-called " Father's Admo-
nition " of Terburg ; and who does not know Wille's admira-
ble engraving of this picture? One foot thrown over the
other, sits a noble, knightly-looking father : his daughter
stands before him, to whose conscience he seems to be
appealing. She, a fine, striking figure, in a folding drapery
of white satin, is only to be seen from behind ; but her whole
bearing appears to signify that she is collecting herself.
That the admonition is not too severe, that she is not being
utterly put to shame, is to be gathered from the air and
attitude of the father ; while the mother seems as if she were
trying to conceal some slight embarrassment, — she is looking
into a glass of wine, which she is on the point of drinking.
Here was an opportunity for Luciana to appear in her
highest splendor. Her back hair, the form of her head,
neck, and shoulders, were beautiful beyond all conception ;
and the waist, which in the modern antique of the ordinary
dresses of young ladies is hardly visible, showed to the
greatest advantage in all its graceful, slender elegance in the
really old costume. The architect had contrived to dispose
the rich folds of the white satin with the most artistic natu-
ralness ; and, without any question whatever, this living
imitation far exceeded the original picture, and produced
universal delight.
The spectators never ceased demanding a repetition of
the performance ; and the very natural wish to see the
countenance of so lovely a creature, when they had done
looking at her from behind, at last became so decided, that
a merry, impatient young wit cried out aloud the words one
is accustomed to write at the bottom of a page, '' Tournez^
s'il vous plait," which was echoed all round the room.
The performers, however, understood their advantage too
well, and had mastered too completely the idea of these works
of art, to yield to the most general clamor. The daughter
remained standing in her shame, without favoring the spec-
tators with the expression of her face ; the father retained his
attitude of admonition ; and the mother continued with her
nose and eyes in the transparent glass, in which, although
she seemed to be drinking, the wine never diminished.
We need not describe the number of smaller after-pieces,
for which had been chosen Flemish public-house scenes and
fair and market days.
The count and the baroness departed, promising to return
in the first happy weeks of their approaching union. And
ELECTIVE AFFINITIES. 251
Charlotte now had hopes, after having endured two weary
months of it, of ridding herself of the rest of the party at the
same time. She was assured of her daughter's happiness,
as soon as the first tumult of youth and betrothal should
have subsided in her ; for the bridegroom considered himself
the most fortunate person in the world. His income was
large, his disposition moderate and rational ; and now he
found himself further wonderfully favored in the happiness
of becoming the possessor of a young lady with whom all
the world must be charmed. He had so peculiar a way of
referring every thing to her, and only to himself through her,
that it gave him an unpleasant feeling when any newly
arrived person did not devote himself heart and soul to her,
and was far from flattered if — as occasionally happened,
particularly with elderly men — he neglected her for a close
intimacy with himself. Every thing was settled about the
architect. On New- Year's Day he was to follow him, and
spend the carnival at his house in the city, where Luciana
was promising herself infinite happiness from a repetition of
her charmingly successful pictures, as well as from a hundred
other things ; all the more so as her aunt and bridegroom
seemed to make so light of whatever expense was required
for her amusements.
And now they were to break up. But this could not be
managed in an ordinary way. They were one day making
fun of Charlotte aloud, declaring that they would soon have
eaten out her winter stores, when the nobleman who had
represented Belisarius, being fortunately a man of some
wealth, carried away by Luciana' s charms, to which he had
been so long devoting himself, cried out unthinkingly, "Why
not manage, then, in the Polish fashion? you come now and
eat up me, and then we will go on round the circle." No
sooner said than done. Luciana acceded. The next day
they all packed up, and the swarm alighted on a new prop-
erty. There indeed they found room enough, but few con-
veniences, and no preparations to receive them. Out of this
arose many contretemps^ which entu'ely enchanted Luciana :
their life became ever wilder and wilder. Hunting-parties
were set on foot in the deep snow, attended with every sort
of disagreeableness ; women were not allowed to excuse
themselves any more than men : and so they trooped on,
hunting and riding, sleighing and shouting, from one place to
another, till at last they approached the Residence ; and there
the news of the day, and the scandals, and what else forms
252 ELECTIVE AFFINITrP:S.
the amusement of people at courts and cities, gave the imagi-
nation another direction : and Luciana with her train of
attendants (her aunt had gone on some time before) swept
at once into a new sphere of life.
FROM OTTILIE'S DIARY.
*' In the world we accept CA^ery person as such as he gives
himself out, onl}^ he must give himself out for something.
We can put up with the unpleasant more easily than we can
endure the insignificant.
"Any thing may be forced upon society except what
involves a consequence.
"We never learn to know people when the}^ come to us :
we must go to them to find out how things stand with them.
" I find it almost natural that we should see many faults
in visitors, and that directly they are gone we should judge
them not in the most amiable manner. For we have, so to
say, a right to measure them by our own standard. Even
cautious, sensible men can scarcely keep themselves in such
cases from being sharp censors.
" When, on the contrary, we are staj^ing at the houses of
others, when we have seen them in the midst of all their
habits and environments among those necessary conditions
from which they cannot escape, when we have seen how they
affect those about them, and how they adapt themselves to
their circumstances, it is ignorance, it is worse, it is ill-will,
to find ridiculous what in more than one sense has a claim on
our respect.
" That which we call politeness and good breeding effects
what otherwise can only be obtained by violence, or not even
by that.
" Intercourse with women is the element of good manners.
" How can the character, the individuality, of a man co-
exist with polish of manner?
" Peculiarity of character can only be properly made prom-
inent through good manners. P^very one likes what has
something in it, only It must not be a disagreeable something.
"In life generally, and in society, no one has such high
advantages as a well-cultivated soldier.
"Rough soldiers do, at least, betray their character; and
generally behind their strength there is a certain latent good-
humor, so that in dilticulties it is possible to get on even
with them.
ELECTIVE AFFINITIES. 253
'^ No one is more iutoleruble than an underbred civilian.
From him one has a right to look for a delicacy, as he has no
rough work to do.
*' When we are living with people who have a delicate sense
of propriety, we are made ,uneasy on their account when
any thing unbecoming is committed. So I always feel for
and with Charlotte when a person is rocking his chair. She
cannot endure it.
'' No one would ever come into a mixed party with spec-
tacles on his nose, if he did but know that at once we women
lose all pleasure in looking at him or listening to what he
has to say.
" Familiarity, when displayed instead of reverency, is
always ridiculous. No one would put his hat down when he
had scarcely paid the ordinary compliments if he knew how
comical it looks.
'' There is no outward sign of courtesy that does not rest
on a deep moral foundation. The proper education would be
that which communicated the sign and the foundation of it
at the same time.
'' Behavior is a mirror in which every one displays his own
image.
*' There is a courtesy of the heart. It is akin to love. Out
of it arises the easiest courtesy in outward behavior.
*' A freely offered homage is the most beautiful of all re-
lations. And how were that possible without love?
"We are never farther from our wishes than when we
imagine that we possess what we have desired.
* ' No one is more a slave than the man who thinks himself
free while he is not.
" The moment a man declares he is free, he feels the con-
ditions to which he is subject. Let him venture to declare
that he is subject to conditions, and he will feel that he is free.
" Against great advantages in another, there are no means
of defending ourselves except love.
'^ There is something terrible in the sight of a highly gifted
man lying under obligations to a fool.
'' ' No man is a hero to his valet,' the proverb says. But
that is only because it requires a hero to recognize a hero.
The valet will probably know how to value the valet-hero.
'' Mediocrity has no greater consolation than in the thought
that genius is not immortal.
'* The greatest men are connected with their own century
always through some weakness.
254 ELECTIVE AFFINITIES.
" One is apt to regard people as more dangerous than they
are.
*' Fools and modest people are alike innocuous. It is only
your half- fools and your half -wise who are really and truly
dangerous.
' ' There is no better deliveVance from the world than
through art ; and a man can form no surer bond with it than
through art.
' ' Alike in the moment of our highest fortune and our
deepest necessity, we require the artist.
" The business of art is with the difficult and the good.
" To see the difficult easily handled, gives us the feeling of
the impossible.
'' Difficulties increase the nearer we are to our end.
" Sowing is not so difficult as reaping."
CHAPTER VI.
Charlotte was in some way compensated for the very
serious discomfort this visit had caused her through the
fuller insight it had enabled her to gain into her daughter's
character. In this, her knowledge of the world was of no
slight service to her. It was not the first time that so singu-
lar a character had come across her, although she had never
seen any in which the unusual features were so highly de-
veloped ; and she had had experience enough to show her
that such persons, after having felt the discipline of life, after
having gone through something of it and been in intercourse
with older people, may come out at last really charming and
amiable : the selfishness may soften, and eager, restless
activity find a definite direction for itself. And therefore,
as a mother, Charlotte was able to endure the appearance of
symptoms which for others might perhaps have been unpleas-
ing, from a sense that where strangers only desire to enjoy,
or at least not to have their taste offended, the business of
parents is rather to hope.
After her daughter's departure, however, she had to be
pained in a singular and unlooked-for manner, in finding
that, not so much through what there really was objectionable
in her behavior, as through what was good and praiseworthy
ELECTIVE AFFINITIES. 255
in it, she had left an ill report of herself behind her. Lu-
ciana seemed to have prescribed it as a rule to herself, not
only to be merry with the merry, but miserable with the
miserable, and, in order to give full exercise to her spirit of
contradiction, often to make the happy uncomfortable, and
the sad cheerful. In every family among whom she came,
she inquired after such members of it as were ill or infirm',
; and unable to appear in society. She would go to see them
in their rooms, act the part of physician, and insist on pre-
scribing powerful doses for them out of her own travelling
medicine-chest, which she constantly took with her in her
carriage ; her attempts at curing, as may be supposed, either
succeeding or failing as chance happened to direct.
In this sort of benevolence she was thoroughly cruel, and
would listen to nothing that was said to her, because she
was convinced that she was managing admirably. One such
attempt, made on a mental sufferer, failed most disastrously ;
and this it was which gave Charlotte so much trouble, inas-
much as it involved consequences, and every one was talking
about it. She never had heard of the story till Luciana was
gone : Ottilie, who had made one of the party present at the
time, had to give her a circumstantial account of it.
One of several daughters of a family of rank had the
misfortune to have caused the death of one of her younger
sisters : it had destroyed her peace of mind, and she had
never been able to recover from the shock. She lived in her
own room, occupying herself, and keeping quiet ; and she
could only bear to see the members of her own family when
they came one by one. If there were several together, she
suspected at once that they were making reflections upon her
and her condition. To each of them singly she would speak
rationally enough, and talk freely for an hour at a time.
Luciana had heard of this, and had secretly determined
with herself, as soon as she got into the house, that she
would, as it were, work a miracle, and restore the young
lady to society. She conducted herself in the matter more
prudently than usual, managed to introduce herself alone to
the poor, sick-souled girl, and, as far as people could under-
stand, had wound her way into her confidence through
music. At last came her fatal mistake : wishing to cause a
sensation, and fancying she had sufficiently prepared her for
it, one evening she suddenly introduced the beautiful, pale
creature into the midst of the brilliant, glittering assembly ;
and perhaps even then the attempt might not have so
256 ELECTIVE AFFINITIES.
utterly failed, had not the company, from curiosity and
apprehension, conducted themselves so unwisely, first gath-
ering about the invalid, and avoiding her, and, with their
whispers, and shaking their heads together, confusing and
agitating her. Her delicate sensibility could not endure it.
With a dreadful shriek, which expressed, as it seemed, a
horror at some monster that was rushing upon her, she
fainted. The crowd fell back in terror on every side, Ottilie
being one of those who brought the fainting girl to her room.
Luciana meanwhile, just like herself, had been reading an
angry lectine to the rest of the party, without reflecting for
a moment that she herself was entirely to blame, and with-
out letting herself be deterred, by this and other failures,
from going on with her experimentalizing.
The state of the invalid herself had since that time
become more and more serious : indeed, the disorder had
increased to such a degree that the parents were imable to
keep their poor child any longer at home, and had been
forced to confide her to the care of a public institution.
Nothing remained for Charlotte except, by the delicacy of
her own attention to the family, in some degree to alleviate
the pain which had been occasioned by her daughter. On
Ottilie the event had made a deep impression. She felt the
more for the unhappy girl, as she was convinced, not
withholding her opinion from Charlotte, that, by a careful
treatment, the disorder might have been unquestionably
removed.
So there came, too, as it often happens that we dwell more
on past disagreeables than on past agreeables, a slight mis-
understanding to be spoken of, which had led Ottilie to a
wrong judgment of the architect, when he did not choose to
produce his collection that evening, although she had so
eagerly begged him to produce it. This decided refusal had
remained, ever since, hanging about her heart: she herself
could not tell why. Her feelings about the matter were
undoubtedly just : what a young lady like Ottilie could
desire, a young man like the architect ought not to have
refused. The latter, however, when she took occasion to
give him a gentle reproof for it, had a pretty good plea
to olfer.
"If you knew," he said, "how roughly even cultivated
people allow themselves to handle the most valuable works
of art, you would forgive me for not i>roducing mine among
the crowd. No one will take the trouble to hold a medal by
ELECTIVE AFFINITIES. 257
the rim. They will finger the most beautiful impressions
and the smoothest surfaces : they will take the rarest coins
between the thumb and forefinger, and ml) them up and
down, as if they were testing the execution with the touch.
Without remembering that a large sheet of paper ought to
be held in two hands, they will lay hold with one of an
invaluable engraving of some irretrievable drawing, as a con-
ceited politician lays hold of a newspaper, and passing judg-
ment by anticipation, as he is cutting the pages, on the
occurrences of the world. Nobody cares to recollect, that,
if twenty people, one after the other, treat a work of art in
this way, the one and twentieth will not find much to see
there.'*
'' Have not I often vexed you in this way? " asked Ottilie.
"Have not I, through my carelessness, many times injured
your treasures? "
"Never once," answered the architect, "never. For
you it would be impossible. In you the right thing is
innate."
"In any case," replied Ottilie, "it would not be a bad
plan, if, in the next edition of the book on good manners,
after the chapters which tell us how we ought to eat and
drink in company, an exhaustive chapter were inserted, how
to behave among works of art and in museums."
" Undoubt^ly," said the architect ; " and then curiosity-
collectors and amateurs would be better contented to show
their valuable treasures to the world."
Ottilie had long, long forgiven him ; but as he seemed to
have taken her reproof sorely to heart, and assured her
again and again that he would gladly produce every thing,
that he was delighted to do any thing for his friends, she
felt that she had wounded his feelings, and that she owed
him some compensation. It was not easy for her, therefore,
to give an absolute refusal to a request which he made her
in the conclusion of this conversation ; although, when she
called her heart into counsel about it, she did not see how
she could allow herself to do what he wished.
The circumstances of the matter were these : that Ottilie
had been excluded from the picture-exhibition through Luci-
ana's jealousy had irritated him in the highest degree ; and
at the same time he had observed with regret that Charlotte
Jiad been prevented by sickness from being often present at
this, the most brilliant part of all the amusements ; and now
he did not wish to go away without some additional proof of
258 ELECTIVE AFFINITIES.
his gratitude, and, for the honor of one and the entertain-
ment of the other, preparing a far more beautiful exhibition
than any of those which had preceded it. Perhaps, too,
unknown to himself, another secret motive was working on
him. It was so hard for him to leave the house and to
leave the family. It seemed impossible to him to part from
Ottilie's eyes, under the calm, sweet, gentle glances of
which he had, the latter part of the time, been living almost
entirely.
The Christmas holidays were approaching ; and it became
at once clear to him that the very thin^ which lie wanted
was a representation, with real figures, of one of those
pictures of the scene in the stable, — a sacred exhibition
such as at this holy season good Christians delight to offer
to the divine mother and her child, of the manner in which
she, in her seeming lowliness, was honored first by the shep-
herds and afterwards by kings.
He had formed a perfect conception how such a picture
might be contrived. A handsome and blooming boy was
found, and there would be no lack of shepherds and shep-
herdesses. But without Ottilie the thing could not be done.
The young man had exalted her, in his design, to be the
Mother of God ; and, if she refused, there was no question
but the undertaking must fall to the ground. Ottilie, half
embarrassed at the proposal, referred him and his request
to Charlotte. The latter gladly gave her permission, and
lent her assistance in overcoming and overpersuading Otti-
lie's hesitation in assuming so sacred a personality. The
architect worked day and night, that by Christmas Eve every
thing might be ready.
Day and night, indeed, in the literal sense. At all times
he was a man who had but few necessities, and Ottilie's
presence seemed to be to him in the place of all delicacies.
When he was working for her, it was as if he required
no sleep ; when he was busy about her, as if he could do
without food. Accordingly, by the hour of the evening
solemnity, all was completed. He had found the means of
collecting some well- toned wind instruments, to form an
introduction, and produce the desired disposition. But, when
the curtain rose, Charlotte was taken completely by surprise.
The picture which presented itself to her had been repeated
so often in the world, that one could scarcely have expected
any new impression to be produced. But here the reality,
as representing the picture, had its especial advantages.
ELECTIVE AFFINITIES. 25^
The whole space was the color rather of night than of
twilight ; and there was nothing, even of the details of the
scene, which was obscure. The inimitable idea that all the
light should proceed from the child, the artist had contrived
to carry out by an ingenious method of illumination, which
was concealed by the figures in the foreground, who were all
in shadow. Merry boys and girls were standing round,
their rosy faces sharply lighted from below ; and there were
angels, too, whose own brilliancy grew pale before the
divine, whose ethereal bodies showed dim and dense, and
needing other light in the presence of the body of the divine
humanity. By good fortune the infant had fallen asleep in
the loveliest attitude ; so that nothing disturbed the contem-
plation when the eye rested on the seeming mother, who
with infinite grace had lifted off a veil to reveal her hidden
treasure. At this moment the picture seemed to have been
caught, and there to have remained fixed. Physically daz-
zled, mentally surprised, the people round appeared to have
just moved to turn away their half -blinded eyes, to be glan-
cing again towards the child with curious delight, and to be
showing more wonder and pleasure than awe and reverence,
— althou2:h these emotions were not forsiotten, and were to
be traced upon the features of some of the older spectators.
But Ottilie's figure, expression, attitude, glance, excelled
all that any painter has ever represented. A man possessed
of true knowledge of art, could he have seen this spectacle,
would have been in fear lest any portion of it should move :
he would have doubted whether any thing could ever so
much please him again. Unluckily there was no one present
who could comprehend the whole of this effect. The archi-
tect alone, who, as a tall, slender shepherd, was looking
in from the side over those who were kneeling, enjoyed,
although he was not in the best position for seeing, the
fullest pleasure. And who can describe the mien of the
new-made queen of heaven? The purest humility, the most
exquisite feeling of modesty, while having undeservedly
bestowed upon her a great honor, an indescribable and
immeasurable happiness was displayed upon her features,
expressing as much her own emotion as that of the char-
acter which she was endeavoring to represent.
Charlotte was delighted with the beautiful figures, but
what had most effect on her was the child. Her eyes filled
with tears ; and her imagination presented to her, in the live-
liest colors, that she might soon hope to have such another
darling creature on her own lap.
Vol a Goethe — 9
260 ELECTIVE AFFINITIES.
They had let down the curtain, partly to give the exhibit-
ors some little rest, partly to make an alteration in the
exhibition. The artist had proposed to himself to trans-
mute the first scene of night and lowliness into a picture of
splendor and glory, and for this purpose had prepaied a
blaze of light to fall in from every side, which this interval
was required to kindle.
Ottilie, in the semi-theatrical position in which she found
herself, had hitherto felt perfectly at her ease ; because, with
the exception of Charlotte and a few members of the house-
hold, no one had witnessed this pious piece of artistic dis-
play. She was, therefore, in some degree annoyed, when,
in the interval, she learned that a stranger had come into the
saloon, and had been warmly received by Charlotte. Who
it was, no one was able to tell her. She resigned herself, in
order not to produce a disturbance, and to go on with her
character. Candles and lamps blazed out, and she was sur-
rounded by splendor perfectly infinite. The curtain rose.
It was a sight to startle the spectators. The whole picture
was one blaze of light ; and, instead of the full depth of
shadow, there now were only the colors left remaining,
which, from the skill with which they had been selected,
produced a gentle softening of tone. Looking out under
her long eyelashes, Ottilie perceived the figure of a man
sitting by Charlotte. She did not recognize him, but the
voice she fancied was that of the assistant at the school.
A singular emotion came over her. How many things
had happened since she last heard the voice of her kind
instructor! Like forked lightning the stream of her joys
and her sorrow flashed through her soul ; and the question
rose in her heart, " Dare you confess, dare you acknowledge,
it all to him ? If not, how little can you deserve to appear
before him under this sainted form ! And how strange must
it not seem to him, who has only known you as your natural
self, to see you now under this disguise ! " In an instant,
swift as thought, feeling and reflection began to clash and
gain within her. Her eyes filled with tears, while she forced
herself to continue to appear as a rigid figure ; and it was a
relief indeed to her when the child began to stir, and the
artist saw himself compelled to give the sign for the curtain
to fall again.
If the painful feeling of being unable to meet a valued
friend had, during the last few moments, been distressing
Ottilie, in addition to her other emotions, she was now in
ELECTIVE AFFINITIES. 261
still greater embarrassment. Was she to present herself to
him in this strange disguise, or had she better change her
dress? She did not hesitate : she did the latter, and in the
interval she endeavored to collect and to compose herself ;
nor did she properly recover her self-possession, until at
last, in her ordinary costume, she had welcomed the new
visitor.
CHAPTER YU.
In so far as the architect desired the happiness of his kind
patronesses, it was a pleasure to him, now that at last he
was obliged to go, to know that he was leaving them in good
society with the estimable assistant. At the same time,
however, when he thought of their goodness in its relation to
himself, he could not help feeling it a little painful to see his
place so soon, and, as it seemed to his modesty, so well, so
completely, supplied. He had lingered and lingered, but
now he forced himself away : what, after he was gone, he
must endure as he could, at least he could not stay to wit^
ness with his own eyes.
To the great relief of this half-melancholy feeling, the
ladies at his departure made him a present of a waistcoat,
on which he had watched them both for some time past at
work, with a silent envy of the fortunate man, as yet
unknown to him, to whom it might one day belong. Such a
present is the most agreeable which a true-hearted man can
receive ; for, while he thinks of the unwearied play of the
beautiful fingers at the making of it, he cannot help flatter-
ing himself that in so long-sustained a labor the feeling
could not have remained utterly without an interest in its
accomplishment.
The ladies had now a new visitor to entertain, for whom
they felt a real regard, and whose stay with them it would be
their endeavor to make as agreeable as they could. There
is in all women a peculiar circle of inward interests, which
remain always the same, and from which nothing in the world
can divorce them. In outward social intercourse, on the
other hand, they will gladly and easily allow themselves to
take their tone from the person with whom at the moment
they are occupied ; and thus, by a mixture of impassiveness
262 ELECTIVE AFilKITlES.
and susceptibility, by persisting and by yielding, they con-
tiniie to keep the government to themselves : and no man
of good behavior can ever take it from them."
The architect, following at the same time his own fancy
and his own inclination, had been exerting himself and
putting out his talents for their gratification and for the
purposes of his friends ; and business and amusement, while
he was with them, had been conducted in this spirit, and
directed to the ends which most suited his taste. But now
in a short time, through the presence of the assistant,
quite another sort of life was commenced. His great gift
was to talk well, and to treat, in his conversation, of men
and human relations, particularl}^ in reference to the culti-
vation of young people. Thus arose a very perceptible
contrast to the life which had been going on hitherto, all
the more as the assistant could not entirely approve of
their having interested themselves in such subjects so ex-
clusively.
Of the impersonated picture which received him on his
arrival, he never said a single word. On the other hand,
when they took him to see the church and the chapel with
their new decorations, expecting that it would please him
as much as they were pleased with it themselves, he did
not refrain from expressing his opinion.
" This mixing up of the holy with the sensuous," he
said, '^is any thing but pleasing to my taste: I cannot like
men to set apart certain especial places, consecrate them,
and deck them out, that by so doing they may nourish in
themselves a temper of piety. No surroundings, not even
the most common, must disturb in us that sense of the
divine which accompanies us wherever we are, and can
consecrate every spot into a temple. What pleases me is,
to see a home-service of God held in the saloon where
people come together to eat, wliere they have their parties,
and amuse themselves with games and dances. What is
highest, the most excellent in men, has no form ; and one
should be cautious how one gives it any form except noble
action."
Charlotte, who was already generally acquainted with his
mode of thinking, and, in the short time he had been at
the castle, had already probed it more deeply, found some-
thing also which he might do for her in his own department ;
and she had her garden children, whom the architect had
reviewed shortly before his departure, marshalled up into the
ELECTIVE AFFINITIES. 263
great saloon. In their clean, bright uniforms, with their
regular movement, and their own natural vivacity, they
looked exceedingly well. The assistant examined them in
his own way, and by a variety of questions, and by the turns
he gave them, soon brought to light the capacities and dis-
positions of the children ; and, without its seeming so, in the
space of less than one hour he had really given them impor-
tant instruction and assistance.
''How did you manage that?" said Charlotte, as the
children marched away. " 1 listened with all my atten-
tion. Nothing was brought forward except things which
were quite familiar ; and yet I cannot tell the least how
1 should begin, to bring them to be discussed in so short
a time so methodically, with all this questioning and an-
swering."
"Perhaps," replied the assistant, "we ought to make
a secret of the tricks of our own handicraft. However,
I will not hide from you one very simple maxim, with the
help of which you may do this, and a great deal more
than this. Take any subject, a substance, an idea, what-
ever you like, keep fast hold of it, make yourself thor-
oughly acquainted with it in all its parts ; and then it
will be easy for you, in conversation, to find out, with a
mass of children, how much about it has already devel-
oped itself in them ; what requires to be stimulated, what
to be directly communicated. The answers to your ques-
tions may be as unsatisfactory as they will, they may wan-
der wide of the mark : if you only take care that your
counter-question shall draw their thoughts and senses in-
wards again, if you do not allow yourself to be driven
from your own position, the children will at last reflect,
comprehend, learn only what the teacher desires them to
learn ; and the subject will be presented to them in the light
\n which he wishes them to see it. The greatest mistake
which he can make is, to allow himself to be run away with
from the subject, not to know how to keep fast to the point
with which he is engaged. Try it the next time the children
come : you will find you will be greatly entertained by it
yourself."
" That is very pretty," said Charlotte. " The right method
of teaching is the reverse, I see, of what we must do in life.
In society we must keep the attention long upon nothing ;
and in instruction the first commandment is, to permit no dis-
sipation of it."
264 ELECTIVE AFFINITIES.
" Variety, without dissipation, were the best motto for both
teaching and life, if it were easy to preserve this desirable
equipoise," said the assistant; and he was going on farther
with the subject, when Charlotte desired him to look again at
the children, whose merry band was at the moment moving
across the court. He expressed his satisfaction at seeing
them wearing a uniform. " Men," he said, " should wear a
uniform from their childhood upwards. They have to accus-
tom themselves to work together ; to lose themselves among
their equals ; to obey in masses, and to work on a large scale.
Every kind of uniform, moreover, generates a military habit
of thought, and a smart, straightforward carriage. All boys
are born soldiers, whatever you do with them. You have only
to watch them at their mock fights and games, their storming-
parties and scaling-parties."
** On the other hand, you will not blame me," replied Ot-
tilie, '' if I do not insist with my girls on such unity of cos-
tume. When I introduce them to you, I hope to gratify you
by a part}^- colored mixture."
'' I approve of that entirely," replied the other. " Women
should go about in everj^ sort of variety of dress ; each follow-
ing her own style and her own likings, that each may learn
to feel what sits well upon her, and becomes her. And for a
more weighty reason as well, — because it is appointed for
them to stand alone all their lives, and work alone."
" That seems to me to be a paradox," answered Charlotte.
'' Are we, then, to be never any thing for ourselves? "
" Oh, yes ! " replied the assistant. " In respect of other
women assuredly. But observe a young lady as a lover, as a
bride, as a housewife, as a mother. She always stands iso-
lated. She is always alone, and will be alone. P^ven the most
empty-headed woman is in the same case. P^ach one of them
excludes all others. It is her nature to do so, because of
each one of them is I'equired every thing which the entire sex
have to do. With a man it is altogether different. He would
make a second man if there were none. But a woman might
live to all eternity, without even so much as thinking of pro-
ducing a duplicate of herself."
"One has only to say the trutli in a strange way," said
Charlotte, "and at last the strangest thing will seem to be
true. We will select what is good for us out of your obser-
vations ; and yet as women we will stick to women, and do
common work with them too, not to give the other sex too
great an advantage over us. Indeed, you must not take it
ELECTIVE AFFINITIES. 265
ill of us, if in future we come to feel a little malicious satis-
faction when our lords and masters do not get on in the very
best way together."
With much care, this wise, sensible person went on to ex-
amine more closely how Ottilie proceeded with her little pupils,
and expressed his decided approbation of it. " You are quite
right," he said, " in directing these children only to what tliey
can immediately and usefully put in practice. Cleanliness,
for instance, will accustom them to wear their clothes with
pleasure to themselves ; and every thing is gained if they can
be induced to enter into what they do with cheerfulness and
self -reflection."
In other ways he found, to his great satisfaction, that
nothing had been done for outward display, but all was in-
ward, and designed to supply what was indispensably neces-
sary. "In how few words," he cried, "might the whole
business of education be summed up, if people had but ears
to hear! "
" Will you try whether I have? " said Ottilie, smiling.
" Indeed I will," answered he, " only you must not betray
me. Educate the boys to be servants, and the girls to be
mothers ; and every thing is as it should be."
"To be mothers?" replied Ottilie. "Women would
scarcely think that sufficient. They have to look forward,
without being mothers, to going out into service. And,
indeed, our young men think themselves a great deal too
good for servants. One can see easily in every one of them
that he holds himself more fit to be a master."
"And for that reason we should say nothing about it to
them," said the assistant. " We insinuate ourselves into
life, but life is not insinuating to us. How many men
would like to acknowledge at the outset what at the end
they must acknowledge whether they like it or not? But
let us leave these considerations, which do not concern us
here.
" I consider you very fortunate in having been able to go
so methodically to work with your pupils. If your youngest
girls run about with their dolls, and stitch together a few
petticoats for them ; if the elder sisters will then take care
of the younger, and the whole household know how to supply
its own wants, and one member of it help the others, — the
further step into life will not then be great ; and such a girl
will find in her husband what she has lost in her patents.
"But, among the higher ranks^ the i^roblem is a sorely
266 ELECTIVE AFFINITIES.
intricate one. Wc have to provide for higher, finer, more
delicate relations, especially for such as arise out of society.
We are, therefore, obliged to give our pupils an outward
cultivation. It is indispensable, it is necessary ; and it may
be really valuable, if we keep within bounds. Only it is so
easy, while one is proposing to cultivate the children for a
wider circle, to drive them out into the indefinite, without
keeping before our eyes the real requisites of the inner
nature. Here lies the problem which is more or less solved
by some educators, others failing to do so.
" Many things, with which we furnish our scholars at the
school, do not please me ; because experience tells me of
how little service they are likely to be in after-life. It is
impossible to state how much is at once stripped off, how
much at once committed to oblivion, as soon as the young
lady finds herself in the position of a housewife or a mother.
''In the mean time, since I have devoted myself to this
occupation, I cannot but entertain a devout hope that one
day, with the companionship of some faithful helpmate, I
may succeed in cultivating purely in my pupils that, and that
only, which they will require when they pass out into the field
of independent activity and self-reliance ; that I ma}' be able
to say to myself, in this sense is their education completed.
Another education there is indeed which will again speedily
recommence, and work on well nigh through all the years of
our life, — the education which circumstances will give us, if
we do not give it to ourselves."
" How true are these words ! " thought Ottilie. What a
great deal a passion, little dreamed of before, had done to
educate her in the past year ! What trials she saw hover
before her if she looked forward only to what the immediate
future had in store for her !
It was not without a purpose that the young man had
spoken of a helpmate, — of a wife ; for, with all his diffidence,
he could not refrain from thus remotely hinting at his own
wishes. A number of circumstances and accidents, indeed,
combined to induce him on this visit to approach a few steps
towards his aim.
The lady-superior of the school was advanced in years.
She had been already for some time looking about among
her fellow-laborers, male and female, for some person whom
she could take into partnership with herself, and at last
had made proposals to the assistant, in whom she had the
highest ground for feeling confidence. He was to conduct
ELECTIVE AFFINITIES. 261
the business of the school with herself. He was to work,
together with her, as if it were his own, and after her death,
as her heir, to enter upon it as sole proprietor.
The principal thing now seemed to be, that he should find
a wife who would co-operate with him. Ottilie was secretly
before his eyes and before his heart. A number of difficulties
suggested themselves, and yet there were favorable circum-
stances on the other side to counterbalance them. Luciana
had left the school : Ottilie could therefore return with the
less difficulty. Of the relation in which she stood to Edward,
some little had transpired. It passed, however, as many
such things do, as a matter of indifference ; and this very
circumstance might make it desirable that she should leave
the castle. And 3^et, perhaps, no decision would have been
arrived at, no step would have been taken, had not an un-
expected visit given a special impulse to his hesitation. The
presence, in any and every circle, of people of mark, can
never be without its effects.
" The count and the baroness, who often found themselves
asked for their opinion — almost everyone being in difficulty
about the education of their children — as to the value of the
various schools, had found it desirable to make themselves
particularly acquainted with this one, which was generally so
well spoken of ; and, under their present circumstances, they
were more easil}?^ able to carry on these inquiries in company.
The baroness, however, had something else in view as
well. While she was last at the castle, she had talked over
with Charlotte the whole aft'air of Edward and Ottilie. She
had insisted again and again that Ottilie must be sent away.
She tried every means to encourage Charlotte to do it, and
to keep her from being frightened by Edward's threats.
Several modes of escape from the difficulty were suggested.
Accidentally the school was mentioned, and the assistant
and his incipient passion, which made the baroness more
resolved than ever to pay her intended visit there.
She went : she made acquaintance with the assistant, looked
over the establishment, and spoke of Ottilie. The count also
spoke with much interest of her, having in his recent visit
learned to know her better. She had approached him : indeed,
she had felt attracted by him, believing that she could see,
that she could perceive, in his solid, substantial conversation,
something to which hitherto she had been an entire stranger.
In her intercourse with Edward, the world had been utterly
forgotten : in the presence of the count, the world appeared
268 ELECTIVE AFFINITIES.
first worth regarding. The attraction was mutual. The
count conceived a liking for Ottilie : he would have been
glad to have had her for a daughter. Thus a second time,
and worse than the first time, she was in the way of the
baroness. Who knows what, in times when passions ran
hotter than they do nowadays, this lady might not have
devised against her? ""Now she would have been satisfied if
she could get her married, and render her more innocuous
for the future to the peace of mind of married women. She
therefore artfully urged the assistant, in a delicate, but effec-
tive manner, to set out on a little excursion to the castle,
where his plans and his wishes, of ^rhich he made no secret
to the lady, he might forthwith take steps to realize.
"With the fullest consent of the superior he started off on
his expedition, and in his heart he cherished much hopes of
success. He knew that Ottilie was not ill-disposed towards
him ; and although it was true there was some disproportion
of rank between them, yet distinctions of this kind were fast
disappearing in the temper of the time. Moreover, the
baroness had made him perceive clearly that Ottilie must
always remain a poor, portionless maiden. To be related to
a wealthy family, it was said, could be of service to nobody.
For, even with the largest property, men have a feeling that
it is not right to deprive of any considerable sum those who,
us standing in a nearer degree of relationship, appear to have
a fuller right to possession ; and really it is a strange thing,
that the immense privilege which a man has of disposing of
his property after his death, he so very seldom uses for the
benefit of those whom he loves, out of regard to established
usage only appearing to consider those who would inherit
his estate from him supposing he made no will at all.
Thus, while on his journey, he began to feel himself entirely
on a level with Ottilie. A favorable reception raised his
hopes. He found Ottilie indeed not altogether so open with
him as usual ; but she was considerably matured, more devel-
oped, and, if you please, generally more conversable than
he had known her. She was ready to give him the fullest
insight into many things in any way connected with his pro-
fession ; but, when he attempted to approach his aim, a cer-
tain inward shyness always held him back.
Once, however, Charlotte gave him an opportunity for
saying something. In Ottilia's presence she said to him,
" Well, now, you have looked closely enough into everything
which is going forward in my circle. How do you find Ottilie ?
you had better say while she is here."
ELECTIVE AFFINITIES. 269
Hereupon the assistant signified, with a clear perception
and composed expression, that, in respect of a freer carriage,
of an easier manner in speaking, of a higher insight into the
things of the world, which showed itself more in actions than
in words, he found Ottilie much improved ; but that he still
believed it might be of serious advantage to her if she would
go back for some little time to the school, in order methodi-
cally and thoroughly to make her own forever what the world
was only imparting to her in fragments and pieces, rather
perplexmg her than satisf3ing her, and often too late to be
of service. He did not wish to be prolix about it. Ottilie
herself knew best how much method and connection there
was in the st^de of instruction out of which, in that case, she
would be taken.
Ottilie could not den}^ this, but could not avow what these
words made her feel, because she was hardly able to give an
account of it to herself. It seemed to her as if nothing in
the world was disconnected so long as she thought of the
one person whom she loved ; and she could not conceive how,
without him, any thing could be connected at all.
Charlotte replied to the proposal kindly and cautiousl3^
She said that she herself, as well as Ottilie, had long desired
her return to the school. At that time, however, the pres-
ence of so dear a companion and helper had become indis-
pensable to herself ; still she would offer no obstacle at some
future period, if Ottilie continued to wish it, to her going
back there for such a time as would enable her to complete
what she had begun, and to make entirely her own what had
been interrupted.
The assistant listened with delight to this qualified assent.
Ottilie did not venture to object, altiknigli,th6 very thought
made her shudder. Charlotte, on her hand, only thought of
gaining time. She hoped that Edward would soon come back
and find himself a happy father ; then she was convinced all
would go right, and one way or another they would be able
to settle something for Ottilie.
After an important conversation furnishing matter for re-
flection to all who have taken part in it, there commonly
follows a sort of pause, which in appearance is like a general
embarrassment. They walked up and down in the room.
The assistant turned over the leaves of various books, and
came at last on the folio of engravings which had remained
lying there since Luciana's time. As soon as he saw that it
contained nothing but apes, he shut it up again.
270 ELECTIVE AFFINITIES.
It may have been this, however, which gave occasion to a
conversation of which we find traces in Ottilie's diary.
FROM ottilie's DIARY.
''It is strange how men can have the lieart to take such
pains with the pictures of those hideous monkeys. One lowers
one's self sufficiently when one looks at them merely as ani-
mals, but it is reall}'' wicked to give way to the inclination
to look for people whom we know behind such masks."
" It is a sure mark of a certain perverseness to take pleas-
ure in caricatures and monstrous faces and pygmies. I have
to thank our kind assistant that I have never been tormented
with natural history : I could never make myself at home
with worms and beetles."
"Just now lie acknowledged to me, that it was the same
with him. ' Of nature,' he said, ' we ought to know nothing
except what is actually alive immediately around us. With
the trees which blossom and put out leaves and bear fruit in
our own neighborhood, with every shrub we pass b}', with
eveiy blade of grass on which we tread, we stand in a real
relation. They are our genuine compatriots. The birds
which hop up and down among our branches, which sing
among our leaves, belong to us : they speak to us from our
childhood upwards, and we learn to understand their language.
But let a man ask himself whether or not every strange crea-
ture, torn out of its natural environment, does not at first
sight make a sort of painful impression upon him, which is
only deadened by custom. It is a mark of a motley, dissi-
pated sort of life, to be able toeMure monk^r^jm^^
and black people about one's self.'^'"^ *
" Sometimes, when a certain longing curiosity about these
strange objects has come over me, I have envied the traveller
who sees such marvels in living, e very-day connection with
other marvels. But he, too, must have become another man.
Palm-trees will not allow a man to wander among them with
impunity, and doubtless his tone of thinking becomes very
different in a land where elephants and tigers are at home."
"Only such inquirers into nature deserve our respect, as
know how to describe and represent to us the strange, won-
ELECTIVE AFFIXITIES. 271
derful things they have seea together with their own locality,
each in its own especial element. How I should enjoy once
hearing Humboldt talk ! ' '
"A cabinet of natural curiosities we may regard like an
Egyptian burying-place, where the various plant-gods and
animal-gods stand about embalmed. It may be w(!ll enough
for a priest-caste to busy itself with such things in a twilight
of mystery : but, in general instruction, they have no place
or business ; and we must beware of them all the more,
because what is nearer to us, and more valuable, may be so
easily thrust aside by th^m."
" A teacher who can arouse a feeling for one single good
action, for one single good poem, accomplishes more than he
who fills our memory with rows on rows of natural objects,
classified with name and form. For what is the result of all
these, except what we know as well without them, that the
human form pre-eminently and solely is made in the image
and likeness of God?"
' ' Individuals may be left to occupy themselves with what-
ever amuses them, with whatever gives them pleasure, what-
ever they think useful ; but the proper study of mankind is
man."
CHAPTER VIII.
There are but few men who care to occupy themselves
with the immediate past. Either we are forcibly bound up
in the present, or we lose ourselves in the long gone-by, and
seek back for what is utterly lost, as if it were possible to
summon it up again, and rehabilitate it. Even in great and
wealthy families who are under many obligations to their
ancestors, we commonly find men remembering their grand-
fathers more than their fathers.
Such reflections as these suggested themselves to our
assistant, as, on one of those beautiful days in which the
departing winter is accustomed to imitate the spring, he had
been walking up and down the great old castle garden, and
admiring the tall avenues of the lindens, and the formal
272 ELECTIVE AFFINITrES.
walks and flower-beds which had been laid out by Edward's
father. The trees had thriven admirably, according to the
design of him who had planted them ; and now, when they
ought to have begun to be valued and enjoyed, no one ever
spoke of them. Hardly any one even went near them ; and
the interest and the outlay were now directed to the other
side, out mto the free and the open.
He made some remarks about it to Charlotte on his return :
she did not take it unkindly. " While life is sweeping us
onward," she replied, " we fancy that we are acting out our
own impulses : we believe that we choose ourselves what we
wish to do, and what we wish to enjoy. But, in fact, if we
look at it closely, our actions are no more than tlie plans and
the desires of the time which we are compelled to carry out."
"No doubt," said the assistant. "And who is strong
enough to withstand the stream of what is round him?
Time passes on, carrying away with it opinions, thoughts,
prejudices, and interests. If the youth of the son falls in
the era of revolution, we may feel assured that he will have
nothing in common with his father. If the father lived at
a time when the desire was to accumulate property, to secure
the possession of it, to narrow and to gather one's self in,
and to base one's enjoyment in separation from the world,
the son will at once seek to extend his sphere, to communi-
cate himself to others, to spread himself over a wide surface,
and open out his closed stores."
"Entire periods," replied Charlotte, "resemble this
father and son whom you have been describing. Of the
state of things when every little town was obliged to have
its walls and moats, Avlien the castle of the nobleman was
built in a swamp, and the smallest manor-houses were only
accessible by a draw-bridge, we are scarcely able to form a
conception. In our days, large cities take down their walls ;
the moats of the princes' castles are filled in ; cities are
nothing else than large hamlets ; and, when one travels and
sees all this, he might fancy that universal peace has been
established, and that the golden age was at hand. No one
feels himself easy in a garden which does not look like the
open country. There must be nothing to remind him of
form and constraint : we choose to be entirely free, and to
draw a breath without sense of confinement. Do you con-
ceive it possible, my friend, that we can ever return again
out of this into another, into our former, condition?"
"Why not?" replied the assistant. "Every condition
ELECTIVE AFFINITIES. 273
iias its burden, the most relaxed as well as the most con-
strained. The foraier presupposes abundance, and leads to
extravagance. Let want re-appear, and the spirit of mod-
eration is at once with us again. Men who are obliged to
make use of their space and their soil, will speedily enough
raise walls up round their gardens to be sure of their crops
and plants. Out of this will arise by degrees a new phase
of things : the useful will again gain the upper hand, and
even the man of large possessions will feel at last that he
must make the most of all that belongs to him. Believe
me, it is quite possible that your son may become indiffer-
ent to all which you have been doing in the park, and draw
in again behind the solemn walls and the tall lindens of his
grandfather. ' '
The secret pleasure it gave Charlotte to have a son fore-
told to her, made her forgive the assistant his somewhat
unfriendly prophecy as to how her lovely, beautiful park
might one day fare. She therefore answered without any
discomposure, "You and I are not old enough yet to have
lived through very much of these contradictions ; and yet
when I recall my early youth, when I remember the com-
plaints I used to hear from older people, and when I think
at the same time of what the country and the town then
were, I have nothing to advance against what you say.
But is there nothing which one can do to remedy this natural
course of things? Are father and son, parents and children,
to be always thus unable to understand each other ? You
have been so kind as to prophesy a boy to me. Is it neces-
sary that he must stand in contradiction to his father ? Must
he destroy what his parents have erected, instead of com-
pleting it, instead of following up the same idea and ele-
vating it? "
" There is a rational remedy for it," replied the assistant,
"but it is only seldom put in practice. The father should
raise his son to a joint ownership with himself. He should
permit him to plant and to build, and allow him the same
innocent liberty which he allow^s to himself. One form of
activity may be woven into another, but it cannot be pieced
on to it. A young shoot may be readily and easily grafted
with an old stem, to which no grown branch admits of being
fastened."
The assistant was glad to have had the opportunity, at the
moment when he saw himself obliged to take his leave, of
having said something agreeable to Charlotte, and thus se-
274 ELECTIVE AFFINITIES.
cure her favor afresh. He had been already too long
absent from home ; and yet he could not make up his mind
to return there, until after a full conviction that he must
allow the approaching epoch of Charlotte's confinement first
to pass by, before he could look for any decision from her
in respect to Ottilie. He therefore accommodated himself to
the circumstances, and returned to the superior with these
prospects and hopes.
Charlotte's confinement was now approaching : she kept
more in her own room. The ladies who had gathered about
her were her closest companions. Ottilie managed all domes-
tic matters, hardly able, however, the while, to think of what
she was doing. She had indeed utterly resigned herself : she
desired to continue to exert herself to the extent of her
power for Charlotte, for the child, for Edward. But she
could not see how it would be possible for her. Nothing could
save her from utter distraction, except to do the duty each
day brought with it.
A son was brought happily into the world ; and the ladies
declared, with one voice, it was the very image of its
father. Only Ottilie, as she wished the new mother joy, and
kissed the child with all her heart, was unable to see the like-
ness. Once already Charlotte had felt most painfully the
absence of her husband, when she had to make preparations
for her daughter's marriage. And now the father could
not be present at the birth of his son. He could not have
the choosing of the name by which the child was hereafter to
be called.
The first among all Charlotte's friends who came to wish
her joy was Mittler. He had placed expresses ready to bring
him news the instant the event took place. He made his
appearance, and was scarcely able to conceal his triumph,
even before Ottilie ; when alone with Charlotte, he gave ut-
terance to it, and was at once ready with means to remove
all anxieties, and set aside all immediate difficulties. The
baptism should not be delayed a day longer than necessary.
The old clergyman, who had one foot already m the grave,
should leave his blessing, to bind together the past and the
future. The child was to be called Otto ; what name could
he bear so fitly as that of his father and of his father's
friend ?
It required the peremptory resolution of this man to set
aside the innumerable considerations, arguments, hesitations,
difficulties ; what this person knew, and that person knew
ELECTIVE AFFINITIES. 275
better; the opinions, up and clown, and backwards and for-
wards, which every friend vohmteered. It always happens
on such occasions, that, when one inconvenience is removed, a
new one seems to arise ; and, in wisliing to spare all sides,
we inevitably go wrong on one side or the other.
The letters to friends and relations were all undertaken by
Mittler, and they were to be written and sent off at once. It
was highly necessary, he thought, that the good fortune, which
he considered so important for the family, should be known
as widely as possible through the ill-natured and misinterpret-
ing world. For, indeed, these late entanglements and perplexi-
ties had got abroad ; people, at all times, holding the conviction
that whatever happens, happens only in order that they may
have something to talk about.
The ceremony of the baptism was to be observed with all
due honor, but it was to be as brief and as private as possible.
The people came together : Ottilie and Mittler were to hold
the child as sponsors. The old pastor, supported by the
servants of the church, came in with slow steps : the prayers
were offered. The boy lay in Ottilie' s arms : and, as she was
looking affectionately down at him, he opened his eyes ; and
she was not a little startled when she seemed to see her own
eyes looking at her. The likeness would have surprised any
one. Mittler, who next had to receive the child, started as
well ; he fancying he saw in the little features a most strik-
ing likeness to the captain. He had never seen a resemblance
so marked.
The infirmity of the good old clergyman had not permitted
him to accompany the ceremony with more than the usual
liturgy.
Mittler, however, who was full of his subject, remembered
his former performances when he had been in the ministry ; and
indeed, it was one of his peculiarities, that, on ever}^ sort of
occasion, he always thought what he would like to say, and
what expressions he would use.
At this time he was the less able to contain himself, as he
was now in the midst of a circle consisting entirely of well-
known friends. He began, therefore, towards the conclusion
of the service, to put himself quietly into the place of the cler-
gyman ; in a funny manner to speak of his duties and hopes
as godfather, and to dwell all the longer on the subject, as he
thought he saw, in Charlotte's gratified look, that she was
pleased with his doing so.
It altogether escaped the eagerness of the orator, that
276 ELECTIVE AFFINITIES.
the good old man would gladly have sat down ; still less
did he think that he was on the way to occasion a more serious
evil. After he had emphatically dwelt upon the relation in
which every person present stood toward the child, thereby
putting Ottilie's composure sorely to the proof, he turned at
last to the old man with the words, "And you, my worthy
father, you may now well say with Simeon, ' Lord, now lettest
thou thy servant depart in peace ; for mine eyes have seen the
saviour of this house.' "
He was now in full swing towards a brilliant peroration,
when he perceived the old man, to whom he held out the
child, first appear a little to incline towards it, and imme-
diately after to totter and sink backward. Hardly prevented
from falling, he was lifted to a seat ; but, notwithstanding the
instant assistance which was rendered, he was found to be
dead.
To see thus side by side birth and death, the coffin and the
cradle, to see them and to realize them, to comprehend, not
with the eye of imagination, but with the bodily eye, at one
moment these fearful opposites, was a hard trial to the
spectators ; the hardor, the more utterly it had taken them
by surprise. Ottilie alone stood contemplating the slum-
berer, whose features still retained their gentle, sweet expres-
sion, with a kind of envy. The life of her soul was extinct :
why should the bodily life any longer drag on in weari-
ness?
But though Ottilie was frequently led by melancholy inci-
dents which occurred in the day, to think of the past, of
separation and of loss, at night she had strange visions given
her to comfort her, which assured her of the existence of
her beloved, and thus gave her strength for her own life.
When she laid herself down at night to rest, and was float-
ing among sweet sensations between sleep and waking, she
seemed to be looking into a clear but softly illuminated
space. In this she would see Edward with the greatest dis-
tinctness, and not in the dress in which she had been accus-
tomed to see him, but in military uniform ; never in the
same position, but always in a natural one, and with nothing
fantastic about him, either standing or walking, or lying or
riding. The figure, which was painted with the utmost
minuteness, moved readily before her without any effort of
hers, without her willing it or exerting her imagination to
produce it. Frequently she saw him surrounded with some-
thing in motion, which was darker than the bright ground;
ELECTIVE AFFINITIES. 277
but the figures were shadowy, and she could scarcely distin-
guish them, — sometimes they were like men, sometimes they
were like horses, or like trees, or like mountains. She
usually went to sleep in the midst of the apparition ; and
when, after a quiet night, she woke again in the morning,
she felt refreshed and comforted : she could say to herself,
'' Edward still lives ; " and she herself was still remaining in
the closest relation towards him.
CHAPTER IX.
Spring had come : it was late, but it therefore burst out
more rapidly and more exhilaratingly than usual. Ottilie
now found in the garden the fruits of her carefulness. Every
thing was germinating, and came out in leaf and flower at
its proper time. A number of plants, which she had been
training up under glass frames and in hotbeds, now burst
forward at once to meet, at last, the advances of nature ;
and whatever there was to do, and to take care of, it did not
remain the mere labor of hope which it had been, but brought
its reward in immediate and substantial enjoyment.
Many a gap among the finest shoots had been produced
by Luciana's wild ways, for which she had to console the
gardener ; and the symmetry of many a leafy crown destroyed.
She tried to encourage him to hope that it would all be soon
restored again ; but he had too deep a feeling, and too pure
an idea of the nature of his business, for such grounds of
comfort to be of much service with him. Little as the gar-
dener allowed himself to have his attention scattered b}^ other
tastes and inclinations, he could the less bear to have the
peaceful course interrupted which the plant follows towards
its enduring or its transient perfection. A plant is like a
self-willed man, out of whom we can obtain all we desire if
we will only treat him his own way. A calm eye, a silent
method, in all seasons of the year, and at every hour, to do
exactly what has then to be done, is required of no one per-
haps more than of a gardener. These qualities the good
man possessed in an eminent degree, and on that account
Ottilie liked so well to work together with him ; but for some
time past he had not found himself able to exercise hia
278 ELECTIVE AFFINITIES.
peculiar talent with any pleasure to himself. Whatever
concerned the fruit-gardening or kitchen-gardening, as well
as wliatever had in time past been required in the ornamental
gardens, he understood perfectly. One man succeeds in one
thing, another in another : he succeeded in these. In his
management of the oranger}^, of the bulbous flowers, in
budding shoots and growing cuttings from the carnations
and auriculas, he might challenge Nature herself. But tlie
new ornainental shrubs and fashionable flowers remained in
a measure strange to him. He had a kind of shyness of the
endless field of botany, which had been lately opening itself ;
and the strange names humming about his ears made him
cross and ill-tempered. The orders for flowers which had
been made by his lord and lady in the course of the past
year, he considered so much useless waste and extravagance.
All the more, as he saw many valuable plants disappear ;
and as he had ceased to stand on the best possible terms
with the nursery gardeners, who he fancied had not been
serving him honestly.
Consequently, after a number of attempts, he had formed
a sort of a plan, in which Ottilie encouraged him the more
readily because its first essential condition was the return of
Edward, whose absence in this, as in many other matters,
every day had to be felt more and more seriously.
Now that the plants were striking new roots, and putting
forth shoots, Ottilie felt herself even more fettered to this
spot. It was just a year since she had come there as a
stranger, as a mere insignificant creature. How much had
she not gained for herself since that time ! but, alas ! how
much had she not also since that time lost again ! Never
had she been so- rich, and never so poor. The feelings of
her loss and of her gain alternated momentarily, chasing each
other through her heart ; and she could find no other means
to help herself, except always to set to work again at what
lay nearest to her, with such interest and eagerness as she
could command.
That every thing she knew to be dear to Edward received
especial care from her, may be supposed. And why should
she not hope that he himself would now soon come back
again ; and that, when present, he would show himself grateful
for all the care and pains which she had taken for him in his
absence ?
But there was also a far different employment which she
took upon herself in his service : she had undertaken the
ELECTIVE AFFINITIES. 279
principal charge of the child, whose nurse it was all the
easier for her to be, as they had determined not to put it into
the hands of a wet-nurse, but to bring it up by hand with
milk and water. In the beautiful season it was much out of
doors, enjoying the free air ; and Ottilie liked best to take it
out herself, to carry the unconscious sleeping infant among
the flowers and blossoms which should one day smile so
brightly on its childhood, — among the young shrubs and
plants, which, by their youth, seemed designed to grow up
with the young lord to their after stature. When she looked
about lier, she did not hide from herself to what a high
position that child was born : far and wide, wlierever the
eye could see, all would one day belong to him. How desira-
ble, how necessary, it must therefore be, that it should grow
up under the eyes of its father and its mother, and renew
and strengthen the union between them !
Ottilie saw all this so clearly, that she represented it to
herself as conclusively decided ; and for herself, as concerned
with it, she never felt at all. Under this clear sky, in this
bright sunshine, at once it became clear to her, that her love,
if it would perfect itself, must become altogether unselfish ;
and there were many moments in which she believed it was an
elevation which she had already attained. She only desired
the well-being of her friend. She fancied herself able to
resign him, and never to see him any more, if she could onl}^
know that he was happy. The one only determination she
formed for herself was, never to belong to another.
They had taken care that the autumn should be no less
brilliant than the spring. Sunflowers were there, and all
the other plants which never cease blossoming in autumn,
and continue boldly on into the cold ; asters especially were
sown in the greatest abundance, and scattered about in all
directions, to form a starry heaven upon the earth
FROM OTTILIE 'S DIARY.
" Any good thought we have read, any thing striking we
have heard, we commonly enter in our diary ; but if we
would take the trouble, at the same time, to mark, of our
friends' letters, the remarkable observations, the original
ideas, the hasty words so pregnant in meaning, which we
might find in them, we should then be rich indeed. We lay
aside letters never to read them again, and at last we destroy
them out of discretion ; and so disappears the most beautiful,
280 ELECTIVE AFFINITIES.
the most immediate, breath of life, irrecoverably for our-
selves and for others. I intend to make amends in future
for such neglect." _____
*' So, then, once more the old story of the year is being
repeated over again. We are come now, thank God, again
to its most charming chapter ! The violets and the may-
flowers are as its superscriptions and its vignettes. It always
makes a pleasant impression on us when we open again at
these pages in the book of life."
" We find fault with the poor, particularly with the little
ones among them, when they loiter alxnit the streets and beg.
Do we not observe that they begin to work again, as soon as
ever there is any thing for them to do? Hardly has Nature
unfolded her smiling treasures, than the children are at once
upon her track to open out a calling for themselves. Not
one of them is begging any longer : they have each a nosegay
to offer you ; they were out and gathering it before you had
awakened out of your sleep, and the supplicating face looks
as sweetly at you as the present which the hand is holding
out. No person ever looks miserable who feels that he has
a right to make a demand upon you."
" How is it that the year sometimes seems so short, and
sometimes is so long? How is it that it is so Short when it
is passing, and so long as we look back over it? When I
think of the past (and it never comes so powerfully over me
as iif the garden), I feel how the perishing and the enduring
work one upon the other ; and there is nothing whose endur-
ance is so brief as not to leave behind it some trace of itself,
somethins: in its own likeness."
" We are able to tolerate the winter. We fancy that we
can extend ourselves more freely when the trees are so spec-
tral, so transparent. They are nothing, but they conceal
nothing ; but when once the germs and buds begin to show,
then we become impatient for the full foliage to come out,
for the landscape to put on its body, and the tree to stand
before us as a form."
" Every thing which is perfect in its kind must pass out
beyond and transcend its kind. It must be an inimitable
something of another and a higher nature. In many of its
ELECTIVE AFFINITIES. 281
tones the nightingale is only a l)ird ; then it rises up above
its class, and seems as if it would teach every feathered
creature what singing really is."
" A life without love, without the presence of the beloved,
is but poor comklie a tiroir. We draw out slide after slide,
swiftly tiring of each, and pushing it back to make haste to
the next. Even what we know to be good and important
hangs but wearily together : every step is an end, and every
step is a fresh beginning."
CHAPTER X.
Charlotte meanwhile was well and in good spirits. She
was happy in her beautiful boy, whose fair-promising little
form every hour was a delight to both her eyes and heart.
In him she found a new link to connect her with the world
and with her property. Her former activity began anew to
stir in her again.
Whichever way she looked, she saw how much had been
done in the year that was past ; and it was a pleasure to her
to contemplate it. Enlivened by the strength of these feel-
ings, she climbed up to the summer-house with Ottilie and
the child : and as she laid the latter down on the little table,
as on the altar of her house, and saw the two seats still
vacant, she thought of gone-by times ; and fresh hopes rose
out before her for herself and for Ottilie.
Young ladies, perhaps, look timidly round them at this or
that young man, carrying on a silent examination, whether
they would like to have him for a husband ; but whoever has
a daughter or a female ward to care for, takes a wider circle
in her survey. And so it fared at this moment with Char-
lotte, to whom, as she thought of how they had once sat side
by side in that summer-house, a union did not seem impossi-
ble between the captain and Ottilie. It had not remained
unknown to her, that the plans for the advantageous mar-
riage, which had been proposed to the captain, had come to
nothing.
Charlotte went on up the cliff, and Ottilie carried the child.
A number of reflections crowded upon the former. Even on
282 ELECTIVE AFFINITIES.
the firm land there are frequent enough shipwrecks ; and the
true wise conduct is to recover ourselves, and refit our vessel
as fast as possible. Is life to be calculated only by its gains
and losses? Who has not made arrangement on arrange-
ment, and has not seen them disturbed? How often does
not a man strike into a road, and lose it again ! How often
are we not turned aside from one point which we had sharply
before our eye, but only to reach some higher stage ! The
traveller, to his greatest annoyance, breaks a wheel upon his
journey, and through this impleasant accident makes some
charming acquaintance, and forms some new connection,
which has an influence on all his life. Destiny grants us our
wishes, but in its own way, in order to give us something
beyond our wishes.
Among these and similar reflections the}^ reached the new
building on the hill, where they intended to establish them-
selves for the summer. The view all round them was far
more beautiful than could have been supposed : everj^ little
obstruction had been removed ; all the loveliness of the land-
scape, whatever nature, whatever the season of the year, had
done for it, came out in its beauty before the e3'e ; and already
the 3'oung plantations, which had been made to fill up a few
openings, were beginning to look green, and to form an
agreeable connecting-link between parts which before stood
separate .
The house itself was nearly habitable : the views, par-
ticularly from the upper rooms, were of the richest variety.
The longer you looked round you, the more beauties you
discovered. What magnificent effects would be produced
here at the different hours of da}^, — by sunlight and by moon-
light ! Nothing could be more delightful than to come and
live there ; and, now that she found all the rough work finished,
Charlotte longed to be bus}' again. An upholsterer, a tapestr}'-
hanger, a painter who could lay on the colors with patterns
and a little gilding, were all which were required ; and these
were soon found, and in a short time the building was com-
pleted. Kitchen and cellar stores were quickly laid in ;
being so far from the castle, it was necessary to have all
essentials provided, and the two ladies with the child went
up and settled there. From this residence, as from a new
centre, unknown walks opened out to them ; and in these
high regions the free, fresh air and the beautiful weather were
thoroughly delightful.
Ottilie's favorite walk, sometimes alone, sometimes with
ELECTIVE AFFINITIES. 283
the child, was down below towards the plane-trees, along a
pleasant footpath leading directly to the point where one of
the boats was kept chained in which people used to go across
the water. She often took pleasure in a sail on the water,
but without the child, as Charlotte was a little uneasy about
it. She never missed, however, paying a daily visit to the
castle garden and the gardener, and going to look with him
at his show of greenhouse-plants, which were all out now,
enjoying the free air.
At this beautiful season, Charlotte was much pleased to
receive a visit from an English nobleman, who had made
Edward's acquaintance abroad, having met him more than
once, and who was now curious to see the lajnng out of his
park, which he had heard so much admired. He brought
with him a letter of introduction from the count, and intro-
duced at the same time his travelling companion, a quiet but
most agreeable man. He went about seeing every thing,
sometimes with Charlotte and Ottilie, sometimes with the
gardeners and the foresters, often with his friend, and now
and then alone ; and they could perceive clearly from his
observations, that he took an interest in such matters, and
understood them well, indeed, that he had himself probably
executed many such.
Although he was now advanced in life, he entered warmly
into every thing which could serve for an ornament to life,
or contribute any thing to its importance.
In his presence the ladies came first properly to enjoy
what was round them. His practised eye received every
effect in its freshness ; and he found all the more pleasure in
what was before him, as he had not previously known the
place, and was scarcely able to distinguish what man had
done there from what nature had provided.
We may even say, that, through his remarks, the park grew
and enriched itself: he was able to anticipate in their fulfil-
ment the promises of the growing plantations. There was
not a spot where there was any effect which could be either
heightened or produced, but what he observed it.
In one place he pointed to a fountain, which, if it should be
cleaned out, promised to be the most beautiful spot for a picnic-
party. In another, to a cave which had only to be enlarged
and swept clear of rubbish to form a desirable seat. A few
trees might be cut down, and a view would be opened from
it of some grand masses of rock towering magnificently
against the sky. He wished the owners joy that so much
284 ELECTIVE AFFINITIES.
was still remaining for them to do ; and he besought them not
to be in a huiTy about it, but to keep for themselves for years
to come the pleasures of shaping and improving.
At the hours the ladies usually spent alone, he was never
in the wa}^ ; for he was occupied the greatest part of the day
in catching, in a portable camera obscura, such views in the
park as would make good paintings, and drawing from them,
in order to secure some desirable result from his travels for
himself and others. For many 3'ears past he had been in the
habit of doing this in all remarkable places which he visited,
and had provided himself by it with a most charming anc|
interesting collection. He showed the ladies a large port-
folio which he had brought with him, and entertained them
with the pictures and with descriptions. And it was a real
delight to them, here in their solitude, to travel so pleasantly
over the world, and see sweep past them shores and havens,
mountains, lakes, and rivers, cities, castles, and a hundred
other localities which have a name in history.
Each of the two ladies had an especial interest in it »
Charlotte the more general interest in whatever was histori-
cally remarkable ; Ottilie dwelling in preference on the scenes
of which Edward used most to talk, — where he liked best to
stay, and which he would most often revisit. Every man has
somewhere, far or near, his peculiar localities which attract
him ; scenes which, according to his character, either from first
impressions, or from particular associations, or from habit,
have a charm for him beyond all others.
She therefore asked the earl which of all these places
pleased him best, where he would like to take up his abode
if he might choose. There was more than one lovely spot
which he pointed out, with what had happened to him there
to make him love and value it ; and the peculiar accentuated
French in which he spoke made it most pleasant to listen to
him.
To the question, which was his ordinary residence, which
he properly considered his home, he replied, without any hesi-
tation, in a manner quite unexpected by the ladies, —
"I have accustomed myself by this time to be at home
everywhere ; and I find, after all, that it is much more agree-
able to allow others to plant and build and keep house for
me. I have no desire to return to my own possessions, partly
on political grounds, but principally because my son, for
whose sake alone it was any pleasure to me to remain emd
work there, — who will, by and by, inherit it, and with
ELECTIVE AFFINITIES. 285
whom I hoped to enjoy it, — took no interest in the place at
all, but has gone out to India, where, like many other foolish
fellows, he fancies he can make a higher use of his life. He
is more likely to squander it.
*' Assuredly we spend far too much labor and outlay in
preparation for life. Instead of beginning at once to make
ourselves happy in a moderate condition, we spread ourselves
out wider and wider, only to make ourselves more and more
uncomfortable. Who is there now to enjoy my mansion, my
park, my gardens? Not I, nor any of mine — strangers,
visitors, or curious, restless travellers.
*' Even with large means, we are ever but half and half at
home, especially in tbe country, where we miss many things
to which we have become accustomed in town. The book
for which we are most anxious is not to be had, and just
the thing we wanted most is forgotten. We take to being
domestic, only again to go out of ourselves : if we do not go
astray of our own will and caprice, circumstances, passions,
accidents, necessity, and one does not know what besides,
manage it for us."
Little did the earl imagine how deeply his friend would
be touched by these random observations. It is a danger to
which we are all of us exposed when we venture on general
remarks in a society the circumstances of which we might
have supposed were well enough known to us. Such casual
wounds, even from well-meaning, kindly-disposed people,
were nothing new to Charlotte. She so clearly, so thor-
oughly, knew and understood the world, that it gave her no
particular pain if it did happen, that, through somebody's
thoughtlessness or imprudence, she had her attention forced
into this or that unpleasant direction. But it was very dif-
ferent with Ottilie. At her half-conscious age, at which she
rather felt than saw, and at which she was disposed, indeed
was obliged, to turn her eyes away from what she should not
or would not see, Ottilie was thrown by this melancholy con-
versation into the most pitiable state. It rudely tore away
the pleasant veil from before her eyes : and it seemed to her
as if what had been done all this time for house and court,
for park and garden, for all their wide environs, were utterly
in vain, because he to whom it all belonged could not enjoy
it ; because he, like their present visitor, had been driven
out to wander up and down in the world — and indeed in the
most perilous paths of it — by those who were nearest and
dearest to him. She was accustomed to listen in silence;
286 ELECTIVE AFFINITIES.
but, on this occasion, she sat on in the most painful condi-
tion, which, indeed, was made rather worse than better by
what the stranger went on to say, as he continued, with his
peculiar, humorous gravity, —
" I think I am now on the right way. I look upon myself
steadily as a traveller, who renounces many things in order
to enjoy more. I am accustomed to change : it has become,
indeed, a necessity to me, just as in the opera, people are
always looking out for new and new decorations, because
there have already been so many. 1 know very well what
I am to expect from the best hotels, and what from the
worst. It may be as good or it ma}^ be as bad as it will, but
I nowhere find any thing to which I am accustomed ; and in
the end it comes to much the same thing whether we depend
for our enjoyment entirely on the regular order of custom,
or entirely on the caprices of accident. I have never to vex
myself now because this thing is mislaid, or that thing is
lost ; because the room in which I live is uninhabitable, and
I must have it repaired ; because somebody has broken my
favorite cup, and for a long time nothing tastes well out of
any other. All this I am happily spared. If the house
catches fire about my ears, my people quietly pack my things
up, and we pass away out of the town in search of other
quarters. And considering all these advantages, when I
reckon carefully, I find, that, by the end of the year, I have
not sacrificed more than it would have cost me to be at
home."
In this description Ottilie saw nothing but Edward before
her. How he, too, was now amidst discomfort and hardship,
marching along untrodden roads, lying out in the fields in
danger and want, and, in all this insecurity and hazard,
growing accustomed to be homeless and friendless, learning
to fling away ever^^ thing that he might have nothing to lose.
Fortunately the party separated for a short time. Ottilie
escaped to her room, where she could give way to her tears.
No weight of sorrow had ever pressed so heavily upon her as
this clear perception (which she tried, as people usually do,
to make still clearer to herself) , that men love to dally with
and exaggerate the evils which circumstances have once
begun to inflict upon them.
Edward's condition appeared to her in a light so piteous,
so miserable, that she made up her mind, let it cost her what
it would, that she would do every thing in her power to unite
him again with Charlotte, and she herself would go and hide
ELECTIVE AFFINITIES. 287
her sorrow and her love in some silent scene, and beguile
the time with such emi)lo3'meut as she could find.
Meanwhile the earl's companion, a quiet, sensible man
and a keen observer, had remarked the untowardness of the
conversation, and spoke to his friend about it. The latter
knew nothing of the circumstances of the family ; but the
other — being one of those persons whose principal interest
in travelling lay in gathering u[) the strange occurrences
which arose out of the natural or artificial relations of
society, which were produced by the conflict of the restraint
of law with the violence of the will, of the understandino;
with the reason, of passion with prejudice — had some time
before made himself acquainted with the outline of the story ;
and, since he had been in the famil}^, he had learned exactly
all that had taken place, and the present position in which
things were standing.
The earl, of course, was very sorry ; but it was not a thing
to make him uneasy. A man would have to be silent alto-
gether in society were he never to find himself in such a
position ; for not only important remarks, but the most
trivial expressions, may happen to clash in an inharmonious
key with the interest of somebody present.
"We will set things right this evening," said he, "and
escape from any general conversation : you shall let them
hear one of the many charming anecdotes with which your
portfolio and your memory have enriched themselves while
we have been abroad."
However, with the best intentions, the strangers did not,
on this next occasion, succeed any better in gratifying their
friends with unallo^^ed entertainment. The earl's friend told
a number of singular stories — some serious, some amusing,
some touching, some terrible — with which he had roused
their attention and strained their interest to the highest ten-
sion ; and he thought to conclude with a strange but softer
incident, little dreaming how nearly it would touch his lis-
teners.
THE TWO STRANGE CHILDREN.
" Two children of neighboring families, a boy and a girl,
of such respective ages as would well suit their marrying at
some future time, were brought up together with this agreeable
prospect ; and the parents on both sides, who were people of
some position in the world, looked forward with pleasure to
their future union.
288 ELECTIVE AFFINITIES.
"It was too soon obscvved, however, that the purpose seemed
likely to fail : the disi)ositions of both children promised every
thing which was good, but there was an unaccountable anti})-
athy between them. Perhaps they were too much like each
other. Both were thoughtful, clear in their desires, and firm
in theii- purposes. Each separatel}' was beloved and respected
by his or her companions ; but, whenever they were together,
they were always antagonists. F'orming separate plans for
themselves, they only met to mutually cross and thwart one
another ; never emulating each other in pursuit of one aim,
but always fighting for a single object. Good-natured and
amiable everywhere else, they were spiteful and even mali-
cious whenever they came in contact.
''This suigular relation first showed itself in their childish
games, and it continued with their advancing years. The
boys used to play at soldiers, divide into parties, and give
each other battle : and the fierce, haughty young lady set
herself at once at the head of one of the armies, and fought
against the other with such animosity and bitterness that
the latter would have been put to a shameful flight, except
for the desperate bravery of her own particular rival, who
at last disarmed his antagonist and took her prisoner ; and
even then she defended herself with so much fury, that to
save his eyes from being torn out, and, at the same time, not
to injure his enemy, he had been obliged to take off his silk
handkerchief, and tie with it her hands behind her back.
"This she never forgave him : she made so many attempts,
she laid so many plans, to injure him, that the parents, who
had been long watching these singular passions, came to an
understanding together, and resolved to separate these two
hostile creatures, and sacrifice their favorite hopes.
'' The boy soon distinguished himself in the new situation
in which he was placed. He mastered every subject which
he was taught. His friends and 'his own inclination chose
the army for his profession ; and everywhere, let him be
where he would, he was looked up to and beloved. His
disposition seemed formed to labor for the well-being and
pleasure of others ; and he himself, without being clearly
conscious of it, was in himself happy at having got rid of
the only antagonist which nature had assigned to him.
" The gill, on the other hand, became at once an altered
creature. Her growing age ; the progress of her education ;
above all, her own inward feelings, — drew her away from
the boisterous games with boys in which she had hitherto
ELECTIVE AFFINITIES. 289
delighted. Altogether, she seemed to want something :
there was nothhig anywhere about her which could deserve
to excite her hatred, and she had never found any one whom
she could think worthy of her love.
'' A young man, somewhat older than her previous neigh-
bor-antagonist, of rank, property, and consequence, beloved
in society, and much sought after by women, bestowed his
affections upon her. It was the first time that friend, lover,
or servant had displayed any interest in her. The prefer-
ence he showed for her above others who were older, more
cultivated, and of more brilliant pretensions than herself,
was naturally gratifymg : the constancy of his attention,
which was never obtrusive ; his standmg by her faithfully
through a number of unpleasant incidents ; his quiet suit,
which was declared indeed to iier parents, but which, as she
was still very young, he did not press, only asking to be
allowed to hope, — all this engaged him to her; and custom,
and the assumption in the world that the thing was already
settled, carried her along with it. She had so often been
called his betrothed that at last she began to consider herself
so ; and neither she nor any one else ever thought any further
trial could be necessary before she exchanged rings with the
person who for so long a time had passed for her mtended.
''The peaceful course which the .iffair had all along fol-
lowed was not at all precipitated by the betrothal. Things
were allowed to go on, on both sides, just as they were : they
were happy in being together, and they could enjoy to the
end the fair season of the year as the spring of then- future
more serious life.
''The absent youth had meanwhile grown up into every
thing which was most admirable. He had obtained a well-
deserved rank in his profession, and came home on leave
to visit his family. Towards his fair neighbor he found
himself again in a natural but singular position. For some
time past she had been nourishing in herself such affectionate
family feelings as suited her position as a bride ; she was in
harmony with every thing about her ; she believed that she
was happy ; and, in a certain sense, she was so. Now, for
the first time after a long interval, something again stood in
her way. It was not to be hated — she had become incapable
of hatred. Indeed, the childish hatred, which had in fact
been nothijig more than an obscure recognition of inward
worth, expressed itself now in a happy astonishment, m
pleasure at meeting, in ready acknowledgments, in a half
290 ELECTIVE AFFTNTTTES.
williag, half unwilling, and yet irresistible, attraction ; and
all this was mutual. Their long separation gave occasion
for longer conversations ; even their old childish foolishness
served, now that they had grown wiser, to amuse them as
they looked back ; and they felt as if at least they were
bound to make good their petulant hatred by friendliness
and attention to each other, as if their first violent injustice to
each other ought not to be left without open acknowledgment
" On his side it all remained in a sensible, desirable mod-
eration. His position, his circumstances, his efforts, his
ambition J found him so abundant an occupation, that the
friendliness of this pretty bride he received as a very thank-
worthy present, but without, therefore, even so much as
thinking of her in connection with himself, or entertaining
the slightest jealousy of the bridegroom, with whom he stood
on the best possible terms.
"With her, however, it was altogether different. She
seemed to herself as if she had awakened out of a dream.
Her fightings with her young neighbor had been the begin-
nings of an affection ; and this violent antagonism was no
more than an equally violent mnate passion for him, first
showing under the form of opposition. She could remember
nothing else than that she had always loved him. She
laughed over her martial encounter with him with weapons in
her hand : she dwelt upon the delight of her feelings when
he disarmed her. She imagined that it had given her the
greatest happiness when he bound her, and whatever she
had done afterwards to injure him or to vex him presented
itself to her as only an innocent means of attracting his
attention She cursed their separation. She bewailed the
sleepy state into which she had fallen. She execrated the
insidious, lazy routine which had betrayed her into accepting
so insignificant a bridegroom. She was transformed, doubly
transformed, forwards or backwards, whichever way we like
to take it.
''She kept her feelings entirely to herself; but if any
one could have divined them, and shared them with her, he
could not have blamed her : for indeed the bridegroom could
not sustain a comparison with the other as soon as they were
seen together. If a sort of regard to the one could not be
refused, the other excited the fullest trust and confidence.
If one made an agreeable acquaintance, the other we should
desire for a companion ; and in extraordinary cases, where
higher demands might have to be made on them, the bridegroom
ELECTIVE AFFINITIES. 291
was a person to be utterly despaired of, while the other would
give the feeling of perfect security.
^ ' There is a peculiar innate tact in women which discovers
to them differences of this kind, and they have cause as
well as occasion to cultivate it.
" The more the fair bride was nourishing all these feelings
in secret, the less opportunity there was for any one to speak
a word which could tell in favor of her bridegroom, to remind
her of what her duty and their relative position advised and
commanded, — indeed, what an unalterable necessity seemed
now irrevocably to require : the poor heart gave itself up
entirely to its passion.
" On one side she was bound inextricably to the bridegroom
by the world, by her family, and by her own promise : on the
other, the ambitious young man made no secret of what he
was thinking and planning for himself, conducting himself
towards her only as a kind, but not at all a tender, brother,
and speaking of his departure as immediately impending ; and
now it seemed as if her early childish spirit woke up again in
her with all its spleen and violence, and was preparing itself
in its distemper, on this higher stage of life, to work more
effectively and destructively. She determined that she would
die to punish the once hated, and now so passionately loved,
youth for his want of interest in her ; and, as she could not
possess himself, at least she would wed herself forever to
his imagination and to his repentance. Her dead image
should cling to him, and he should never be free from it.
He should never cease to reproach himself for not having
understood, examined, valued her feelings toward him.
"This singular insanity accompanied her wherever she
went. She kept it concealed under all sorts of forms ; and,
although people thought her very odd, no one was observ-
ant enough or clever enough to discover the real inward
reason.
"In the mean time, friends, relations, acquaintances, had
exhausted themselves in contrivances for pleasure-parties.
Scarcely a day passed, but something new and unexpected
was set on foot. There was hardly a pretty spot in the
country round which had not been decked out and pre-
pared for the reception of some merry party. And now
our young visitor, before departing, wished to do his part
as well, and invited the young couple, with a small family
circle, to an expedition on the water. They went on
board a large, beautiful vessel, dressed out in all its colors.
Vol 3 Goetlie — 10
292 ELECTIVE AFFINITIES.
— one of the yachts which had a small saloon, and a cabin
or two besides, and are intended to carry with them npon the
water the comfort and conveniences of land.
" They set out upon the broad river with music-playing.
The party had collected in the cabin, below deck, during the
heat of the day, and were amusing themselves with games.
Their young host, who could never remain without doing
something, had taken charge of the helm, to relieve the old
master of the vessel ; and the latter had lain down and was
fast asleep. It was a moment when the steerer required all
his circuraspectness, as the vessel was Hearing a spot where
two islands narrowed the channel of the river ; while shallow
banks of shingle stretching off, first on one side and then on
the other, made the navigation difficult and dangerous. Pru-
dent and sharp-sighted as he was, he thought for a moment
that it would be l)etter to wake the master ; but he felt confi-
dent in himself, and he thought he would venture and make
straight for the narrows. At this moment his fair enemy ap-
peared upon deck with a wreath of flowers in her hair. ' Take
this to remember me by,' she cried out. She took it off, and
threw it to the steerer. ' Don't disturb me,' he answered
quickly, as he caught the wreath : ' I require all my powers
and all my attention now.' — ' You will never be disturbed
by me any more,' she cried : ' you will never see me
again.' As she spoke, she rushed to the forward part of
the vessel ; and from thence she sprang into the water.
Voice upon voice called out, ' Save her, save her : she is
sinking ! ' He was in the most terrible difficulty. In the
confusion the old shipmaster woke, and tried to catch the
rudder, which the young man bid him take. But there
was no time to change hands. The vessel stranded ; and
at the same moment, flinging off the heaviest of his upper
garments, he sprang into the water, and swam towards his
beautiful enemy. The water is a friendly element to a man
who is at home in it, and who knows how to deal with it : it
buoyed him up, and acknowledged the strong swimmer as
its master. He soon overtook the beautiful girl, who had
been swept away before him : he caught hold of her, raised
her and supported her ; and both of them were carried vio-
lently down by the cuiTent, till the shoals and islands were
left far behind, and the river was again open and running
smoothly. He now began to collect himself : they had passed
the first immediate danger, in which he had been obliged to
act mechanically without time to think ; he raised his bead
ELECTIVE AFFINITIES. 293
as high as he could to look about him, and then swam with
all his might to a low, bushy point, which ran out conven-
iently into the stream. There he brought his fair burden to
dry land, but he could find no signs of life in her : he was
in despair, when he caught sight of a trodden path leading
among the bushes. Again he caught her up in his arms,
hurried forward, and presently reached a solitary cottage.
There he found kind, good people, — a young married
couple ; the misfortunes and dangers were soon explained ;
every remedy he could think of was instantly applied ; a
bright fire blazed up ; woollen blankets were spread on a
bed ; counterpane, cloaks, skins, whatever there was at hand
which would serve for warmth, were heaped over her as fast
as possible. The desire to save life overpowered, for the
present, every other consideration. Nothing was left un-
done to bring back to life the beautiful, half -torpid, naked
body. It succeeded : she opened her eyes ! her friend was
before her : she threw her heavenly arms about his neck.
In this position she remained for a time, and then a stream
of tears burst out and completed her recovery. ' Will you
forsake me,* she cried, ' now, when I find you again
thus?' — 'Never,' he answered, 'never,' hardly know-
ing what he said or did. 'Only consider yourself,' she
added, ' take care of yourself, for your sake and for
mine.'
"She now began to collect herself, and for the first
time recollected the state in which she was : she could not
be ashamed before her darling, before her preserver; but
she gladly allowed him to go, that he might take care of
himself: for the clothes he still wore were wet and drip-
ping.
" Their young hosts considered what could be done. The
husband offered the young man, and the wife offered the
fair lady, the dresses in which they had been married, which
were hanging up in full perfection, and sufficient for a
complete suit, inside and out, for two people. In a short
time our pair of adventurers were not only equipped, but
in full costume. They looked most charming, gazed at
one another, when they met, with admiration ; and then
with infinite affection, half laughing at the same time at
the quaintness of their appearance, they fell into each other's
arms.
"The power of youth and the quickening spirit of love
in a few moments completely restored them, and there
294 ELECTIVE AFFINITIES.
was nothing wanted but music to have set them both off
dancing.
' ' To have found themselves brought from the water on dry
land, from death into life, from the circle of their families
into a wilderness, from despair into rapture, from indifference
to affection and to love, all in a moment, — the head was not
strong enough to bear it : it must either burst, or go dis-
tracted ; or, if so distressing an alternative were to be escaped^
the heart must put out all its efforts.
' ' Lost wholly in each other, it was long before they rec-
ollected the alarm and anxiety of those who had been left
behind ; and they themselves, indeed, could not well think,
without alarm and anxiety, how they were again to encounter
them. ' Shall w^e run away? shall we hide ourselves? ' said
the young man. ' We will remain together,' she said, as she
clung to his neck.
" The peasant, having heard them say that a boat was
aground on the shoal, had hurried down, without stopping to
ask another question, to the shore. When he arrived there,
he saw the vessel coming safely down the stream. After
much labor it had been got off ; and they were now going on
in uncertainty, hoping to find their lost ones again somewhere.
The peasant shouted and made signs to them, and at last
caught the attention of those on board : then he ran to a spot
where there was a convenient place for landing, and went on
signalling and shouting till the vessel's head was turned
towards the shore ; and what a scene there was for them
when they landed ! The parents of the two betrothed first
pressed forward to the bank : the poor, loving bridegroom had
almost lost his senses. They had scarcely learned that their
dear children had been saved, when in their strange disguise
the latter came forward out of the bushes to meet them. No
one recognized them till they had come quite close. ' Who
do I see?' cried the mothers. 'What do I see?' cried the
fathers. The preserved ones flung themselves on the ground
before them. ' Your children,' the}^ called out : ' a pair.' —
' Forgive us ! ' cried the maiden. ' Give us your blessing ! '
cried the young man. ' Give us your blessing ! ' they cried
both, as all the world stood still in wonder. ' Your blessing ! '
was repeated the third time ; and who would have been able
to refuse it? '*
ELECTIVE AFFINITIES. 295
CHAPTER XI.
The narrator made a pause ^ or, rather, he had already
finished his story, before he observed the emotion into which
Cliarlotte had been thrown by it. She got up, uttered some
sort of an apology, and left the room. To her it was a well-
known history. The principal incident in it had really taken
place with the captain and a neighbor of her own, not
exactly, indeed, as the Englishman had related it. But the
main features of it were the same. It had only been more
finished off and elaborated in its details, as stories of that
kind always are, when they have passed first through the lips
of the multitude, and then through the fancy of a clever and
imaginative narrator ; the result of the process being usually
to leave every thing and nothing as it was.
Ottilie followed Charlotte, as the two friends begged her
to do ; and then it was the earl's turn to remark, that per-
haps they had made a second mistake, and that the subject
of the story had been well known to, or was in some way
connected with, the family. " We must take care," he added,
" that we do no more mischief here ; we seem to bring little
good to our entertainers for all the kindness and hospitality
which they have shown us : we will make some excuse for
ourselves, and then take our leave."
" I must confess," answered his companion, " that there
is something else which still holds me here ; and, on account
of which, I should be sorry to leave this house without having
it explained to me, and becoming better acquainted with it.
You were too busy yourself yesterday, when we were in the
park with the camera, in looking for spots where you could
make your sketches, to have observed any thing else which
was passing. You left the broad walk, you remember, and
went to a sequestered place on the side of the lake. There
was a fine view of the opposite shore, which you wished to
take. Well, Ottilie, who was with us, got up to follow, and
then proposed that she and I should find our way to you in
the boat. I got in with her, and was delighted with the skill
of my fair conductress. I assured her, that never since I
had been in Switzerland, where the young ladies so often fill
the place of the boatmen, had I been so pleasantly ferried
over the water. At tlie same time, I could not help asking
her why she had shown such an objection to going the way
which you had gone, along the little by-path. I had observed
296 ELECTIVE AFFINITIES.
her shrink from it with a sort of painful uneasiness. She
was not at all offended. '- If you will promise not to laugh
at me,* she answered, 'I will tell you as much as I know
about it; but to myself it is a mystery which I cannot
explain. There is a particular spot in that path which I
never pass without a strange shudder passing over me, which
I do not remember ever feeling anywhere else, and which I
cannot the least understand. But I shrink from exposing
myself to the sensation, because it is followed immediately
after by a pain on the left side of my head, from which at
other times I suffer severely. ' We landed. Ottilie was en-
gaged with you ; and I took the opportunity of examining
the spot, which she pointed out to me as we went by on the
water. I was not a little surprised to find there distinct
traces of coal, in sufficient quantities to convince me, that, at
a short distance below the surface, there must be a consider-
able bed of it.
'' Pardon me, my lord : I see you smile ; and I know very
well that you have no faith in these things about which I am
so eager, and that it is only 3'our sense and your kindness
which enable you to tolerate me. However, it is impossible
for me to leave this place without trying on that beautiful
creature an experiment with the pendulum."
Whenever these matters came to be spoken of, the earl
never failed to repeat the same objections to them over and
over again ; and his friend endured them all quietly and
patiently, remaining firm, nevertheless, to his own opinion,
and holding to his own wishes. He, too, repeatedly showed
that there was no reason, because the experiment did not
succeed with every one, that they should give them up, as
if there were nothing in them but fancy. They should be
examined into all the more earnestly and scrupulously ; and
there was no doubt that the result would be the discovery of
a number of affinities of inorganic creatures for one another,
and of organic creatures for them, and again for each other,
which at present were unknown to us.
He had already spread out his apparatus of gold rings,
marcasites, and other metallic substances, which he always
carried about with himself, in a pretty little box ; and he sus-
pended a piece of metal by a string over another piece, which
he placed upon the table. " Now, my lord,*' he said, *' you
may take what pleasure you please (I can see in your face
what you are feeling) at perceiving that nothing will set
itself in motion with me or for me. But my proceedings
ELECTIVE AFFINITIES. 297
are no more than a pretext : when the ladies come back, they
will be curious to know what strange work we are about."
The ladies returned. Charlotte understood at once what
was going on. "I have heard much of these things," she
said, " but I never saw the effect myself. You have every
thing ready there. Let me try whether I can succeed in
producing any thing."
She took the thread into her hand ; and, as she was perfectly
serious, she held it steady, and without any agitation. Not
the slightest motion, however, could be detected. Ottilie
was then called upon to try. She held the pendulum, still
more quietly and unconsciously, over the plate on the table.
But in a moment the swinging piece of metal began to stir
with a distinct rotatory action, and turned as they moved the
position of the plate, first to one side and then to the other ;
now in circles, now in ellipses ; or else describing a series of
straight lines ; doing all the earl's friend could expect, and
far exceeding, indeed, all his expectations.
The earl himself was a little staggered ; but the other
could never be satisfied from delight and curiosity, and
begged for the experiment again and again, with all sorts of
variations. Ottilie was complacent enough to gratify him ;
till at last she politely requested to be allowed to go, as her
headache had come on again. In further admiration, and
even rapture, he assured her with enthusiasm that he would
cure her forever of her disorder, if she would only trust
herself to his remedies. For a moment they did not know
what he meant ; but Charlotte, who quickly saw what he
was about, declined his well-meant offer, not liking to have
introduced and practised about her a thing of which she had
always had the strongest apprehensions.
The strangers were gone, and, notwithstanding their hav-
ing been the inadvertent cause of strange and painful emo-
tions, left the wish behind them that this meeting might not
be the last. Charlotte now made use of the beautiful
weather to return visits in the neighborhood, which, indeed,
gave her work enough to do, seeing that the whole country
round, some from a real interest, some merely from custom,
had been most attentive in calling to inquire after her. At
home her delight was the sight of the child, and really it
well deserved all love and interest. People saw in it a won-
derful child, — nay, a prodigy : the brightest, sunniest little
face ; a fine, well-proportioned body, strong and healthy ;
and, what surprised them more, the double resemblance,
298 ELECTIVE AFFINITIES.
which became more and more conspicuous. In figure, and in
the features of the face, it was like the captain : the eyes every
day it was less easy to distinguish from the eyes of Ottilie.
Ottilie herself, partly from this remarkable affinity, per-
haps still more under the influence of that sweet woman's
feeling which makes them regard with the most tender affec-
tion the offspring of the man they love, even when born to
him by another woman, was as good as a mother to the little
creature as it grew ; or, rather, she was a second mother of
another kind. If Charlotte was absent, Ottilie remained
alone with the child and the nurse. Nanny had for some
time past been jealous of the boy for monopolizing the
entire affections of her mistress : she had left her in a fit of
crossness, and gone back to her mother. Ottilie would carry
the child about in the open air, and by degrees took longer
and longer walks with him. She took her bottle of milk, to
give the child its food when it wanted any. Generally, too,
she took a book with her ; and so, with the child in her
arms, reading and wandering, she made a very pretty Pen-
serosa.
CHAPTER XII.
The object of the campaign was attained ; and Edward,
with crosses and decorations, was honorably dismissed. He
betook himself at once to the same little estate, where he
found exact accounts of his family waiting for him, on
whom, all this time, without their having observed it or
known of it, a sharp watch had been kept under his orders.
His quiet residence looked most sweet and pleasant when he
reached it. In accordance with his orders, various improve-
ments had been made in his absence ; and what was wanting
to the establishment in extent was compensated by its
internal comforts and conveniences. Edward, accustomed
by his more active habits of life to take decided steps,
determined to execute a project which he long had sufficient
time to think over. First of all, he invited the major to
come to him. Great was their joy at meeting again. The
friendships of boyhood, like relationship of blood, possess
this important advantage, that mistakes and misunderstand-
ings never produce irreparable injury, and the old regard
after a time will always re-establish itself.
ELECTIVE AFFINITIES. 299
Edward began by inquiring about the situation of his
friend, and learned that fortune had favored him exactly as
he most could have wished. He then half seriously asked
whether there was not something going forward about a
marriage, to which he received a most decided and positive
denial.
"I cannot and will not have any reserve with you," he
proceeded. " I will tell you at once what my own feelings
are, and what I intend to do. You know my passion for
Ottilie : you must long have comprehended that it was this
which drove me into the campaign. I do not deny that I
desired to be rid of a life which, without her, would be of
no further value to me. At the same time, however, I
acknowledge that I could never bring myself utterly to
despair. The prospect of happiness with her was so beauti-
ful, so infinitely charming, that it was not possible for me
entirely to renounce it. Feelings, too, which I cannot ex-
plain, and a number of happy omens, have combined to
strengthen me in the belief, in the assurance, that Ottilie
will one day be mine. The glass, with our initials cut upon
it, which was thrown into the air when the foundation-stone
was laid, did not go to pieces : it was caught, and I have it
again in my possession. After many miserable hours of
uncertainty, spent in this place, I said to myself, ' I will put
myself in the place of this glass, and it shall be an omen
whether our union be possible or not. I will go : I will seek
for death, not like a madman, but like a man who still
hopes that he may live. Ottilie shall be the prize for which
I fight. Ottilie shall be behind the ranks of the enemy : in
every intrenchment, in every beleaguered fortress, I shall
hope to find her and to win her. I will do wonders, with
the wish to survive them ; with the hope to gain Ottilie, not
to lose her.' These feelings have led me on, they have
stood by me through all dangers ; and now I find myself like
one who has arrived at his goal, who, having overcome every
diflficulty, has nothing more left in his way. Ottilie is mine ;
and whatever lies between the thought and the execution of
it I can only regard as unimportant."
"With a few strokes you blot out," replied the major,
" all the objections that we can or ought to urge upon you ;
and yet they must be repeated. I must leave it to yourself
to recall the full value of your relation with your wife ; but
you owe it to her, and you owe it to yourself, not to close
your eyes to it. How can I so much as mention that you
300 ELECTIVE AFFINITIES.
have had a son given to you, without acknowledging at once
that you two belong to one another forever ; that you are
bound, for this little creature's sake, to live united, that
united you may educate it, and provide for its future wel-
fare? *'
" It is no more than the blindness of parents," answered
Edward, "when they imagine their existence to be of so
much importance to their children. Whatever lives finds
nourishment and finds assistance ; and if the son who has
early lost his father does not spend so easy, so favored a
youth, he profits, perhaps, for that very reason, in being
trained sooner for the world, and comes to a timely knowl-
edge that he must accommodate himself to others, — a thing
which sooner or later we are all forced to learn. Here, how-
ever, even these considerations are irrelevant : we are suf-
ficiently well off to be able to provide for more children than
one, and it is neither right nor kind to accumulate so large a
property on a single head."
The major attempted to say something of Charlotte's
worth and Edward's long-standing attachment to her, but
the latter hastily interrupted him. "We committed our-
selves to a foolish thing, — that I see all too clearly. Who-
ever, in middle age, attempts to realize the wishes and hopes
of his early youth invariably deceives himself. Each decade
of a man's life has its own fortunes, its own hopes, its own
desires. Woe to him who, either by circumstances or by
his own infatuation, is induced to grasp at any thing before
him or behind him. We have done a foolish thing. Are we
to abide by it all our lives ? Are we to hesitate indulging in
what the customs of the age do not forbid ? In how many
matters do men recall their intentions and their actions !
And shall it not be allowed to them here, here where the
question is not of this thing or of that, but of every thing ;
not of our single condition of life, but of the whole com-
plex life itself?"
Again the major adroitly and impressively urged on
Edward to consider wliat he owed to his wife, what was due
to his family, to the world, and to his own position ; but he
could not succeed in producing the slightest impression.
"All these questions, my friend," he returned, "I have
considered already again and again. They have passed be-
fore me in the storm of battle, when the earth was sliaking
with the thunder of the cannon, with the balls singing and
whistling round me, with my comrades falling right and left,
ELECTIVE AFFINITIES. 301
my horse shot under me, my hat pierced with bullets. They
have floated before me by the still watch-fire under the starry
vault of the sky. I have thoroughly thought on thorn all,
felt them all through. I have weighed them ; and I have
satisfied myself about them again and again, and now for-
ever. At such moments why should I not acknowledge it to
you? you, too, were in my thoughts, you, too, belonged to
my circle ; as, indeed, you and I have long belonged to one
another. If I have ever been in your debt, I am now in a
position to repay it with interest ; if you have been in mine,
you have now the means to make it good to me. I know
that you love Charlotte, and she deserves it. I know that
you ,*^re not indifferent to her, and why should she not feel
your worth? Take her at my hand, and give Ottilie to me,
and we shall be the happiest beings upon the earth."
" If you choose to assign me so high a character," replied
the major, ''I have to be all the more strict and prudent.
Whatever there may be in this proposal to make it attractive
to me, instead of simplifying the problem, it only increases the
difficulty of it. The question is now of me as well as of you.
The fortunes, the good name, the honor of two men, hitherto
unsullied with a breath, will be exposed to hazard by so
strange a proceeding, to call it by no harsher name ; and we
shall appear before the world in a highly questionable light."
"Our very characters being what they are," replied
Edward, " give us a right to take this single liberty. A man
who has borne himself honorabl}^ through a whole life, makes
an action honorable which might appear ambiguous in others.
As concerns myself, after these last trials which I have taken
upon myself, after the difficult and dangerous actions I have
accomplished for others, I now feel entitled to do something
for myself. For you and Charlotte, that part of the busi-
ness may, if you like, be given up ; but neither you nor any
one shall keep me from doing what I have determined. If I
may look for help and furtherance, I shall be ready to do all
that can be wished ; but if I am to be left to myself, or if
obstacles are to be thrown in my way, something extreme is
sure to be the consequence."
The major thought it his duty to combat Edward's purposes
as long as it was possible, and now he changed the mode of
his attack and tried a diversion. He seemed to give way,
and only spoke of the form of what they would have to do to
bring about this separation and these new unions ; and so
mentioned a number of unpleasant, undesirable matters,
which put Edward into the worst of tempers.
302 ELECTIVE AFFINITIES.
*' I see plainly," he cried at last, " that what we desire can
only be carried by storm, whether it be from our enemies or
from our friends. I keep clearly before my own eyes what I
demand, what, one way or another, I must have ; and I will
seize it promptly and surely. Connections like ours, I know
very well, cannot be broken up and reconstructed again with-
out much being thrown down which is standing, and much
having to give way which would be glad enough to continue.
We shall come to no conclusion by thinking about it. All
rights are alike to the understanding, and it is always easy
to throw extra weight into the ascending scale. Do you make
up your mind, my friend, to act, and act promptly, for me and
for yourself. Disentangle and untie the knots, and tie them
up again. Do not be deterred by any considerations. We
have already given the world something to say about us. It
will talk about us once more ; and, when we have ceased to be
a nine days' wonder, it will forget us as it forgets every thing
else, and allow us to follow our own way without further con-
cern with us." The major had nothing further to say, and
was at last obliged to submit to Edward's treating the matter
as now conclusively settled, going into detail concerning
what had to be done, and picturing the future in the most
cheerful manner, and even joking about it ; then again he
went on seriously and thoughtfully, ''If we think to leave
ourselves to the hope, to the expectation, that all will go right
again of itself, that accident will lead us straight, and take
care of us, it will be a most culpable self-deception. In such
a way it would be impossible for us to save ourselves, or re-
establish our peace again. I who have been the innocent
cause of it all, how am I ever to console myself? By my
own importunity I prevailed on Charlotte to write to you to
stay with us, and Ottilie came in consequence of this change.
We have had no control over what ensued out of this ;
but we have the power to make it innocuous, to guide the
new circumstances to our own happiness. Can you turn
away your eyes from the fair and beautiful prospects I open
to us? Can you insist to me, can you insist to us all, on a
wretched renunciation of them ? Do you think it possible ?
Is it possible? Will there be no vexatious, no bitterness, no
inconvenience, to overcome, if we resolve to fall back into
our old state? and will any good, any happiness whatever,
arise out of it? Will your own rank, will the high position
you have earned, be any pleasure to you, if you are to be
prevented from visitinoj me, or from living with me? And,
ELECTIVE AFFINITIES. 303
after what has passed, it would not be any thing but painful.
Charlotte and I, with all our property, would only find our-
selves in a melancholy state. And if, like other men of the
world, you can persuade yourself that years and separation
will eradicate our feelings, will obliterate impressions so
deeply engraved, why, it is these very years which it
would be better to spend in happiness and comfort than in
pain and misery. But the last and most important point of all
which I have to urge is this : supposing that we, our outward
and inward condition being what it is, could nevertheless
make up our minds to wait at all hazards, and bear what is
laid upon us, what is to become of Ottilie, who would have
to leave our family and mix in society where we should not
be to care for her, and she would be driven wretchedly to
and fro in a hard, cold world? Describe to m;^. any situation
in which Ottilie, without me, without us, could be happy,
and you will then have employed an argument which will be
stronger than every other ; and if I will not promise to yield
to it, if I will not undertake at once to give up all my own
hopes, I will at least reconsider the question, and see how
what you have said will affect it."
This problem was not so easy to solve ; at least, no satis-
factory answer to it suggested itself to his friend : and noth-
ing was left him except to insist again and again how grave
and serious, and in many senses how dangerous, the whole
undertaking was ; and at least that they ought maturely to
consider how they had better enter upon it. Edward agreed
to this, and consented to wait before he took any steps, but
only under the condition that his friend should not leave him
until they had come to a perfect understanding about it, and
until the first measures had been taken.
CHAPTER XIII.
People who are complete strangers and wholly indifferent
to one another, are sure, if they live a long time together,
to expose something of their inner nature ; and thus a certain
intimacy will arise. All tlie more was it to be expected that
there would soon be no secrets between our two friends, now
that they were again under the same roof together, and ic
304 ELECTIVE AFFINITIES.
daily and hourly intercourse. They recalled the earlier
stages of their histor}'' ; and the major confessed to Edward
that Charlotte had intended Ottilie for him at the time at
which he returned from abroad, and hoped that some time
or other he might marry her. Edward was in ecstasies at
this discovery : he spoke without reserve of the mutual affec-
tion of Charlotte and the major, which, because it happened
to fall in so conveniently with his own wishes, he painted in
very lively colors.
Deny it altogether, the major could not ; at the same
time, he could not altogether acknowledge it. But Edward
insisted on it only the more. He had pictured the whole
thing to himself, not as possible, but as already concluded ;
all parties had only to resolve on what they all wished ; there
would be no difficulty in obtaining a separation ; the mar-
riages should follow as soon after as possible, and Edward
could travel with Ottilie.
Of all the pleasant things imagination pictures to us,
there is, perhaps, none more charming than when lovers and
young married people look forward to enjoying their new
relation they have formed, in a fresh, new world, and test
the endurance of the bond between them in so many chan-
ging circumstances. The major and Charlotte were, in the
mean time, to have unrestricted powers to settle all questions
of money, property, and other such important worldly mat-
ters, and to do whatever was right and proper for the satis-
faction of all parties. What Edward dwelt the most upon,
however, from what he seemed to promise himself the most
advantage, was this : as the child would have to remain
with the mother, the major would charge himself with his
education ; he would train the boy according to his own
views, and develop what capacities there might be in him.
It was not for nothing that he had received in his baptism
the name of Otto, which belonged to them both.
Edward had so comi)letely arranged every thing for him-
self, that he could not wait another day to carry it into exe-
cution. On their way to the castle, they arrived at a small
town, where Edward had a house, and where he was to stay
to await the major's return. He could not, however, pre-
vail upon lumself to alight there at once, and accompanied
his friend through the place. They were both on horseback,
and, falling iuto some interesting conversation, rode on far-
ther together.
On a sudden they saw, in the distance, the new house on
ELECTIVE AFFINITIES. 806
the height, with its red tiles shining in the sun. An irre-
sistible longing came over Edward : he would have it all
settled that very evening ; he would remain concealed in a
village close by. The major was to urge the business on
Charlotte with all his power : he would take her prudence
by surprise, and oblige her, by the unexpectedness of his
proposal, to make a free acknowledgment of her feelings.
Edward had transferred his own wishes to her : he felt cer-
tain that he was only meeting her half-way, and that her
inclination was as decided as his own ; and he looked for
an immediate consent from her, because he himself could
think of nothing else.
Joyfully he saw before his eyes the happy result ; and,
that it might be communicated to him as swiftly as possible,
a few cannon-shots were to be fired off, or, if it were dark,
a rocket or two to be sent up.
The major rode to the castle. He did not find Charlotte
there ; he learned, that for the present she was staying at
the new house : at that particular time, however, she was
paying a visit in the neighborhood, and she probably would
not return till late that evening. He walked back to the inn,
to which he had previously sent his horse.
Edward, in the mean time, unable to sit still from rest-
lessness and impatience, stole away out of his concealment
along solitary paths only known to foresters and fishermen,
into his park ; and he found himself towards evening in the
copse close to the lake, the broad mirror of which he now
for the first time saw spread out in its perfectuess before
him.
Ottilie had gone out that afternoon for a walk along the
shore. She had the child with her, and read as she usually
did while she went along. She had gone as far as the oak-
tree by the ferry. The boy had fallen asleep : she sat down,
laid it on the ground at her side, and continued reading.
The book was one of those which attract persons of delicate
feeling, and afterwards will not let them go again. She
completely forgot the time, nor remembered what a long
way round it was by land to the new house ; but she sat lost
in her book and in herself, so beautiful to look at, that the
trees and the bushes round her ought to have been alive,
and endowed with eyes to admire, and take delight in gazing
upon her. The sun was sinking : a ruddy streak of light
fell upon her from behind, tinging with gold her cheek and
shoulder. Edward, who had made his way to the lake with-
306 ELECTIVE AFFINITIES.
out being seen, finding his park deserted, and seeing no
trace of a human creature anywhere round about, went on
and on. At last he broke through the copse behind the oak-
tree, and saw her. At the same moment she saw him. He
rushed up to her, and threw himself at her feet. After a
long, silent pause, in which they both endeavored to collect
themselves, he explained in a few words why and how he
had come there. He had sent the major to Charlotte, and
perhaps at that moment their common destiny was being
decided. Never had he doubted her affection, and she
assuredly had never doubted his. He begged for her con-
sent ; she hesitated ; he implored her. He offered to resume
his old privilege, and throw his arms around her, and em-
brace her : she pointed down to the child.
Edward looked at it, and was amazed. "Great God! "
he cried : "if I had cause to doubt my wife and my friend,
this face would bear fearful witness against them. Is not
this the very image of the major ? I never saw such a like-
ness."
" Indeed ! " replied Ottilie : "all the world say it is like
me."
"Is it possible? " Edward answered ; and at the moment
the child opened its eyes, — two large, black, piercing eyes,
deep, and full of love : already tlie little face was full of
intelligence. He seemed to know the two that were stand-
ing before him. Edward threw himself down beside the
child, and then knelt a second time before Ottilie. " It is
you," he cried: "the eyes are yours! ah, but let me look
into yours ! let me throw a veil over that ill-starred hour
which gave its being to this little creature. Shall I shock
your pure spirit with the fearful thought that man and wife
who are estranged from each other can yet press each other
to their heart, and profane the bonds by which the law unites
them by other eager wishes? Oh, yes! As I have said so
much ; as my connection with Charlotte must now be sev-
ered ; as you will be mine, — why should I not speak out the
words to you ? This child is the offspring of a double adul-
tery. It should have been a tie between m}' wife and my-
self ; but it severs her from me, and me from her. Let it
witness, then, against me. Let these fair eyes say to yours,
that in the arms of another I belonged to you. You must
feel, Ottilie, oh ! you must feel, that my fault, my crime,
I can only expiate in your arms."
"Hark! " he called out, springing to his feet, and think-
ELECTIVE AFFINITIES. 807
ing he Imd heard the report of a gim, and that it was the
sign the major was to give. It was the gun of a forester
on the adjoining hill. Nothing followed. Edward grew
impatient.
Ottilie now first observed that the sun was down behind
the mountains : its last rays were shining on the windows of
the house above. "Leave me, Edward," she cried: "go.
Long as we have been parted, much as we have borne, yet
remember what we both owe to Charlotte. She must decide
our fate : do not let us anticipate her judgment. I am yours
if she will permit it to be so : if not, I must renounce you.
As you think it is now so near an issue, let us wait. Go
back to the village, where the major supposes you to be. Is
it likely that a rude cannon-shot will inform you of the results
of such an interview ? Perhaps at this moment he is seeking
for you. He will not have found Charlotte at home : of that
I am certain. He may have gone to meet her, for they
knew at the castle where she was. How many things may
have happened ! Leave me ! she must be at home by this
time : she is expecting me with the baby above."
Ottilie spoke hurriedly : she called together all the pos-
sibilities. It was too delightful to be with Edward, but
she felt that he must now leave her. " I beseech, I im-
plore you, my beloved," she cried out, "go back and wait
for the major."
" I obey your commands," cried Edward. He gazed at
her for a moment with rapturous love, and then caught her
close in his arms. She wound her own about him, and pressed
him tenderly to her breast. Hope rushed off, like a star
shooting along the sky over their heads. They then thought,
they believed, that they did indeed belong to one another.
For the first time they exchanged free, unrestrained kisses,
and separated with pain and effort.
The sun had gone down. It was twilight, and a damp mist
was rising about the lake. Ottilie stood confused and agitated.
She looked across to the house on the hill, and thought she
saw Charlotte's white dress on the balcony. It was a long
way round by the end of the lake, and she knew how impa-
tiently Charlotte would be waiting for the child. She saw the
plane-trees just opposite her, and only a narrow interval of
w^ater divided her from the path which led straight up to the
house. Her nervousness about venturing on the water with
the child vanished in her present embarrassment. She has-
tened to the boat : she did not feel that her heart was thi'ob-
308 ELECTIVE AFFINITIES.
bing, that her feet were tottering, that her senses were
threatening to fail her.
She jumped in, seized the oar, and pushed off. She had
to use force : she pushed again. The boat shot off, and
glided, swaying and rocking, into the open water. With the
child on her left arm, the book in her left hand, and the oar
in her right, she lost her footing, and fell over the seat : the
oar slipped from her on one side ; and, as she tried to recover
herself, the child and the book slipped on the other, all into
the water. She caught the floating dress ; but, lying entan-
gled as she was herself, she was unable to rise. Her right
hand was free, but she could not reach round to help herself
up with it : at last she succeeded. She drew the chiM out
of the water ; but its eyes were closed, and it had ceased to
breathe.
In a moment she recovered all her self-possession, but
so much the greater was her agony : the boat was driving fast
into the middle of the lake, the oar was swimming far
away from her. She saw no one on the shore ; and, indeed,
if she had, it would have been of no service to her. Cut off
from all assistance, she was floating on the faithless, unsta-
ble element.
She sought help from herself : she had often heard of the
recovery of the drowned ; she had herself witnessed an in-
stance of it on the evening of her birthday ; she took off the
child's clothes, and dried it with her muslin dress. She
threw open her bosom, laying it bare for the first time to
the open sky. For the first time she pressed a living being
to her pure, naked breast. Alas ! and it was not a living
being. The cold limbs of the ill-starred little creature
chilled her to the heart. Streams of tears gushed from her
eyes, and lent a show of life and warmth to the outside of
the torpid limbs. She persevered with her efforts, wrapped
the child in her shawl, drew him close to lier, stroked him,
breathed on him, and with tears and kisses labored to sup-
ply the help which, cut off as she was, she was unable to
find.
It was all in vain : the child lay motionless in her arms,
motionless the boat floated on the glassy water. But even
here her beautiful spirit did not leave her forsaken. She
turned to the Power above. She sank down upon her
knees in the boat, and with both arms raised the motion-
less child above her innocent breast, like m.arble in its
w^hiteness ; alas ! too like marble, cold ; with moist eyes
ELECTIVE AFFINITIES. 309
she looked up and cried for help, where a tender heart
hopes to find it in its fulness, when all other help has
failed.
The stars were beginning one by one to glimmer down
upon her ; she turned to them, and not in vain : a soft air
stole over the surface, and wafted the boat under the plane-
trees.
CHAPTER XIV.
She hurried to the new house, and called the surgeon,
and gave the child into his hands. It was at once car-
ried to Charlotte's bedroom. Cool and collected from a
wide experience, he submitted the tender body to the usual
process. Ottilie aided him through it all. She prepared every
thing, fetched every thing, but as if she were moving in an-
other world ; for the height of misfortune, like the height of
happiness, alters the aspect of every object. And it was only
when, after every resource had been exhausted, the good man
shook his head, and, to her questions whether there was hope,
first was silent, and then softly answered No ! that she left
the apartment, and had scarcely entered the sitting-room,
when she fell fainting, with her face upon the carpet, unable
to reach the sofa.
At that moment Charlotte was heard driving up. The sur-
geon implored the servants to keep back, and allow him to go
to meet her and prepare her. But he was too late : while he
was speaking, she had entered the drawing-room. She found
Ottilie on the ground, and one of the girls of the house came
running and screaming to her open-mouthed. The surgeon
entered at the same moment, and she was informed of every
thing. She could not at once, however, give up all hope. She
was rushing up-stairs to the child, but the physician besought
her to remain where she was. He went himself, to deceive
her with a show of fresh exertions ; and slie sat down upon
the sofa. Ottilie was still lying on the ground : Charlotte raised
her, and supported her against herself ; and her beautiful head
sank down upon her knee. Her medical friend went to and
fro ; he appeared to be busy about the child ; his real care was
for the ladies : and so came on midnight, and the stillness of
death grew deeper and deeper. Charlotte did not try to coa-
810 ELECTIVE AFFINITIES.
ceal from herself any longer that her child would never return
to life again. She desired to see it now. It had been wrapped
up in warm woollen coverings. And it was brought down as
it was, lying in its cot, which was placed at her side on the
sofa. The little face was uncovered ; and there it lay in its
calm, sweet beauty.
The report of the accident soon spread through the village :
every one was roused, and the stor}^ reached the hotel. The
major hurried up the well-known road ; he went round and
round the house ; at last he met a servant who was going to
one of the out-buildings to fetch something. He learned from
him the state of things, and desired him to tell the surgeon
that he was there. The latter came out, not a little surprised
at the appearance of his old patron. He told him exactly what
had happened, and undertook to prepare Charlotte to see him.
He then went in, began some conversation to draw her at
tention to other matters, and led her imagination from one
object to another, till at last he brought it to rest upon her
friend, and the depth of feeling and of S3^mpathy which would
surely be called out in him. From the imaginative she was
brought at once to the real. Enough ! she was informed that
he was at the door, that he knew every thing, and desired to
be admitted.
The major entered. Charlotte received him with a miser-
able smile. He stood before her : she lifted off the green-
silk covering under which the body was lying ; and by the
dim light of a taper he saw before him, not without a secret
shudder, the stiffened image of himself. Charlotte pointed
to a chair ; and there they sat opposite to one another, with-
out speaking, through the night. Ottilie was still lying
motionless on Charlotte's knee : she breathed softly, and
slept, or seemed to sleep.
The morning dawned, the lights went out : the two friends
appeared to awake out of a heavy dream. Charlotte looked
towards the major, and said quietly, " Tell me through what
circumstances you have been brought hither, to take part in
this mournful scene."
''The present is not a time," the major answered, in the
same low tone as that in which Charlotte had spoken, for
fear lest she might disturb Ottilie, " this is not a time, and
this is not a place, for reserve. The condition in w^hich 1
find you is so fearful that even the earnest matter on which
I am here loses its importance by the side of it." He then-
informed her, quite calmly and simply, of the object of his
ELECTIVE AFFINITIES. 311
mission in so far as he was the ambassador of Edward, of
the object of his coming in so far as his own free-will and
his own interests were concerned in it. He laid both before
her delicately but uprightly : Charlotte listened quietly, and
showed neither surprise nor unwillingness.
As soon as the major had finished, she replied, in so low a
voice, that, to catch her words, he was obliged to draw his
chair closer to her, " In such a case as this I have never
before found myself ; but in similar cases I have always
said to myself, 'How will it be to-morrow?' I am fully
aware that the fate of many persons is now in my hands,
and what I have to do is soon said without scruple or hesita-
tion. I consent to the separation ; I ought to have made up
my mind to it before : by my unwillingness and reluctance I
have destroyed my child. There are certain things on which
destiny obstinately insists. In vain may reason, virtue,
duty, every sacred feeling, place themselves in its way.
Something shall be done which to it seems good, and which
to us seems not good ; and it forces its own way through at
last, let us conduct ourselves as we will.
"But what am I saying? It is but my own desire, my
own purpose, against which I acted so unthinkingly, which
destiny is again bringing in my way. Did I not long ago,
in my thoughts, design Edward and Ottilie for one another?
Did I not myself labor to bring them together? And you,
my friend, you yourself were an accomplice in my plot.
Why, why could I not distinguish mere man's obstinacy
from real love ? Why did I accept his hand, when I could
have made him happy as a friend, and when another could
have made him happy as a wife? And now look here on this
unhappy slumberer. I tremble at the moment when she will
wake from her deathlike sleep into consciousness. How can
she endure to live ? How shall she ever console herself, if
she may not hope to make good that to Edward of which,
as the instrument of the most wonderful destiny, she has
deprived him ? And she can make it all good again by the
passion, by the devotion, with which she loves him. If love
be able to bear all things, it is able to do yet more : it can
restore all things. Of myself at such a moment I may not
think.
" Do you go quietly away, my dear major : say to Edward
that I consent to the separation, that I leave it to him, to
you, and to Mittler to settle whatever is to be done. I have
no anxiety for my own future condition : it may be what it
312 ELECTIVE AFFmiTIES.
will ; it is nothing to me. I will subscribe whatever paper
is submitted to me, only he must not require me to join
actively. I cannot have to think about it or give advice."
The major rose to go. She stretched out her hand to him
across Ottilie. He pressed it to his lips, and whispered
gently, " And for myself, may I hope any thing? "
"Do not ask me now," replied Charlotte. "I will tell
you another time. We have not deserved to be miserable,
but neither can we say that we have deserved to be happy
together. ' '
The major left her, and went, feeling for Charlotte to the
bottom of his heart, but not being able to be sorry for the
fate of the poor child. Such an offering seemed necessary
to him for their general happiness. He pictured Ottilie to
himself with a child of her own in her arms, as the most
perfect compensation for the one of which she had deprived
Edward. He pictured himself with his own son on his knee,
who should have better right to resemble him than the one
which was departed.
With such flattering hopes and fancies passing through his
mind, he returned to the inn ; and, on his way back, he met
Edward, who had been waiting for him the whole night
through in the open air, since neither rocket nor report of
cannon would bring him news of the successful issue of his
undertaking. He had already heard of the misfortune ; and
he too, instead of being sorry for the poor thing, regarded
what had befallen it, without being exactly ready to confess
it to himself, as a convenient accident, through which the
only impediment in the way of his happiness was at once
removed.
The major at once informed him of his wife's resolution ;
and he therefore easily allowed himself to be prevailed upon
to return again with him to the village, and from thence to
go for a while to the little town, where they would consider
what was next to be done, and make their arrangements.
After the major had left her, Charlotte sat on, buried in
her own reflections ; but it was only for a few minutes.
Ottilie suddenl}^ raised herself from her lap, and looked full,
with her large eyes, in her friend's face. Then she got up
from the ground, and stood upright before her.
"This is the second time," began the noble girl with an
irresistible solemnity of manner, ' ' this is the second time
that the same thing has happened to me. You once said to
me that things of the same kind often happen to people in
ELECTIVE AFFINITIES. 313
their lives in the same kind of way ; and, if they do, it is
always at important moments. I now find that what you
said is true, and I have to make a confession to you.
Shortly after my mother's death, when I was a very little
child, I was sitting one day on a footstool, close to you.
You were on the sofa, as you are at this moment ; and my
head rested on your knees. I was not asleep, I was not
awake : I was in a trance. I knew every thing which was
passing about me. I heard every word which was said, with
the greatest distinctness : and yet I could not stir, I could
not speak ; and, if I had wished it, I could not have given a
hint that I was conscious. On that occasion you were
speaking about me to one of your friends : you were com-
miserating my fate, left, as I was, a poor orphan in the
world. You described my dependent position, and how
unfortunate a future was before me, unless some very happy
star watched over me. I understood well what you said. I
saw, perhaps too clearly, what you appeared to hope of me,
and what you thought I ought to do. I made rules to
myself, according to such limited insight as I had : and by
these I have long lived ; by these, at the time when you so
kindly took charge of me, and had me with you in your
house, I regulated whatever I did, and whatever I left
undone.
' ' But I have strayed from my course ; I have broken my
rules ; I have lost the very power of feeling them. And
now, after a dreadful occurrence, you have again made clear
to me my situation, which is more pitiable than the first.
While lying in a half- torpor on your lap, I have again, as if
out of another world, heard every syllable which you uttered.
I know from you how all is with me. The thought of
myself makes me shudder ; but again, as I did then, in my
half-sleep of death, I have marked out my new path for
myself.
"I am determined, as I was before; and what I have
determined I must tell you at once. I will never be Edward's
wife. In a terrible manner God has opened my eyes to see
the sin in which I was entangled. I will atone for it, and
let no one think to move me from my purpose. It is by
this, my dearest, kindest friend, that you must govern your
own conduct. Send for the major to come back to you.
Write to him that no steps must be taken. It made me mis-
erable that I could not stir or speak when he went : I tried
to rise, I tried to cry out. Oh, why did you let him go from
you with such sinful hopes I "
314 ELPXTIVE AFFINITIES.
Charlotte saw Ottilie's coudition, ami slie felt for it; but
she hoped, that, by time and persuasion, she might be able to
prevail upon her. On her uttering a few words, however,
which pointed to a future, to a time when her sufferings
would be alleviated, and when there might be better room,
for hope, "No!" Ottilie cried with vehemence, "do not
endeavor to move me : do not seek to deceive me. At the
moment at which I learn that you have consented to the
separation, I will expiate my trespass, my crime, in that
same lake."
CHAPTER XV.
Friends and relations, and all persons living together in
the same house, are apt, when life is going smoothly and
peacefully with them, to make what they are doing, or what
they are going to do, even more than is right or necessary,
a subject of constant conversation. They talk to each other
of their plans and their occupations, and, without exactly
taking one another's advice, consider and discuss together the
entire progress of their lives. But this is far from being the
case in serious moments : just when it would seem men most
require the assistance and support of others, every one with-
draws singly within themselves, every one to act for himself,
every one to work in his own fashion ; they conceal from one
another the particular means , they employ ; and only the
result, the object, the thing they realize, is again made com-
mon property.
After so many strange and unfortunate incidents, a sort
of silent seriousness had passed over the two ladies, which
showed itself in a sweet mutual effort to spare each other's
feelings. The child had been buried privately in the chapel.
It rested there as the first offering to a destiny full of ominous
foreshadowings.
Charlotte, as much as she could, turned back to life and
occupation ; and here she first found Ottilie standing in need
of her assistance. She occupied herself almost entirely with
her, without letting it be observed. She knew how deeply
the noble girl loved Edward. She had discovered by degrees
the scene which had preceded the accident, and had gathered
every circumstance of it, partly from Ottilie herself, partly
from the letters of the major
ELECTIVE AFFINITIES. 315
Ottilie, on her side, made Charlotte's immediate life much
more easy for her. She was open and even talkative ; but
she never spoke of the present, or of what had lately passed.
She had been a close and thoughtful observer. She knew
much, and now it all came to the surface. She entertained,
she amused, Charlotte ; and the latter still nourished a hope
in secret to see her married to Edward after all.
But something very different was passing in Ottilie. She
had disclosed the secret of the course of her life to her
friend, and she showed no more of her previous restraint and
submissiveness. By her repentance and resolution she felt
herself freed from the burden of her fault and her misfortune.
She had no more violence to do to herself. In the bottom of
her heart she had forgiven herself solely under condition of
the fullest renunciation, and it was a condition which would
remain binding for all time to come.
So passed away some time ; and Charlotte now felt how
much house and park, and lake and rocks and trees, served
to keep alive in them all their most painful reminiscences.
That change of scene was necessary was plain enough, but
how it was to be effected was not so easy to decide.
Were the two ladies to remain together? Edward's pre-
viously expressed will appeared to enjoin it, his declarations
and his threats appeared to make it necessary : only it could
not be now mistaken that Charlotte and Ottilie, with all their
good-will, with all their sense, with all their efforts to conceal
it, could not avoid finding themselves in a painful situation
towards one another. Their conversation was guarded.
They were often obliged only half to understand some allu-
feion : more often, expressions were misinterpreted, if not by
their understandings, at any rate by their feelings. They
were afraid to give pain to one another, and this very fear
itself produced the evil which they were seeking to avoid.
If they were to try change of scene, and at the same time
(at any rate for a while) to part, the old question came up
again. Where was Ottilie to go ? There was the grand, rich
family, who still wanted a desirable companion for their
daughter, their attempts to find a person whom they could
trust having hitherto proved ineffectual. Already during her
last sojourn at the castle, the baroness had urged Charlotte to
send Ottilie there, and lately again in her letters. Charlotte
now a second time proposed it ; but Ottilie expressly declined
going anywhere, where she would be thrown into what is
called the great world-
316 ELECTIVE AFFINITIES.
^'Do not think me narrow or self-willed, my dear aunt,"
she said : " let me utter what, in any other case, it would be
my duty to conceal. A person who has fallen Into uncom-
mon misfortunes, however guiltless he may be, carries a
frightful mark upon him. His presence, in every one who
sees him and is aware of his history, excites a kind of horror.
People see in him the terrible fate which has been laid upon
him, and he is the object of a diseased and nervous curiosity.
It is so with a house, it is so with a town, where any terrible
action has been done : people enter them with awe ; the light
of day shines less brightly there, and the stars seem to lose
their lustre.
" Perhaps we ought to excuse it, but how extreme is the
indiscretion with which people behave towards such unfortu-
nate persons with their foolish importunities and awkward
kindness ! Pardon me for speaking in this way ; but that
poor girl whom Luciana tempted out of her retirement, and
with such mistaken good-nature tried to force into society
and amusement, ha,s haunted me and made me miserable.
The poor creature, when she was so frightened and tried to
escape, and then sank and swooned away, and I caught her
in my arms, and the party came all crowding round in terror
and curiosity, — little did I think, then, that the same fate was
in store for me. But my feeling for her is as deep and warm
and fresh as ever it was ; and now I may direct my compas-
sion upon myself, and secure myself from being the object
of any similar exposure."
'' But, my dear child," answered Charlotte, "you will never
be able to withdraw yourself where no one can see you : we
have no cloisters now ; otherwise, there, with your present
feelings, would be your resource."
'' Solitude would not give me the resource for which I
wish, my dear aunt," answered Ottilie. " The one true and
valuable resource is to be looked for where we can be active
and useful : all the self-denials and all the penances on earth
will fail to deliver us from au evil-omened destiny if it be
determined to persecute us. Let me sit still in idleness, and
serve as a spectacle for the world, and it will overpower
and crush me. But find me some peaceful employment,
where I can go steadily and unweariedly on doing m}^ duty,
and I shall be able to bear the eyes of men when I need not
shrink under the eyes of God."
*' Unless I am much mistaken," replied Charlotte, "your
inclination is, to return to the school."
ELECTIVE AFFINITIES. 817
*' Yes," Ottilie answered : " I do not deny it. I think it
a happy destination to train np others in the beaten way, after
having been trained in the strangest myself. And do we not
see the same great fact in history? Some moral calamity
drives men out into the wilderness ; but they are not allowed
to remain, as they had hoped, in their concealment there.
They are summoned back into the world, to lead the wan-
derers into the right way ;• and who are fitter for such a
service than those who have been initiated into the laby-
rinths of life? They are commanded to be the support of
the unfortunate ; and who can better fulfil that command
than those who have no more misfortunes to fear upon
earth?"
"You are selecting an uncommon profession for your-
self," replied Charlotte. " I shall not oppose you, however.
Let it be as you wish, only I hope it will be but for a short
time."
" Most warmly do I thank you," said Ottilie, " for giving
me leave to try to gain this experiment. If I am not flatter-
ing myself too highly, I am sure I shall succeed : wherever
I am, I shall remember the many trials which I went through
myself, and how small, how infinitely small, they were com-
pared to those which I afterwards had to undergo. It will
be my happiness to watch the embarrassments of the little
creatures as they grow ; to cheer them in their childish sor-
rows, and guide them back, with a light hand, out of their
little aberrations. The fortunate is not the person to be of
help to the fortunate : it is in the nature of man to require
ever more and more of himself and others, the more he has
received. The unfortunate only recover, while knowing,
from their afl[liction, how to foster, both in themselves and
others, the feeling that every moderate good ought to be
enjoyed with rapture."
" I haA^e but one objection to make to what you propose,"
said Charlotte, after some thought, " although that one
seems to me of great importance. I am not thinking of you,
but of another person : you well know how that good, right-
minded, excellent assistant is disposed towards you. In the
way in which you desire to proceed, you will become every
day more valuable and more indispensable to him. Already
he himself believes that he can never live happily without
you ; and hereafter, when he has become accustomed to have
you to work with him, he will be unable to carry on his busi-
ness if he loses you: you ^vill have assisted hun at the
beginning, only to injure him in the end."
318 ELECTIVE AFFINITIES.
" Destiny has not dealt with me gently," replied Ottilie ;
" and whoever loves me has, perhaps, not much better to
expect. Our friend is so good and so sensible, that I hope
he will be able to reconcile himself to remaining in a simple
relation with me : he will learn to see in me a consecrated
person, lying under the shadow of an awful calamit}^ and
only able to support herself, and bear up against it, by de-
voting herself to that Holy Being who is invisibly around us,
and alone is able to shield us from the dark powers which
threaten to overwhelm us."
Charlotte privately reflected on all the dear girl had so
warmly uttered : on many different occasions, although only
in the gentlest manner, she had hinted at the possibility
of Ottilie 's being brought again in contact with Edward ;
but the slightest mention of it, the faintest hope, the least
suspicion, seemed to wound Ottilie to the quick. One day,
when she could not evade it, she expressed herself to Char-
lotte clearly on the subject.
" If your resolution to renounce Edward," returned Char-
lotte, "is so firm and unalterable, then you had better avoid
the danger of seeing him again. At a distance from the
object of our love, the warmer our affection, the stronger is
the control which we fancy that we can exercise on our-
selves ; because the whole force of the passion, diverted
from its outward objects, turns inwards on ourselves. But
how soon, how swiftly is our mistake made plain to us, when
the thing we thought we could renounce stands again before
our eyes as indispensable to us ! You must now do what
you consider best suited to your circumstances. Look well
into yourself : change, if you prefer it, the resolution which
you have just expressed. But do it of yourself, with a free-
consenting heart. Do not allow yourself to be drawn in by
an accident : do not let yourself be surprised into your former
position. It will place you at issue with yourself, and will
be intolerable to you. As I said, before you take this step-
before you remove from me, and enter upon a new life, which
will lead you no one knows in what direction, consider once
more whether really, indeed, you can renounce Edward for
the whole time to come. If you have faithfully made up your
mind that you will dc* this, then will you enter into an en-
gagement with me, that you will never admit him into your
presence, and, if he seeks you out, and forces himself UDon
you, that you will not exchange words with him? "
Ottilie did not hesitate a moment : she gave Charlotte the
promise, which she had already made to herself.
ELECTIVE AFFINITIES. 319
Now, however, Charlotte began to be haunted with Ed-
ward's threat, that he would only consent to renounce Ottilie
as long as she was not parted from Charlotte. Since that
time, indeed, circumstances were so altered, so many things
had happened, that an engagement which was wrung from
him in a moment of excitement might well be supposed to
have been cancelled. She was unwilling, however, in the
remotest sense, to venture any thing, or to undertake any
thing, which might displease him ; and Mittler was therefore
to find Edward, and inquire what, as things now were, he
wished to be done.
Since the death of the child, Mittler had often been at the
castle to see Charlotte, although only for a few moments at a
time. The unhappy accident, which had made her reconcilia-
tion with her husband in the highest degree improbable, had
produced a most painful effect upon him. But ever, as his
nature was, hoping and striving, he rejoiced secretly at the
resolution of Ottilie. He trusted to the softening influence
of passing time ; he hoped that it might still be possible to
keep the husband and the wife from separating ; and he tried
to regard these convulsions of passion only as trials of wedded
love and fidelity.
Charlotte, at the very first, had informed the major by
letter of Ottilie' s declaration. She had entreated him most
earnestly to prevail on Edward to take no further steps for
the present. They should keep quiet, and wait, and see
whether the poor girl would recover her spirits. She had let
him know from time to time whatever was necessary of what
had more lately fallen from her. And now Mittler had to
undertake the really difficult commission of preparing Edward
for an alteration in her situation. Mittler, however, well
knowing that men can be brought more easily to submit to
what is already done than to give their consent to what is
yet to be done," persuaded Charlotte that it would be better
to send Ottilie off at once to the school.
Consequently, as soon as Mittler was gone, preparations
were at once made for the journey. Ottilie put her things
together ; and Charlotte observed that neither the beautiful
box, nor any thing out of it, was to go with her. Ottilie haa
said nothing to her on the subject ; and she took no notice,
but let her alone. The day of departure came : Charlotte's
carriage was to take Ottilie the first day as far as a place
where they were well known, where she was to pass the night ;
and on the second she would go on in it to the school. It
•S20 ELECTIVE AFFINITIES.
was settled that Nanny was to accompany her, and remain
as her attendant.
This capricious little creature had found her way back to
her mistress after the death of the child, and now hung about
her as warmly and passionately as ever : indeed, she seemed,
with her loquacity and attentiveness, as if she wished to make
good her past neglect, and henceforth devote herself entirely
to Ottilie's service. She was quite beside herself now for joy
at the thought of travelling with her, and of seeing strange
places, when she had hitherto never been away from the
scene of her birth ; and she ran from the castle to the village
to carry the news of her good fortune to her parents and her
relations, and to take leave. Unluckily for herself, she went
among other places into a room where a person was who had
the measles, and caught the infection, which came out upon
her at once. The journey could not be postponed. Ottilie
herself was urgent to go. She had travelled once already
the same road. She knew the people of the hotel where she
was to sleep. The coachman from the castle was going with
her. There could be nothing to fear.
Charlotte made no opposition. She, too, in thought, was
making haste to be clear of present embarrassments. The
rooms Ottilie had occupied at the castle she would have pre-
pared for Edward as soon as possible, and restored to the
state in which they had been before the arrival of the captain.
The hope of bringing back old happy days burns up again
and again in us, as if it never could be extinguished. And
Charlotte was quite right : there was nothing else for her,
except to hope as she did.
CHAPTER XVI.
"When Mittler was come to talk with Edward about the
matter, he found him sitting by himself, with his head sup-
ported on his right hand, and his arm resting on the table.
He appeared in great suffering.
" Is your headache troubling you again? " asked Mittler.
''It is troubling me," answered he; " and yet I cannot
wish it were not so, for it reminds me of Ottilie. She, too,
I say to myself, is also suffering in the same way at this
ELECTIVE AFFINITIES. 321
same moment, and suffering more perhaps than I ; and why
cannot I bear it as well as she ? These pains are good for
me. I might almost say that they were welcome ; for they
serve to bring out before me, with the greater vividness, her
patience and all her other graces. It is only when we suffer
ourselves, that we feel really the true nature of all the high
qualities which are required to bear suffering."
Mittler, finding his friend so far resigned, did not hesitate
to communicate the message with which he had been sent.
He brought it out piecemeal, however, in order of time, as
the idea had itself arisen between the ladies, and had gradu-
ally ripened into a purpose. Edward scarcely made an
objection. From the little which he said, it appeared as if
he was willing to leave every thing to them ; the pain which
he was suffering at the moment making him indifferent to
all besides.
Scarcely, however, was he again alone, than he got up and
walked rapidly up and down the room : he forgot his pain,
his attention now turning to what was external to himself.
Mittler' s story had stirred the embers of his love, and awak-
ened his imagination in all its vividness. He saw Ottilie by
herself, or as good as by herself, travelling on a road which
was well known to him, — in a hotel with every room of
which he was familiar. He thought, he considered, or
rather he neither thought nor considered : he only wished,
he only desired. He would see her : he would speak to her.
Why, or for what good end that was to come of it, he did
not care to ask himself ; but he made up his mind at once.
He must do it.
He summoned his valet into his council, and through him
he made himself acquainted with the day and hour when
Ottilie was to set out. The morning broke. Without taking
any person with him, Edward mounted his horse, and rode
off to the place where she was to pass the night. He was
there too soon. The hostess was overjoyed at the sight of
him : she was under heavy obligations to him for a service
which he had been able to do for her. Her son had been in
the army, where he had conducted himself with remarkable
gallantry. He had performed one particular action of which
no one had been a witness but Edward ; and the latter had
spoken of it to the commander-in-chief in terms of such high
praise, that, notwithstanding the opposition of various ill-
wishers, he had obtained a decoration for him. The mother,
therefore, could never do enough for Edward. She got
322 ELECTIVE AFFINITIES.
ready her best room for him, which indeed was her own
wardrobe and storeroom, with all possible speed. He in-
formed her, however, that a young lady was coming to pass
the night there ; and he ordered an apartment for her at the
back, at the end of the gallery. It sounded a mysterious
sort of affair ; but the hostess was ready to do any thing to
please her patron, who appeared so Interested and so busy
about it. And he, what were his sensations as he watched
through the long, weary hours till evening? He examined
the room round and round in which he was to see her : with
all its strangeness and homeliness it seemed to him to be an
abode for angels. He again and again turned over in his
mind what he had better do : was he to take her by sur-
prise, or whether to prepare her for meeting him. At last
the second course seemed the preferable one. He sat down
and wrote a letter, which she was to read.
EDWARD TO OTTILIE.
" While you read this letter, my best beloved, I am close
to you. Do not agitate yourself ; do not be alarmed : you
have nothing to fear from me. I will not force myself upon
you. I will see you or not, as you yourself shall choose.
' ' Consider, oh consider, your condition and mine ! How
much I thank you, that you have taken no decisive step !
But the step which you have taken is important enough.
Do not persist in it. Here, as it were, at a parting of the
ways, reflect once again. Can you be mine? Will you be
mine? Oh, you will be showing mercy on us all if you will ;
and on me infinite mercy !
" Let me see you again ! — happily, joyfully see you once
more ! Let me make my request to you with my own lips ;
and do you give me your answer your own beautiful self, on
my breast, Ottilie, where you have so often rested, and which
belongs to you forever ! ' '
As he was writing, the feeling rushed over him that
what he was longing for was coming, was close, would be
there almost immediately. By that door she would come
in ; she would read that letter ; she, in her own person,
would stand there before him as she used to stand, — she,
for whose appearance he had thirsted so long. Would she
be the same as she was? Was her form, were her feelings,
changed ? He still held the pen in his hand : he was going
ELECTIVE AFFINITIES. 323
to write, as he thought, when the carriage rolled into the
court. With a few hurried strokes he added, "I hear you
coming. For a moment, farewell ! "
He folded the letter, and directed it. He had no time for
sealing. He darted into the room, through which there was
a second outlet into the gallery ; when the next moment he
recollected that he had left his watch and seals lying on the
table. She must not see these first. He ran back and
brought them away with him. At the same instant he heard
the hostess m the ante-chamber showing Ottilie the way to
her apartments. He hastened to the bedroom-door, but it
had suddenly shut. In his hurry, as he had come back for
his watch, he had forgotten to take out the key, which had
fallen out, and was lying inside. The door had closed with
a spring, and he could not open it. He pushed at it with
all his might, but it would not yield. Oh, how gladly would
he have been a spirit, to escape through its cracks ! In vain.
He hid his face against the panels. Ottilie entered ; and
the hostess, seeing him, retired. From Ottilie herself, too,
he could not remain concealed for a moment. He turned
towards her ; and there stood the lovers once more, in such
strange fashion, in one another's presence. She looked at
him calmly and earnestly, without advancing or retiring.
He made a movement to approach her, and she withdrew
a few steps towards the table. He stepped back again.
"Ottilie!" he cried aloud, "Ottilie! let me break this
frightful silence ! Are we shadows, that we stand thus gaz-
ing at each other ? Only listen to me : listen to this at least.
It is an accident that you find me here thus. There is a
letter on the table, at your side there, which was to have
prepared you. Eead it, I implore you : read it, and then
determine as you will ! "
She looked down at the letter ; and, after thinking a few
seconds, took it up, opened and read it. She finished it with-
out a change of expression, and she gently laid it aside ; then,
pressing together the palms of her hands, raising them, and
drawing them against her breast, she leaned her body a little
forward, and regarded Edward with such a look, that, urgent
as he was, he was compelled to renounce every thing he
wished or desired of her. Such an attitude cut him to the
heart: he could not bear it. It seemed exactly as if she
would fall upon her knees before him, if he persisted. He
hurried in despair out of the room, and, leaving her alone,
sent the hostess in to her.
Yol 3 Goethe — 11
324 ELECTIVE AFFINITIES.
He walked up and down the ante-chamber. Night had
come on, and there was no sound in the room. At last the
hostess came out, and drew the key out of the lock. The
good woman was embarrassed and agitated, not knowing
what it would be proper for her to do. At last, as she
turned to go, she offered the key to Edward, who refused it ;
and, putting down the candle, she went away.
In misery and wretchedness, Edward flung himself down
on the threshold of the door which divided him from Ottilie,
moistening it with his tears as he lay. A more unhappy
night had been seldom passed by two lovers in such close
neighborhood.
Day came at last. The coachman brought round the car-
riage ; and the hostess unlocked the door, and went in.
Ottilie was asleep in her clothes : she went back, and beck-
oned to Edward with a significant smile. They both entered,
and stood before her as she lay ; but the sight was too much
for Edward. He could not bear it. She was sleeping so
quietly that the hostess did not like to disturb her, but sat
down opposite her, waiting till she woke. At last Ottilie
opened her beautiful eyes, and raised herself on her feet.
She declined taking any breakfast ; and then Edward went in
again, and stood before her. He entreated her to speak but
one word to him, to tell him what she desired. He would
do it, be it what it would, he swore to her ; but she remained
silent. He asked her once more, passionately and tenderly,
whether she would be his. With downcast eyes, and with
the deepest tenderness of manner, she shook her head to a
gentle "No." He asked if she still desired to go to the
school. Without any show of feeling, she declined. Would
she, then, go back to Charlotte ? She inclined her head in
token of assent, with a look of comfort and relief. He
went to the window to give directions to the coachman ; and,
when his back was turned, she darted like lightning out of
the room, and was down the stairs and in the carriage in an
instant. The coachman drove back along the road which he
had come the day before, and Edward followed at some
distance on horseback.
ELECTIVE AFFINITIES. 326
CHAFTER XVII.
It was with the utmost surprise that Charlotte saw the
carriage drive up with Ottilie, and Edward at the same
moment ride into the court-yard of the castle. She ran
down to the hall. Ottilie alighted, and approached her and
Edward. Violently and eagerly she seized the hands of the
wife and husband, pressed them together, and hurried off to
her own room. Edward threw himself on Charlotte's neck,
and burst into tears. He could not give her any explana-
tion : he besought her to have patience with him, and to go
at once to see Ottilie. Charlotte followed her to her room,
and she could not enter it without a shudder. It had been
all cleared out. There was nothing to be seen but the
empty walls, which stood there looking cheerless, vacant,
and miserable. Every thing had been carried away except
the little box, which, from an uncertainty what was to be
done with it, had been left in the middle of the room.
Ottilie was lying stretched upon the ground, her arm and
head leaning across the cover. Charlotte bent anxiously
over her, and asked what had happened ; but she received
no answer.
Her maid had come with restoratives. Charlotte left her
with Ottilie, and herself hastened back to Edward. She
found him in the saloon, but he could tell her nothing. He
threw himself down before her, bathed her hands with tears,
then fled to his own room : she was going to follow him
thither, when she met his valet. From this man she gath-
ered as much as he was able to tell. The rest she put
together in her own thoughts as well as she could, and then
at once set herself resolutely to do what the exigencies of
the moment required. Ottilie's room was put to rights
again as quickly as possible : Edward found his, to the last
paper, exactly as he had left it.
The three appeared again to fall into some sort of relation
with one another. But Ottilie persevered in her silence,
and Edward could do nothing except entreat his wife to
exert a patience which seemed wanting to himself. Charlotte
sent messengers to Mittler and to the major. The former
was absent from home, and could not be found. The latter
came. To him Edward poured out all his heart, confessing
every most trifling circumstance to him ; and thus Charlotte
learned fully what had passed, what had produced such
326 ELECTIVE AFFINITIES.
violent excitement, and how so strange an alteration of their
mutual position had been brought about.
She spoke with the utmost tenderness to her husband.
She had nothing to ask of him except that for the present
he would leave the poor girl to herself. Edward was not
insensible to the worth, the affection, the strong sense of his
wife ; but his passion absorbed him exclusively. Charlotte
tried to cheer him with hopes. She promised that she her-
self would make no difficulties about the separation, but it
had small effect with him. He was so much shaken that hope
and faith alternately forsook him. A species of insanity
appeared to have taken possession of him. He urged Char-
lotte to promise to give her hand to the major. To satisfy
and humor him, she did what he required. She engaged
to become herself the wife of the major, in the event of
Ottilie consenting to the marriage with Edward, with this
express condition, however, that for the present the two
gentlemen should go abroad together. The major had a
foreign appointment from the court, and it was settled that
Edward should accompany him. They arranged it all
together, and in doing so found a sort of comfort for
themselves in the sense that at least something was being
done.
In the mean time they had to notice that Ottilie took
scarcely any thing to eat or drink. She still persisted in
refusing to speak. They at first used to talk to her ; but it
appeared to distress her, and they left it off. We are not,
universally at least, so weak as to persist in torturing people
for their good. Charlotte thought of all possible remedies.
At last she fancied it might be well to ask the assistant of
the school to come to them. He had much influence with
Ottilie, and had been writing with much anxiety to inquire
the cause of her not having arrived at the time he had been
expecting her ; but as yet she had not sent him any answer.
In order not to take Ottilie by surprise, they spoke of
their intention in her presence. It did not seem to please
her : she thought for some little time ; at last she appeared
to have formed some resolution. She retired to her own
room, and ere night sent the following letter to the assembled
party: —
"ottilie to her friends.
" Why need I express in words, my dear friends, what is
in itself so plain ? I have stepped out of my course, and I
ELECTIVE AFFINITIES. 327
cannot recover it again. A malignant spirit which has
gained power over me seems to hinder me from without,
even if within I could again become at peace with myself.
''My sole purpose was to renounce Edward, and to sepa-
rate myself from him forever. I had hoped that we might
never meet again : it has turned out otherwise. Against his
own will he stood before me. Too literally, perhaps, I have
observed my promise, never to admit him into conversation
with me. My conscience and the feelings of the moment
kept me silent towards him at the time, and now I have
nothing more to say. I have taken upon myself, under the
impulse of the moment, a difficult vow, which, if it had been
formed deliberately, might perhaps be painful and distress-
ing. Let me now persist in the observance of it as long as
my heart shall enjoin it to me. Do not call in any one to
mediate ; do not insist upon my speaking ; do not urge me to
eat or to drink more than I absolutely must. Bear with me,
and let me alone, and so help me on through the time : I am
young, and youth has many unexpected means of restoring
itself. Suffer my presence among you ; cheer me with your
love ; make me wiser and better with what you say to one
another, — but leave me to my own inward self."
The two friends had made all preparation for their journey ;
but their departure was still delayed by the formalities of the
foreign appointment of the major, a delay most welcome to
Edward. Ottilie's letter had roused all his eagerness again :
he had gathered hope and comfort from her words, and now
felt himself encouraged and justified in remaining and waiting.
He declared, therefore, that he would not go : it would be
folly indeed, he cried, of his own accord to throw away,
by over-precipitateness, what was most valuable and most
necessary to him, when, although there was a danger of losing
it, there was nevertheless a chance that it might be preserved.
" What is the right name of conduct such as that? " he said.
"It is only that we desire to show that we are able to will, to
choose. I myself, under the influences of the same ridiculous
folly, have torn myself away, days before there was any neces-
sity for it, from my friends, merely that I might not be forced
to go by the definite expiration of my term. This time I
will stay : what reason is there for my going ? is she not
already removed far enough from me ? I am not likely now
to catch her hand or press her to my heart : I could not
even think of it without a shudder. She has not separated
herself from me : she has raised herself far above me."
328 ELECTIVE AFFINITIES.
And so he remained as he desh*ed, as he was obliged ; but
he was never easy except when he found himself with Ottilie.
She, too, had the same feeling with him : she could not tear
herself away from the same blissful necessity. On all sides
they exerted an indescribable, almost magical, power of
attraction over one another. Living as they were under one
roof, without even so much as thinking of each other, although
they might be occupied with other things, or diverted this
way or that way by the other members of the party, they
always drew together. If they were in the same room, in a
short time they were sure to be either standing or sitting near
each other : they were only easy when as close together as
they could be, but they were then completely easy. To be
near was enough ; there was no need for them either to look
or to speak ; they did not seek to touch one another or make
sign or gesture, but merely to be together. Then there were
not two, there was but one, in unconscious and perfect con-
tent, at peace, and at peace with the world. So it was, that,
if either of them had been imprisoned at the farther end of
the house, the other would by degrees, without intending it,
have moved thither. Life was to them a riddle, the solution
of which they could find only in union.
Ottilie was throughout so cheerful and quiet that they
were able to feel perfectly easy about her ; she was seldom
absent from the society of her friends ; all that she had
desired was, that she might be allowed to eat alone, with no
one to attend upon her but Nanny.
What habitually befalls any person repeats itself more
often than one is apt to suppose, because his own nature
gives the immediate occasion for it. Character, individuality,
inclination, tendency, localit}^ circumstance, and habits
form together a whole, in which every man moves as in an
atmosphere, and where only he feels himself at ease in his
proper element.
And so we find men, of whose changeableness so many
complaints are made, after many years, to our surprise,
unchanged, and in all their infinite tendencies, outward and
inward, unchangeable.
Thus, in the daily life of our friends, almost every thing
glided on again in its old smooth track. Ottilie still displayed
by many silent attentions her obliging nature, and the others
like her continued each themselves ; and then the domestic
circle exhibited an image of their former life, so like it, that
they might be pardoned if at times they fancied all might be
again as it was once.
ELECTIVE AFFINITIES. 329
The autumn days, which were of the same len^^th with
those old spring days, brought the party back into the liouse
out of the air about the same hour. TIk; gay fiuils and
flowers which belouged to the season might have made them
fancy it was now the autumn of that first spring, and the
interval dropped out of remem])rauce ; for the flowers which
now were blowing were such as they then had sown, and the
fruits were now ripening on the trees they had at that time
seen in blossom.
The major went backwards and forwards, and Mittler came
frequently. The evenings were generally spent in exactly the
same way. Edward usually read aloud, with more life and
feeling than before, much better, and even, it may be said,
with more cheerfulness. It appeared as if he were endeavor-
ing, by light-heartedness as much as by devotion, to quicken
Ottilie's torpor into life, and dissolve her silence. He seated
himself in the same position as he used to do, that she might
look over his book : he was uneasy and distracted unless she
was doing so, unless he was sure that she was following his
words with her eyes.
Every trace had vanished of the unpleasant, ungracious
feelings of the intervening time. No one had any secret
complaint against another : there were no cross purposes, no
bitterness. The major accompanied Charlotte's playing with
his violin ; and Edward's flute sounded again, as formerly, ui
harmony with Ottihe's piano. Thus tliey were now approach-
ing Edward's birthday, which the year before they had
missed celebrating. This time they were to keep it without
any festivities, in quiet enjoyment among themselves. They
had so settled it togetiier, half expressly, half from a tacit
agreement. As they approached nearer to this epoch, how-
ever, an anxiety about it, which had hitherto been more felt
than observed, became more noticeable in Ottilie's manner.
She was to be seen often in the garden examining the flowers.
She had signified to the gardener that he was to save as many
as he could of every sort ; and she had been especially occu-
pied with the asters, which this year were blowing in immense
\)rofusion.
330 ELECTIVE AFFINITIES.
CHAPTER XVIII.
The most remarkable feature, however, which was observed
about Ottilie was, that, for the first time, she had now un-
packed the box, and had selected a variety of things out of
it, which she had cut up, and which were intended evidently
to make one complete suit for her. The rest, with Nanny's
assistance, she had endeavored to replace again ; and she had
been hardly able to get it done, the space being over full,
although a portion had been taken out. The covetous little
Nanny could never satisfy herself with looking at all the
pretty things, especially as she found provision made there
for every article of dress which could be wanted, even the
smallest. Numbers of shoes and stockings, garters with
devices on them, gloves, and various other things, were left ;
and she begged Ottilie just to give her one or two of them.
Ottilie refused to do that, but opened a drawer m her ward-
robe, and told the girl to take what she liked. The latter
hastily and clumsily dashed in her hand and seized what she
could, running off at once with her booty, to show it off and
display her good fortune among the rest of the servants.
At last Ottilie succeeded in packing every thing carefully
iiito its place. She then opened a secret compartment,
which was contrived in the lid, where she kept a number of
notes and letters from Edward, many dried flowers, the
mementos of their early walks together, a lock of his hair,
and various other little matters. She now added one more
to them, — her father's portrait, — and then locked it all up,
and hung the delicate key by a gold chain about her neck,
against her heart.
In the mean time, her friends had now in their hearts
begun to entertain the best hopes for her. Charlotte was
convinced that she would one day begin to speak again.
She had latterly s'een signs about her which implied that she
was engaged in secret about something ; a look of cheerful
self-satisfaction, a smile like that which hangs about the face
of persons who have something pleasant and delightful,
T^hich they are keeping concealed from those whom they
love. No one knew that she spent many hours in extreme
exhaustion, and that only at rare intervals, when she appeared
in public through the power of her will, she was able to rouse
herself.
Mittler had latterly been a frequent visitor, and when he
ELECTIVE AFFINITIES. 331
came he staid longer than he usually did at other times.
This strong-willed, resolute person was only too well aware
that there is a certain moment in which alone it will answer
to smite the iron. Ottilie's silence and reserve he interpreted
according to his own wishes : no steps had as yet been taken
towards a separation of the husband and wife. He hoped to
be able to determine the fortunes of the poor girl in some not
undesirable way. He listened, he allowed hunself to seem
convinced : he was discreet and unobtrusive, and conducted
himself in his own way with sufficient prudence. There was
but one occasion on which he uniformly forgot himself, —
when he found an opportunity for giving his opinion upon
subjects to which he attached a great importance. He lived
much within himself : and when he was with others, his only
relation to them generally was in active employment on theu'
behalf ; but if once, when among friends, his tongue broke
fairly loose, as on more than one occasion we have already
seen, he rolled out his words in utter recklessness whether they
wounded or whether they pleased, whether they did evil or
whether they did good.
The evening before the birthday, the major and Char-
lotte were sitting together expecting Edward, who had
gone out for a ride ; Mittler was walking up and down the
room ; Ottilie was in her own room, laying out the dress
which she was to wear on the morrow, and making signs to
her maid about a number of things, which the girl, who per-
fectly understood her silent language, arranged as she was
ordered.
Mittler had fallen exactly on his favorite subject. One of
the points on which he used most to insist was, that in the edu-
cation of children, as well as in the conduct of nations, there
was nothing more worthless and barbarous than laws and com-
mandments forbidding this and that action. '' Man is natu-
rally active," he said, ^'wherever he is; and, if you know
how to tell him what to do, he will do it immediately, and
keep straight in the direction in which you set him. I
myself, in my own circle, am far better pleased to endure
faults and mistakes, till I know what the opposite virtue is
that I am to enjoin, than to be rid of the faults and to
have nothing good to put in their place. A man is really
glad to do what is right and sensible, if he only knows how
to get at it. It is no such great niattei with him : he does
it because he must have something to do, and he thinks no
more about it afterwards than he does of the silliest freaks
332 ELECTIVE AFFINITIES.
which he eugaged in out of the purest idleness. I cannot tell
you how it annoys me to hear people going over and over
those Ten Commandments in teaching children. The fifth is
a thoroughly beautiful, rational, preceptive precept. ' Thou
shalt honor thy father and thy mother.' If the children
will inscribe that well upon their hearts, they have the whole
day before them to put it in })ractice. But the sixth now?
What can we say to that ? ' Thou shalt do no murder ; ' as
if any man ever felt the slightest general inclination to strike
another man dead. Men will hate sometimes ; they will liy
into passions and forget themselves ; and, as a consequence
of this or other feelings, it may easily come now and then
to a murder ; but what a barbarous precaution it is to tell
children that they are not to kill or murder ! If the com-
mandment ran, ' Have a regard for the life of another ; put
away whatever can do him hurt ; save him, though with
personal risk ; if you injure him, consider that you are
injuring yourself,' — that is the form which should be in
use among educated, reasonable people. And in our Cate-
chism teaching we have only an awkward, clumsy way of
slidmg into it, through a ' what does that mean ? '
'' And as for the seventh, that is utterly detestable.
What ! to stimulate the precocious curiosity of children to
pry into dangerous mysteries ; to obtrude violently upon
their imaginations ideas and notions which beyond all things
you should wish to keep from them ! It were far better if
such actions as that commandment speaks of were dealt with
arbitrarily by some secret tribunal, than prated openly of
before church and congregation " —
At this moment Ottilie entered the room.
'^ ' Thou shalt not commit adultery,' " Mittler went
on: ''HovV coarse! how brutal! What a different sound
it has, if you let it run, ' Thou shalt hold in reverence the
bond of marriage. When thou seest a husband and a wife
between whom there is true love, thou shalt rejoice in it ; and
their happiness shall gladden thee like the cheerful light of
a beautiful day. If there arise any thing to make division
between them, thou shalt use thy best endeavor to clear it
aWily. Thou shalt labor to pacify them, and to soothe them ;
to show each of them the excellencies of the other. Thou
shalt not think of thyself ; but with noble disinterestedness
thou shalt seek to further the well-being of others, and make
them feel what a happiness is that which arises out of all duty
done, and es[)ecially out of that duty which holds man and
wife indissolubly bound together.' "
ELECTIVE AFFINITIES. 333
Charlotte felt as if slie was sitting on hot coals. The
situation was the more distressing, as she was convinced that
Mittler was not thinking the least where he was or wliat he
was saying ; and, before she was able to interrupt him, she
saw Ottilie, after changing color painfully for a few seconds,
rise, and leave the room.
Charlotte constrained herself to seem unembarrassed.
^' You will leave us the eighth commandment," she said,
with a faint smile.
'' All the rest," replied Mittler, " if I may only insist first
on the foundation of the whole of them."
At this moment Nanny rushed in, screaming and crying,
"She is dying; the young lady is dying; come to her,
come ! "
Ottilie had found her way back with extreme difficulty to
her own room. The beautiful things she was to wear the
next day were spread on a number of chairs ; and the
girl, who had been running from one to the other, staring
at them and admiring them, called out in her ecstasy, " Look,
dearest madam, only look ! There is a bridal dress worthy
of you."
Ottilie heard the word, and sank upon the sofa. Nanny
saw her mistress turn pale, fall back, and faint. She ran
for Charlotte, who came. The medical friend was on the
spot in a moment. He thought it was nothing but ex-
haustion. He ordered some strong soup to be brought. Ot-
tilie refused it with an expression of loathing : it almost threw
her into convulsions when they put the cup to her lips. A
light seemed to break on the physician : he asked hastily and
anxiously what Ottilie had taken that da}^ The little girl
hesitated. He repeated his question, and she then acknowl-
edged that Ottilie had taken nothing.
There was a nervousness of manner about Nanny which
made him suspicious. He carried her with him into the adjoin-
ing room ; Charlotte followed ; and the girl threw herself on
her knees, and confessed, that, for a long time past, Ottilie had
taken as good as nothing ; at her mistress's urgent request,
she had herself eaten the food which had been brought for
her ; she had said nothing about it, because Ottilie had by
signs alternately begged her not to tell any one, and threat-
ened her if she did ; and, as she innocently added, '' because
it was so nice."
The major and Mittler now came up as well. They found
Charlotte busy with the physician. The pale, beautiful girl
334
ELECTIVE AFFINITIES.
was sitting, apparently conscious, in the corner of the sofa.
They had begged her to lie down ; she had declined to do this :
but she made signs to have her box brought, and, resting her
feet upon it, placed herself tn an easy, half recumbent posi-
tion. She seemed desirous of taking leave, and, by her
gestures, was expressing to all about her the tenderest affec-
tion, love, gratitude, entreaties for forgiveness, and the most
heartfelt farewell.
Edward, on alighting from his horse, was informed of what
had happened : he rushed to the room, threw himself down
at her side, and, seizing her hand, deluged it with silent tears.
In this position he remained a long time. At last he called
out, "And am I never more to hear your voice ? Will you
not turn back toward life, to give me one single word?
Well, then, very well. I will follow you yonder, and there
we will speak in another language."
She pressed his hand with all the strength she had : she
gazed at him with a glance full of life and full of love ; and
drawing a long breath, and for a little while moving her lips
inarticulately, with a tender effort of affection she called out,
" Promise me to live ; " and then fell back immediately.
"I promise, I promise!" he cried to her; but he cried
only after her : she was already gone.
After a miserable night, the care of providing for the loved
remains fell upon Charlotte. The major and Mittler assisted
her. Edward's condition was utterly pitiable. His first
thought, when he was in any degree recovered from his
despair, and able to collect himself, was, that Ottilie should
not be carried out of the castle, she should be kept there,
and attended upon as if she were alive ; for she was not
dead, it was impossible that she should be dead. They did
what he desired ; at least, so far as that they did not do what
he had forbidden. He did not ask to see her.
There was now a second alarm, and a further cause for
anxiety. Nanny, who had been spoken to sharply by the
physician, had been compelled by thieats to confess, and
after her confession had been overwhelmed with reproaches,
had now disappeared. After a long search she was found,
but she appeared to be out of her mind. Her parents took
her home ; but the gentlest treatment had no effect upon her,
and she had to be locked up for fear she should run away
again.
They succeeded by degrees in rescuing Edward from utter
despair, but only to make him more really wretched. He
ELECTIVE AFFINITIES. 885
now saw clearly, he could not doubt how, that the happiness
of his life was gone from liim forever. It was suggested to
him, that, if Ottilie were buried in the chapel, she would still
remain among the living ; and it would be a calm, quiet,
peaceful home for her. There was much difficulty in obtain-
ing his consent : he would only give it under condition tiiat
she should be taken there in an open coffin ; that the vault
in which she was laid, if covered at all, should be only
covered with glass ; and a lamp should be kept always burn-
ing there. It was arranged that this should be done, and
then he seemed resigned.
Xhey clothed the lovely body in the festal dress she had
herself prepared, and wreathed about her head a garland of
asters, which shone sadly there like melancholy stars. To
decorate the bier and the church and chapel, the gardens were
robbed of their beauty : they lay desolate, as if a premature
winter had blighted all their loveliness. At early morning
she was borne in an open coffin out of the castle, and the
heavenly features were once more reddened with the rising
sun. The mourners crowded about her as she was beinor
taken along. None would go before, none would follow,
every one would be where she was, every one would enjoy
lier presence for the last time. Not one of all present, men,
women, boys, remained unmoved ; least of all to be consoled
were the girls, who felt most immediately what they had
lost.
Nanny was not present : it had been thought better not to
allow it, and they had kept secret from her the day and the
hour of the funert^l. She was at her parent's house, closely
watched, in a room looking towards the garden. But, when
she heard the bells tolling, she knew too well what they
meant ; and her attendant having left her out of curiosity
to see the funeral, she escaped out of the window into a
passage, and from thence, finding all the doors locked, into
an upper open loft. At this moment the funeral was passing
through the village, which had been all freshly strewed with
leaves. Nanny saw her mistress plainly close below her,
more plainly, more entirely, than any one in the procession
underneath ; she appeared to be lifted above the earth, borne
as it were on clouds or waves : and the girl fancied she was
making signs to her ; her senses swam ; she tottered, swayed
herself for a moment on the edge, and fell to the ground.
The crowd fell asunder on all sides with a cry of horror. In
tlie tumult and confusion, the bearers were obliged to set
336 ELECTIVE AFFINITIES.
down the coffin ; the girl lay close by it ; it seemed as if
every limb was broken. They lifted her up, and by accident
or providentially she was allowed to lean over the body : she
appeared, indeed, to be endeavoring, with what remained to
her of life, to reach her beloved mistress. Scarcely, however,
had the loosely hanging limbs touched Ottilie's robe, and the
powerless finger rested on the folded hands, than the girl
started up, and, first raising her arms and eyes towards
heaven, flung herself down upon her knees before the coffin,
and gazed with passionate devotion at her mistress.
At last she sprang, as if inspired, from off the ground,
and cried with a voice of ecstasy, " Yes, she has forgiven
me what no man, what I myself, could never have forgiven.
God forgives me througli her look, her motion, her lips. Now
she is lying again so still and quiet ; but you saw how she
raised herself up, and unfolded her hands and blessed me,
and how kindly she looked at me. You all heard, you can
witness, that she said to me, ' You are forgiven.' I am not a
murderess any more. She has forgiven me. God has for-
given me, and no one may now say any thing more against
me."
The people stood crowding around her. They were
amazed : they listened, and looked this way and that ; and no
one knew what should next be done. '^ Bear her on to her
rest," said the girl. " She has done her part: she has suf-
fered, and cannot now remain any more among us." The
bier moved on, Nanny now following it ; and thus they
teached the church and the chapel.
So now stood the coffin of Ottilie, with the child's coffin
at her head, and her box at her feet, enclosed in a resting-
place of massive oak. A woman had been provided to watch
the body for the first part of the time, as it lay there so
beautifully beneath its glass covering. But Nanny would not
permit this duty to be taken from herself. She would remain
alone without a companion, and attend to the lamp which
was now kindled for the first time ; and she begged to be
allowed to do it with so much eagerness and perseverance,
that they let her have her way, to prevent any greater evil
that might ensue.
But she did not long remain alone. As night was falling,
and the hanging lamp began to exercise its full right and
shed abroad a larger lustre, the door opened, and the archi-
tect entered the chapel. The chastely ornamented walls ia
the mild light looked more strange, more awful, more antique,
ELECTIVE AFFINITIES. 33t
than he was prepared to see them. Nanny was sitting on
one side of the coffin. She recognized him immediately, but
she pointed in silence to the pale form of her mistress.
And there stood he on the other side, in the vigor of youth
and of grace, with his arms drooping, and his hands clasped
piteously together, motionless, with liead and eye inclined
over the inanimate body.
Once already he had stood thus before in the " Belisarius : "
he had now involuntarily fallen into the same attitude. And
this time how naturally ! Here, too, was something of inesti-
mable worth thrown down from its high estate. There were
courage, prudence, power, rank, and wealth in one single
man, lost irrevocably ; there were qualities which, in decisive
moments, had been of indispensable service to the nation
and the prince, but which, Avhen the moment was passed,
were no more valued, but flung aside and neglected, and cared
for no longer. And here were many other silent virtues,
which had been summoned but a little time before by nature
out of the depths of her treasures, and now swept rapidly
away again by her careless hand, — rare, sweet, lovely vir-
tues, whose peaceful workings the thirsty world had wel-
comed, while it had them, with gladness and jo}^ and- now
was sorrowing for them in unavailing desire.
Both the youth and the girl were silent for a long time.
But when she saw the tears streaming fast down his cheeks,
and he appeared to be sinking under the burden of his sor-
row, she spoke to him with so much truthfulness and power,
with such kindness and such confidence, that, astonished at
the flow of her words, he was able to recover himself ; and
he saw his beautiful friend floating before him in the new life
of a higher world. His tears ceased flowing ; his sorrow
grew lighter : on his knees he took leave of Ottilie ; and,
vrith a warm pressure of the hand of Nanny, he rode away
from the spot into the night without having seen a single
other person.
The surgeon had, without the girl being aware of it, re-
mained all night in the church ; and, when he went in the
morning to see her, he found her cheerful and tranquil, lie
was prepared for wild aberrations. He thought that she
would be sure to speak to him of conversations which she had
held in the night with Ottilie, and of other such apparitions.
But she was natural, quiet, and perfectly self-possessed. She
remembered accurately what had happened m her previous
life: she could describe the circumstances of it with the
338 ELECTIVE AFFINITIES.
greatest exactness, and never, in any thing which she said,
stepped out of the course of what was real and natural, ex-
cept in her account of what had passed with the body, which
she delighted to repeat again and again, how Ottilie had
raised herself up, had blessed her, had forgiven her, and
thereby set her at rest forever.
Ottilie remained so long in her beautiful state, which more
resembled sleep than death, that a number of persons were
attracted there to look at her. The neighbors and the vil-
lagers wished to see her again, and ever}^ one desired to hear
Nanny's incredible story from her own mouth. Many laughed
at it, most doubted, and some few were found who were able
to believe.
Difficulties, for which no real satisfaction is attainable,
compel us to faith. Before the eyes of all the world, Nanny's
limbs had been broken, and by touching the sacred body she
had been restored to strength again. Why should not others
find similar good fortune ? Delicate mothers first privately
brought their children who were suffering from obstinate dis-
orders, and they believed that they could trace an immediate
improvement. The confidence of the people increased, and
at last there was no one so old or so weak as not to have
come to seek fresh life and health and strength at this place.
The concourse became so great, that they were obliged, ex-
cept at the hours of divine service, to keep the church and
chapel closed.
Edward did not venture to look at her again : he lived on
mechanically ; he seemed to have no tears left, and to be
incapable of any further suffering ; his power of taking in-
terest in what was going on diminished every day ; his appe-
tite gradually failed. The only refreshment which did him
any good was what he drank out of the glass, which to him,
indeed, had been but an untrue prophet. He continued to
gaze at the intertwining initials, and the earnest cheerfulness
of his expression seemed to signify that he still hoped to be
united with her at last. And as every little circumstance
combines to favor the fortunate, and every accident con-
tributes to elate him ; so do the most trifling occurrences love
to unite to crush and overwhelm the unhappy. One day, as
Edward raised the beloved glass to his lips, he put it down,
and thrust it from him with a shudder. It was the same,
and not the same. He missed a little private mark upon
it. The valet was questioned, and had to confess that the
real glass had not long since been broken, and that one like
ELECTIVE AFFINITIES. 339
it, belonging to the same set, had been substituted in its
place.
Edward could not be angry. His destiny had spoken out
with sufficient clearness in the fact, and how should he be
affected by the shadow? and yet it touched him deeply. He
seemed now to dislike taking any beverage, and thencefor-
ward purposely to abstain from food and from speaking.
But from time to time a sort of restlessness came over
him : he would desire to eat and drink something, and would
begin again to speak. "Ah!" he said one day to the
major, who now seldom left his side, "how unhappy I am
that all my efforts are but imitations ever, and false and
fruitless. What was blessedness to her, is pain to me ; and
yet, for the sake of this blessedness, I am forced to take
this pain upon myself. I must go after her, follow her by
the same road. But my nature and my promise hold me
back. It is a terrible difficulty, indeed, to imitate the inim-
itable. I feel clearly, my dear friend, that genius is required
for every thing, — for martyrdom as well as the rest."
What shall we say of the endeavors which, in this hope-
less condition, were made for him? His wife, his friends,
his physician, incessantly labored to do something for him.
But it was all in vain : at last they found him dead. Mittler
was the first to make the melancholy discovery : he called
the physician, and examined closely, with his usual presence
of mind, the circumstances under which he had been found.
Charlotte rushed in ; for she was afraid that he had com-
mitted suicide, and accused herself and accused others of
unpardonable carelessness. But the pliysician on natural,
and Mittler on moral, grounds, were soon able to satisfy her
of the contrary. It was quite clear that Edward's end had
taken him by surprise. In a quiet moment he had taken
out of his pocket-book and out of a casket every thing which
remained to him as memorials of Ottilie, and had spread
them out before him, — a lock of hair, flowers which had been
gathered in some happy hour, and every letter which she had
written to him from the first, which his wife had ominously
happened to give him. It was impossible that he would
intentionally have exposed these to the danger of being seen
by the first person who might happen to discover him.
But so lay the heart, which, but a short time before, had
been so swift and eager, at rest now, where it could never
be disturbed ; and falling asleep, as he did, with his thoughts
on one so saintly, he might well be called blessed. Char-
340 ELECTIVE AFFINITIES.
lotte gave him his place at Ottilie's side, and arranged that
thenceforth no other person should be placed with them in
the same vault.
In order to secure this, she made it a condition under which
she settled considerable sums of money on the church and
the school.
So lie the lovers, sleeping side by side. Peace hovers
above their resting-place. Fair angel faces gaze down upon
them from the vaulted ceiling ; and what a happy moment
that will be when one day they wake again together I
Tales.
THE GOOD WOMEN.
Henrietta and Armidoro had been for some time engaged
in walking throiigli the garden, in which the Summer Chib
was accustomed to assemble. It had long been their prac-
tice to arrive before the other members ; for they entertained
the warmest attachment to each other, and their pure and
virtnous friendship fostered the delightful hope that they
would shortly be united in the bonds of unchanging affection.
Henrietta, who was of a lively disposition, no sooner per-
ceived her friend Amelia approach the summer-house from a
distance, than she ran to welcome her. The latter was
already seated at a table in the ante-chamber, where the
newspapers, journals, and other recent publications, lay
displayed.
It was her custom to spend occasional evenings in reading
in this apartment, without paying attention to the company
who came and went, or suffering herself to be disturbed by
the rattling of the dice, or the loud conversation which pre-
vailed at the gaming-tables. She spoke little, except for the
purpose of rational conversation. Henrietta, on the con-
trary, was not so sparing of her words ; being of an easily
satisfied disposition, and ever ready with expressions of
commendation. They were soon joined by a third person,
whom we shall call Sinclair. '' What news do you bring? "
exclaimed Henrietta, addressing him as he approached.
''You will scarcely guess," replied Sinclair, as he opened
a portfolio. '' And even if I inform you that I have brought
for your inspection the engravings intended for the ' Ladies'
Almanac ' of this year, you will hardly guess the subjects
they portray ; but when I tell you that young ladies are rep-
resented in a series of twelve engravings *' —
aa
342 THE GOOD WOMEN.
"Indeed! " exclaimed Henrietta, interrupting him, "you
have no intention, I perceive, of putting our ingenuity to
the test. You jest, if I mistake not ; for you know how I
delight in riddles and charades, and in guessing my friends'
enigmas. Twelve young ladies, you say, — sketches of char-
acter, I suppose ; some adventures or situations, or some-
thing else that redounds to the honor of the sex."
Sinclair smiled in silence ; whilst Amelia watched him with
calm composure, and then remarked, with that tine sarcastic
tone which so well became her, " If I read his countenance
truly, he has something to produce of which we shall not
quite approve. Men are so fond of discovering something
which shall have the appearance of turning us into ridi-
cule."
Sinclair. — You are becoming serious, Amelia, and threat-
en to grow satirical. I shall scarcely venture to open my
little packet.
Henrietta, — Oh! produce it.
Sinclair. — They are caricatures.
Henrietta. — I love them of all things.
Sinclair. — Sketches of naughty ladies.
Henrietta. — So much the better : we do not belong to
that class. Their portraits would afford us as little pleasure
as their society.
Sinclair. — Shall I show them ?
Henrietta. — Do so at once.
So saying, she snatched the portfolio from him, took out
the pictures, spread six of them upon the table, glanced over
them hastily, and then shuffled them together as if they had
been a pack of cards. " Capital ! " she exclaimed : " they
are done to the very life. This one, for instance, holding a
pinch of snuff to her nose, is the very image of Madame
S , whom we shall meet this evening ; and this old lady
with the cat is not unlike my grand-aunt ; that figure holding
the skein of thread resembles oar old milliner. We can
find an original for every one of these ugly figures ; and
even amongst the men, I have somewhere or other seen such
an old fellow bent double, and also a close resemblance to
the figure holding the thread. They are full of fun, these
engravings, and admirably executed."
Amelia, who had glanced carelessly at the pictures and
instantly withdrawn her eyes, inquired how they could look
for resemblances in such things. "One deformity is like
another, just as the beautiful ever resembles the beautiful.
THE GOOD WOxMEN. 343
Onr miuds are iircsistil)!}' attracted by the latter in the same
degree as they are repelled by the former.
Sinclair. — But our fancy and our wit find more amuse-
ment in deformity than in beauty. Much can be made of
the former, but nothing at all of the latter.
''But beauty exalts, whilst deformity degrades, us," ob-
served Armidoro, who, from his post at the window, had
paid silent attention to all that had occurred. Without ap-
proaching the table, he now withdrew into the adjoining
cabinet.
All clubs have their peculiar epochs. The interest the
members take in each other, and their friendly agreement,
are of a fluctuating character. The club of which we speak
had now attained its zenith. The members were, for the
most part, men of refinement, or at least of calm and quiet
deportment : they mutually recognized each other's value,
and allowed all want of merit to find its own level. Each
one sought his own individual amusement, and the general
conversation was often of a nature to attract attention.
At this time, a gentleman named Seyton arrived, accom-
panied by his wife. He was a man who had seen much of
the world, first from his engagement in business, and after-
wards in political affairs : he was, moreover, an agreeable
companion ; although, in mixed society, he was chiefly re-
markable for his talent as a card-player. His wife was a
worthy woman, kind and faithful, and enjoying the most
perfect confidence and esteem of her husband. She felt
happy that she could now give uncontrolled indulgence to
her taste for pleasure. At home she could not exist without
a companion, and she found in amusement and diversions
the only incentive to home enjoyment.
We must treat our readers as strangers, or rather as vis-
itors to the club ; and in full confidence we must introduce
them speedily to our new society. A poet paints his char-
acters by describing their actions : we must adopt a shorter
course, and by a hasty sketch introduce our readers rapidly
to the scenes.
Seyton approached the table and looked at the pictures.
"A discussion has arisen," observed Henrietta, "with
respect to caricatures. What side do you take? I am in
favor of them, and wish to know whether all caricatures do
not possess something irresistil)ly attractive? "
Amelia. — And does not every evil calumny, provide it
relate to the absent, also possess an incredible charm?
344 THE GOOD WOMEN.
Henrietta. — But does not a sketch of this kind produce
an indelible impression ?
Amelia. — And that is just the reason wh}" I condemn it.
Is not the indelible impression of what is disagreeable pre-
cisely the evil which so constantly pursues us in life and
destroys our greatest enjoyments ?
Henrietta. — P'avor us, Seyton, with j^'our opinion.
Seyton. — I should propose a compromise. Why should
our pictures be better than ourselves? Our nature seems
to have two sides, which cannot exist separately. Light
and darkness, good and evil, height and depth, virtue and
vice, and a thousand other contradictions unequally dis-
tributed, appear to constitute the component parts of human
nature ; and why, therefore, should 1 blame an artist, who,
whilst he paints an angel bright, brilliant, and beautiful, on
the other hand paints a devil black, ugly, and hateful?
Amelia. — There could be no objection to such a course,
if caricaturists did not introduce within their province sub-
jects which belong to higher spheres.
Seyton. — So far, 1 think you perfectly right. But artists,
whose province is the Beautiful alone, also appropriate what
does not precisely belong to them.
Amelia. — I have no patience, however, with caricaturists
who ridicule the portraits of eminent men. In spite of my
better sense, I can never consider that great man Pitt as any
thing else than a snub-nosed broomstick ; and Fox, who was
in many respects an estimable character, any thing better
than a pig stuffed to its utmost capacity.
Heririetta. — Precisely my view. Caricatures of such a
nature make an indelible impression, and I cannot deny that
it often affords amusement to evoke their recollection and
pervert them even into worse distortions.
Sinclair. — But, ladies, allow us to revert for a moment
from this discussion to a consideration of our engravings.
Seyton. — I observe that a fancy for dogs is here deline-
ated in no very flattering manner.
Amelia. — I have no objection, for I detest these animals.
Sinclair. — First an enemy to caricatures, and then un-
friendly to the dog tribe.
Amelia. — And why not? What are such animals but
caricatures of men?
Seyton. — You probably remember what a certain traveller
relates of the city of Gratz, '• that the place was full of dogs,
and of dumb persons half idiotic." Might it not be possible
THE GOOD WOMEN. 345
that the habitual sight of so many barking, senseless animals
should have pi-oduced an effect upon the human race ?
Sinclair. — Our attachment to animals deteriorates our
passions and affections.
Amelia, — But if our reason, according to the general
expression, is sometimes capable of standing still, it may
surely do so in the presence of dogs.
Sinclair. — Fortunately there is no one in our company
who cares for dogs but Madame Seyton. She is very much
attached to her pretty greyhound.
Seyton. — And that same animal is particularly dear and
valuable to her husband.
Madame Seyton, from a distance, raised her finger in
threat of her husband.
Seyton. — I know a proof that such animals detach our
affections from their legitimate objects. May I not, my
dear child (addressing his wife), relate our anecdote? We
need not be ashamed of it.
Madame Seyton signified her assent by a friendly nod, and
he commenced his narration.
"We loved each other, and had entered into an engage-
ment to marry before we had well considered the possibility
of supporting an establishment. At length better hopes
began to dawn, when I was unexpectedly compelled to set
out upon a journey which threatened to last longer than I
could have wished. On my departure I forgot my favor-
ite greyhound. It had often been in the habit of accompany-
ing me to the house of my betrothed, sometimes returning
with me, and occasionally remaining behind. It now became
her property, was a cheerful companion, and reminded her
of my return. At home the little animal afforded much
amusement ; and in the promenades, where we had so often
walked together, it seemed constantly engaged in looking
for me, and barked as if announcing me, as it sprang from
among the trees. My darling little Meta amused itself thus
for a considerable time by fancying me really present, until
at length, about the time when I had hoped to return, the
period of my absence being again indefinitely prolonged, the
poor animal pined away and died."
Madame Seyton. — Just so, dear husband. And your
narrative is sweetly interesting.
Seyton. — You are quite at liberty to interrupt me, my
dear, if you think fit. My friend's house now seemed deso-
late ; her walks had lost all their interest ; her favorite dog,
846 THE GOOD WOMEN.
which had ever been at her side when she wrote to me, had
grown to he an actual necessity of existence ; and her letters
were now discontinued. She found, however, some conso-
lation in the company of a handsome youth, who evinced an
anxiety to fill the place of her former four-footed com-
panion, both in the house and on her walks. But without
enlarging on this subject, and let me be ever so inimical to
rash judgments, I may say that matters began to assume a
rather critical appearance.
Madame Seijton. — 1 must let you continue. A story
which is all truth, and wholly free from exaggeration, is
seldom worth hearing.
Seyton. — A mutual friend, versed in the world, and
acquainted with human nature, continued to reside near my
dear friend after my departure. He paid frequent visits at
her house, and had noticed the change she had undergone.
He formed his plan in secrecy, and called upon her one day,
accompanied by a greyhound which precisely resembled
mine. The cordially affectionate and appropriate address
with which he accompanied his present, the unexpected
appearance of a favorite which seemed to have risen from
the grave, the silent rebuke with which her susceptible heart
reproached her at the sight, brought back to her mind a
lively recollection of me. My 3^oung friend, who had
hitherto filled my place, accordingly received his conge in
the politest manner possible ; and the new favorite was
retained by the lady as her constant companion. When,
upon my return, I held my beloved in my embrace, I thought
the greyhound was my own, and wondered not a little that
he barked at me as at a stranger. I thought that dogs of
the present day had far less faithful memories than those of
classical times, and observed that Ulysses had been remem-
bered by his dog after many years' absence, whilst mine had
forgotten me in an incredibly short space of time. ''And
yet he has taken good care of your Penelope," she replied,
promising at the same time to explain her mysterious speech.
This was soon done, for cheerful confidence has at all times
caused the happiness of our union.
Madame Seyton. — Well, now, conclude with the anec-
dote. If you please, I will walk for an hour ; for you
intend doubtless to sit down to the card-table.
He nodded his assent. She took the arm of her com-
panion, and went towards the door. "Take the dog witl)
you, ray dear! " he exclaimed as she departed. The entire
THE GOOD WOMEN. 347
company smiled, as did Seyton also, when he saw how apt
had been his unintentional observation ; and every one else
silently felt a trifling degree of malicious satisfaction.
Sinclair. ■ — You have told us of a dog that was happily
instrumental in promoting a marriage : I can tell of another
whose influence destroyed one. I was also once in love,
and it was also my fate to set out upon a journey ; and
I also left my love behind me, with this difference : my wish
to possess her was as yet unknown to her. At length I
returned. The many adventures in which I had engaged
were strongly imprinted upon my mind. Like all travellers
I was fond of recounting them, and I hoped by this means
to win the attention and S3aiipathy of ray beloved. I was
anxious that she should know all the experience I had
acquired, and the pleasures I had enjoyed. But I found
that her attention was wholly directed to a dog. Whether
this was done from that spirit of opposition which so often
characterizes the fair sex, or whether it arose from some
unlucky accident, it so happened that the amiable qualities
of the dog, their pretty amusements, and her attachment to
the little animal, were the sole topics of conversation which
she could find for a lover who had long been passionately
devoted to her. I marvelled, and ceased speaking ; then
related various other circumstances I had reserved for her
whilst I was absent. I then felt vexed at her coldness, and
took my leave, but soon returned with feelings of self-
reproach, and became even more unhappy than before.
Under these circumstances our attachment cooled, our ac-
quaintance was discontinued ; and I felt in my heart that I
might attribute the misfortune to a dog.
Armidoro, who had once more joined the compau}^ from
the cabinet, observed, upon hearing the anecdote, "that it
would be interesting to make a collection of stories showing
the influence social animals of the lower order exercise over
mankind. In the expectation that such a collection will be
one day made, I will relate an anecdote to show how a dog
was the cause of a very tragical occurrence.
" Ferrand and Cardano, two noblemen, had been attached
friends from their very earliest youth. As court-pages, and
as officers In the same regiment, they had shared many
adventures together, and had become thoroughly acquainted
with each other's dispositions. Cardano's attraction was
the fair sex, whilst Ferrand had a passion for gambling.
The former was thoughtless and haughty, tlie latter suspi-
348 THE GOOD WOMEN.
cious and reserved. It happened, at a time when Cardano
was accidentally obliged to break off a certain tender attach-
ment, that he left a beautiful little pet spaniel behind him.
He soon procured another, which he afterwards presented to
a second lady, from whom he was about to separate ; and
from that time, upon taking leave of every new female
friend with whom he had become intimate, he invariably
presented her with a similar little spaniel. Ferrand was
aware of Cardano's peculiar habit in this respect, but he
never paid much attention to the circumstance.
"The different pursuits of the two friends at length
caused a long separation between them ; and, when they
next met, Ferrand had become a married man, and was
leading the life of a countr}^ gentleman. Cardano spent
some time with him, either at his house or in the neighbor-
hood, where, as he had many relations and friends, he
resided for nearly a year.
"Upon his departure, Ferrand's attention was attracted
by a very beautiful spaniel of which his wife had lately
become possessed. He took it in his arms, admired its
beauty, stroked it, praised it, and inquired where she had
obtained so charming an animal. She replied, ' From Car-
dano.' He was at once struck with the memory of by-gone
times and events, and with a recollection of the significant
memorial with which Cardano was accustomed to mark his
insincerity : he felt oppressed with the indignity of an
injured husband, raged violently, flung the innocent little
animal with fury to the earth, and ran from the apartment
amid the cries of the spaniel and the supplications of his
astonished wife. A fearful dispute and countless disagree-
able consequences ensued, which, though they did not pro-
duce an actual divorce, ended in a mutual agreement to
separate ; and a ruined household was the termination of
this adventure."
The story was not quite finished when Eulalia entered the
apartment. She was a young lady whose society was uni-
versally sought after ; and she formed one of the most
attractive ornaments of the club, — an accomplished woman
and successful authoress.
The female caricatures were laid before her with which a
clever artist had sinned against the fair sex, and she was
invited to defend her good sisterhood.
"Probably," said Amelia, "a collection of these charm-
ing portraits is intended for the almanac, and possibly some
THE GOOD WOMEN. 349
celebrated author will undertake the witty task of explaining
in words what the ingenious artist has represented in his
pictures."
Sinclair felt that the pictures were not worthy of utter
condemnation ; nor could he deny that some sort of explana-
tion of their meaning was necessary, as a caricature wiiich
is not understood is worthless, and is, in fact, only valuable
for its application. For, however the ingenious artist may
endeavor to display his wit, he cannot always succeed ; and
without a title or an explanation his labor is lost : words
alone can give it value.
Amelia. — Then, let words bestow a value upon this little
picture. A young lady has fallen asleep in an arm-chair,
having been engaged, as it appears, with some sort of writ-
ing. Another lady, who stands by weeping, presents a
small box, or something else, to her companion. What can
it mean?
Sinclair. — Am I, after all, to explain it, notwithstanding
that the ladies seem but ill disposed both to caricatures and
their expounders ? I am told that it is intended to represent
an authoress, who was accustomed to compose at night : she
always obliged her maid to hold her inkstand, and forced the
poor creature to remain in that posture, even when she her-
self had been overcome by sleep, and the office of her maid
had thus been rendered useless. She was desirous, on
awaking, to resume the thread of her thoughts and of her
composition, and wished to find her pen and ink ready at the
same moment.
Arbon, a thoughtful artist who had accompanied Eulalia,
declared war against the picture. He observed, that to de-
lineate this circumstance, or whatever it may be called, an-
other course should have been adopted.
Henrietta. — Let us, then, compose the picture afresh.
Arbon. — But let us first of all consider the subject atten-
tively. It seems natural enough that a person employed in
writing should cause the inkstand to be held, if the cir-
cumstances are such that no place can be found to set it
down. So Brantome's grandmother held the inkstand for
the Queen of Navarre, when the latter, reposing in her
litter, composed the history which we have all read with so
much pleasure. Again, that any one who writes in bed should
cause his inkstand to be held, is quite conceivable. But tell
us, pretty Henrietta, you who are so fond of questioning and
guessing, tell us wliat the artist should have done to repre-
sent this subject properl)^.
350 THE GOOD AVOMEN.
Henrietta. — He ought to have removed the table, and
given the sleeper such an attitude, that nothing should ap-
pear at hand upon which an inkstand could be placed.
Arbon. — Quite right. I should have drawn her in a well-
cushioned easy-chair, of the fashion which, if I mistake not,
are called Berg^res : she should have been near the fireplace,
and presenting a front view to the spectator. I should sup-
pose her to be engaged in writing upon her knee^ for usually
one becomes uncomfortable in exacting an inconvenience from
another. The paper sinks upon her lap, the pen from her
hand ; and a sweet maiden stands near, holding the inkstand
with a forlorn look.
Henrietta. — Quite right. But here we have an inkstand
upon the table already ; and what is to be done, therefore, with
the inkstand in the hand of the maiden? It is not easy to
conceive why she should seem to be wiping away her
tears.
Sinclair. — Here I defend the artist : he allows scope for
the ingenuity of the commentator.
Arbon. — Who will probably be engaged in exercising his
wit upon the headless men that hang against the wall.
This seems to me a clear proof of the inevitable confusion
that arises from uniting arts between which there is no
natural connection. If we were not accustomed to see en-
gravings with explanations appended to them, the evil would
cease. I have no objection that a clever artist should at-
tempt witty representations ; but they are difficult to execute,
and he should at all events endeavor to make his subject in-
dependent of explanations. I could even tolerate remarks
and little sentences issuing from the mouths of his figures,
provided he turn his own commentator.
Sinclair. — But, if you allow such a thing as a witty pic-
ture, you must admit that it is intended only for persons
of intelligence ; it can possess an attraction for none but
those conversant with the occurrences of the day : why, then,
should we object to a commentator who enables us to under-
stand the nature of the intellectual amusement prepared for
us?
Arbon. — I have no objection to explanations of pic-
tures which fail to explain themselves. But they should be
short and to the point. AVit is for the well-informed, they
alone can understand a witty work ; and the productions of
by-gone times and foreign lands are completely lost upon us.
It is all well cjiough with the aid of such notes as we find
THE GOOD WOMEN. 351
appended to Rabelais and Hndiln'as, but what should wo say
of an author who should find it necessary to write one witty
work to elucidate another? Wit, even when fresh from its
fountain, is oftentimes feeble enough : it will scarcely become
stronger by passing through two or three hands.
Sinclair. — How I wish, that, instead of thus arguiug,
we could assist our friend, the owner of these pictures,
who would be glad to hear the opinions that have been
expressed.
Armidoro. — (Coming from the cabinet.) I perceive that
the company is still engaged with these much-censured pic-
tures : had they produced a pleasant impression, they would
doubtless have been laid aside lono- ao;o.
Amelia.. — I propose that that be their fate now ; the
owner must be requii'ed to make no use of them. What !
a dozen and more hateful, objectionable pictures to appear
in a Ladies' Almanac ! Can the man be blind to his own
interest? He will ruin his speculation. What lover will pre-
sent a copy to his mistress, what husband to his wife, what
father to his daughter, when the first glance will display such
a libel upon the sex?
Armidoro. — I have a proposal to make. These objec-
tionable pictures are not the first of the kind which have ap-
peared in the best almanacs. Our celebrated Chodoviecki
has, in his collection of monthly engravings, already repre-
sented scenes, not only untrue to nature, but low, and devoid
of all pretensions to taste ; but how did he do it ? Opposite
the pictures I allude to, he delineated others of a most
charming character, — scenes in perfect harmony with nature,
the result of a high education, of long study, and of an innate
taste for the Good and Beautiful. Let us go a step beyond
the editor of the proposed almanac, and act in opposition
to his project. If the intelligent artist has chosen to por-
tray the dark side of his subject, let our author or authoress,
if I may dare to express my view, choose the bright side to
exercise her talents, and so form a complete work. I shall
not longer delay, Eulalia, to unite my own wishes to this
proposal. Undertake a description of good female charac-
ters. Create the opposite to these engravings, and employ
the charm of your pen, not tq elucidate these pictures, but to
annihilate them.
Sinclair. — Do, Eulalia. Render us that favor : make
haste and promise !
Eulalia. — Authors are ever apt to promise too easily,
352 THE GOOD WOMEN.
because they hope for ability to execute their wishes ; but
experience has rendered me cautious. And even if I
could foresee the necessary leisure, within so short a space
of time, I should yet hesitate to undertake the arduous
duty. The praises of our sex should be spoken by a man,
— a young, ardent, loving man. A degree of enthusiasm is
requisite for the task, and who has enthusiasm for one's own
sex?
Armidoro. — I should prefer intelligence, justice, and
delicacy of taste.
Sinclair. — And who can discourse better on the char-
acter of good women than the authoress from whose fairy-tale
of yesterday we all derived such pleasure and so much incom-
parable instruction?
Eulalia. — The fairy-tale was not mine.
Sinclair. — Not yours ?
Armidoro. — To that I can bear witness.
Sinclair. — But still it was a lady's?
Eulalia. — The production of a friend.
Sinclair. — Then, there are two Eulalias.
Eulalia. — Many, perhaps ; and better than —
Armidoro. — Will you relate to the company what you so
lately confided to me ? You will all hear with astonishment
how this delightful production originated.
Eulalia. — A 3'oung lady, with whose great excellence I
became accidentally acquainted upon a journey, found her-
self once in a situation of extreme perplexity, the circum-
stances of which it would be tedious to narrate. A gentleman
to whom she was under many obligations, and who finally
offered her his hand, having won her entire esteem and confi-
dence, in a moment of weakness obtained from her the privi-
leges of a husband before their vows of love had been
cemented by marriage. Some peculiar circumstances com-
pelled him to travel ; and, in the retirement of a country
residence, she anticipated with fear and apprehension the
moment when she should become a mother. She used to
write to me daily, and informed me of every circumstance
that happened. But there was shortly nothing more to
fear — she now needed only patience ; and I observed, from
the tone of her letters, that she began to reflect with a dis-
turbed mind upon all that had already occurred, and upon
what was yet to take place in her regard. I determined, there-
fore, to address her in an earnest tone, on the duty she owed
DO less to herself than to her infant, whose support, partic-
THE GOOD WOMEN. 353
ularly at the commencement of its existence, depended so
much upon her mind being free from anxiety. I sought to
console and to cheer her, and happened to send her several
volumes of fairy-tales she had wished to read. Her
own desire to escape from the burden of her melancholy
thoughts, and the arrival of these books, formed a remark-
able coincidence. She could not help reflecting frequently
upon her peculiar fate ; and she therefore adopted the expe-
dient of clothing all her past sorrowful adventures, as well as
her painful apprehensions for the future, in a garb of ro-
mance. The events of her past life, — her attachment, her
passion, her errors, and her sweet maternal cares, — no less
than her present sad condition, were all embodied by her
imagination in forms vivid, though impalpable, and passed
before her mind in a varied succession of strange and un-
earthly fancies. Pen in hand, she spent many a day and
night noting down her reflections.
Amelia. — In which occupation she must have found it
difficult to hold her inkstand.
Eulalia. — Thus did I acquire the rare collection of letters
which I now possess. They are all picturesque, strange, and
romantic. I never received from her an account of any thing
actual, so that I sometimes trembled for her reason. Her
own situation, the birth of her infant, her sweet affection for
her offspring, her joys, her hopes, and her maternal fears,
were all treated as events of another world, from which she
only expected to be liberated by the arrival of her husband.
On her nuptial day she concluded the fairy-tale which you
heard recited yesterday, almost in her own words, and which
derives its chief interest from the unusual circumstances
under which it was composed.
The company could not sufficiently express their astonish-
ment at this statement ; and Seyton, who had abandoned his
place at the gaming-table to another person, now entered the
apartment, and made inquiries concerning the subject of con-
versation. He was briefly informed that it related to a fairy-
tale, which, partly founded on facts, had been composed by
the fantastic imagination of a mind not altogether sound.
" It is a great pity," he remarked, " that private diaries
are so completely out of fashion. Twenty years ago they
were in general use, and many persons thought they possessed
a veritable treasure in the record of their daily thoughts. I
recollect a very worthy lady upon whom this custom entailed
a sad misfortune. A certain governess had been accustomed
Vol 3 Goethe — 12
354 THE GOOD WOMEN.
from her earliest youth to keep a regular diary ; and, in fact,
she considered its composition to form an indispensable part
of her daily duties. 8 lie continued the habit when she grew
up, and did not lay it aside even when she married. Her
memorandums were not looked upon by her as absolute
secrets, she had no occasion for such mystery ; and she fre-
quently read passages from it for the amusement of her
friends and of her husband. But the book in its entirety
was intrusted to nobody. The account of her husband's
attachment had been entered in her diary with the same
minuteness with which she had formerly noted down the
ordinary occurrences of the day ; and the entire history of
her own affectionate feelings had been described from their
first opening hour until they had ripened into a passion, and
at length become a rooted habit. Upon one occasion this
diary accidentally fell in her husband's way, and the perusal
afforded him a strange entertainment. He had undesignedly
approached the writing-desk upon which the book lay, and,
without suspicion or intention, had read through an entire
page which was open before him. He took the opportunity
of referring to a few previous and subsequent passages, and
then retired with the comfortable assurance that it was l;iigh
time to discontinue the disagreeable amusement."
Henrietta. — But, according to the wish of my friend, our
conversation should be confined to good women ; and already
we are turning to those' who can scarcely be counted among
the best.
Seyton. — Why this constant reference to bad and good ?
Should we not be quite as well contented with others as with
ourselves, either as we have been formed by nature, or im-
proved by education?
Armidoro. — I think it would be at once pleasant and use-
ful to arrange and collect a series of anecdotes such as we
have heard narrated, and many of which are founded on
real occurrences. Light and delicate traits which mark the
characters of men are well worthy of our attention, even
though they give birth to no extraordinary adventures. They
are useless to writers of romance, being devoid of all exciting
interest ; and worthless to the tribe of anecdote-collectors,
for they are for the most part destitute of wit and spirit ; but
they would always prove entertaining to a reader who, in a
mood of quiet contemplation, should wish to studv the gen-
eral characteristics of mankind.
Sinclair. — Well said. And, if we had only thought of so
THE GOOD WOMEN. 355
praiseworthy a work a little earlier, we might have assisted
our friend, the editor of the " Ladies' Calendar," by compos-
ing a dozen anecdotes, if not of model women, at least of
well-behaved personages, to balance his catalogue of naughty
ladies.
Amelia. — I should be particularly pleased with a collection
of incidents to show how a woman forms the very soul and
existence of a household ; and this because the artist has
introduced a sketch of a spendthrift and improvident wife,
to the defamation of our sex.
Seyton. — I can furnish Amelia with a case precisely in
point.
Amelia. — Let us hear it. But do not imitate the usual
custom of men who undertake to defend the ladies : they
frequently begin with praise, and end with censure.
Seyton. — Upon this occasion, however, 1 do not fear the
perversion of my intention, through the iufluence of any evil
spirit. A young man once became tenant of a large hotel
which was established in a good situation. Amongst the
qualities which recommend a host, he possessed a more than
ordinary share of good temper ; and, as he had from liis 3'outh
been a friend to the ale-house, he was peculiarly fortunate in
selecting a pursuit in whicli he found it necessary to devote a
considerable portion of the day to his home duties. He was
neither careful nor negligent, and his own good temper exer-
cised a perceptible influence over the numerous guests who
assembled around him.
He had married a young person wlio was of a quiet, pleas-
ing disposition. She paid punctual attention to her business,
was attached to her household pursuits, and loved her hus-
band ; thouo:h she often found fault with him in secret for his
carelessness in money matters. She had, as it were, a great
reverence for ready money : she thoroughly comprehended
its value, and understood the advantage of securing a pro-
vision for herself. Devoid of all activity of disposition, she
had every tendency to avarice. But a small share of avarice
becomes a woman, however ill extravagance may suit her.
Generosity is a manly virtue, but parsimony is becoming in a
woman. This is the rule of nature, and our judgments
must be subservient thereto.
Margaret (for such was the name of this prudent person-
age) was very much dissatisfied with her husband's careless-
ness. Upon occasions when large payments were made to
him by his customers, it was his habit to leave the money
B56 THE GOOD WOMEN.
lying for a considerable time upon the table, and then to
collect it in a basket, from which he afterwards paid it away,
without making it up into packages, and without keeping any
account of its application. His wife plainly perceived, that
even without actual extravagance, where there was such a
total want of system, considerable sums must be wasted.
She was above all things anxious to make her husband
change his negligent habits, and became grieved to observe
that the small savings she collected and so carefully retained
were as nothing in comparison with the money that was
squandered, and determined, therefore, to adopt a rather
dangerous expedient to make her husband open his eyes.
She resolved to defraud him of as much money as possible,
and for this purpose had recourse to an extraordinary plan.
She had observed, that, when he had once counted his money
which he allowed to remain so long upon the table, he never
reckoned it over a second time before putting it away : she
therefore rubbed the bottom of a candlestick with tallow, and
then, apparently without design, placed it near the spot
where the ducats lay exposed, a species of coin for which
she entertained a warm partiality. She thus gained posses-
sion of a few pieces, and subsequently of some other coins,
and was soon sufficiently well satisfied with her success. She
therefore repeated the operation frequently, and entertained
no scruple about employing such evil means to effect so
praiseworthy an object, and tranquillized her conscience by
the reflection that such a mode of abstracting her husband's
money could not be termed robbery, as her hands were not
employed for the purpose. Her secret treasure increased
gradually, and soon became very much greater by the addi-
tion of the ready money she herself received from the cus-
tomers of the hotel, and of which she invariably retained
possession.
She had caii'ied on this practice for a whole year, and,
though she carefully watched her husband, never had reason
to believe that his suspicions were awakened, until at length
he began to grow discontented and unhappy. She induced
him to tell her the cause of his anxiety, and learned that he
was grievously perplexed. After the last payment he had
made of a considerable sum of money, he had laid aside his
rent ; and not only this had disappeared, but he was unable
to meet the demand of his landlord from any other channel :
and as he had always been accustomed to keep his accounts
in his head, and to write down nothing, he could not under-
stand the cause of the deficiency.
THE GOOD WOMEN. 857
Margaret reminded liim of his great carelessness, censnred
his thoughtless manner of receiving and paying away money,
and spoke of his general imprudence. Even his generous
disposition did not escape her remarks ; and, in truth, he
had no excuse to offer for a course of conduct, the conse-
quences of which he had so much reason to regret.
But she could not leave her husband long in this state of
grievous trouble, more especially as she felt a pride in being
able to render him happy once more. Accordingly, to his
great astonishment, on his birthda}-, which she was always
accustomed to celebrate by presenting him with something
useful, she entered his private apartment with a basket filled
with rouleaux of money. The different descriptions of coin
were packed together separately, and the contents carefully
indorsed in a handwriting by no means of the best. It would
be difficult to describe his astonishment at finding before him
the precise sums he had missed, or at his wife's assurance
that they belonged to him. She thereupon circumstantially
described the time and the manner of her abstracting them,
confessed the amount which she had taken, and told also how
much she had saved by her own careful attention. His
despair was now changed into joy ; and the result was, that
he abandoned to his wife all the duty of receiving and pay-
ing away money for the future. His business was carried
on even more prosperously than before ; although, from the
day of which we have spoken, not a farthing ever passed
through his hands. His wife discharged the duty of banker
with extraordinary credit to herself ; no false money was
ever taken ; and the establishment of her complete authority
in the house was the natural and just consequence of her
activity and care ; and, after the lapse of ten years, she and
her husband were in a condition to purchase the hotel for
themselves.
Sinclair. — And so all this truth, love, and fidelity ended
in the wife becoming the veritable mistress. I should like
to know how far the opinion is just that women have a ten-
dency to acquire authority.
Amelia. — There it is again. Censure, you observe, is
sure to follow in the wake of praise.
Armidoro. — Favor us with your sentiments on this sub-
ject, good Eulalia. I think I have observed in your writings
no disposition to defend your sex against this imputation.
Eulalia. — In as far as it is an imputation, I should wish
it were removed by the conduct of our sex. But, where we
358 THE GOOD WOMEN.
have a right to authority, we can need no excuse. We like
authority, because we are human. For what else is authority,
in the sense in which we use it, than a desire for independ-
ence, and the enjoyment of existence as much as possible?
This is a privilege all men seek with determination ; but our
ambition appears, perhaps, more objectionable, because
nature, usage, and social regulations place restraints upon
our sex, whilst they enlarge the authority of men. What
men possess naturally, we have to acquire ; and property ob-
tained by a laborious struggle will always be more obstinately
held than that which is inherited.
Seyton. — But women, as I think, have no reason to com-
plain on that score. As the world goes, they inherit as
much as men, if not more ; and in my opinion it is a much
more difficult task to become a perfect man than a perfect
woman. The phrase, " He shall be thy master," is a formula
characteristic of a barbarous age long since passed away.
Men cannot claim a right to become educated and refined,
without conceding the same privilege to women. As long
as the process continues, the balance is even between them ;
but, as women are more capable of improvement than men,
experience shows that the scale soon turns in their favor.
Armidoro. — There is no doubt, that, in all civilized nations,
women in general are superior to men ; for, where the two
sexes exert a mutual influence on each other, a man cannot
but become more womanly, and that is a disadvantage : but,
when a woman takes after a man, she is a gainer ; for, if she
can improve her own peculiar qualities by the addition of
masculine energy, she becomes an almost perfect being.
Seyton. — I have never considered the subject so deeply.
But I think it is generally admitted that women do rule, and
must continue to do so ; and therefore, whenever I become
acquainted with a young lady, I always inquire upon what
subjects she exercises her authority ; since it must be exer-
cised somewhere.
Amelia, — And thus you establish the point with which you
started ?
Seyton. — And why not? Is not my reasoning as good as
that of philosophers in general, who are convinced by their
experience? Active women, who are given to habits of ac-
quisition and saving, are invariably mistresses at home ;
pretty women, at once graceful and superficial, rule in large
societies ; whilst those who possess more sound accomplish-
ments exert their influence in smaller circles.
THE GOOD WOMEN. 859
Amelia. — And thus we are divided into three classes.
Sinclair. — All honorable, in my opinion; and yet those
three classes do not include the whole sex. There is still a
fourth, to which perhaps we had better not allude, that we
may escape the charge of converting our praise into cen-
sure.
Henrietta. — Then, we must guess the fourth class. Let
us see.
Sinclair. — Well, then, the first three classes were those
whose activity was displayed at home, in large societies, or
in smaller circles.
Henrietta. — What other sphere can there be where we can
exercise our activity?
Sinclair. — There may be many. But I am thinking of
the reverse of activity.
Henrietta. — Indolence ! How could an indolent woman
rule ?
Sinclair. — Why not ?
Henrietta. — In what manner?
Sinclair. — By opposition. Whoever adopts such a course,
either from character or principle, acquires more authority
than one would readily think.
Amelia. — I fear we are about to fall into the tone of
censure so general to men.
Henrietta. — Do not interrupt him, Amelia. Nothing can
be more harmless than these mere opinions ; and we are the
gainers, by learning what other persons think of us. Now,
then, for the fourth class : what about it?
Sinclair. — I think I may speak unreservedly. The class
I allude to does not exist in our country, and does not exist
in France ; because the fair sex, both among us and our gal-
lant neighbors, enjoys a proper degree of freedom. But
in countries where women are under restraint, and debarred
from sharing in public amusements, the class I speak of is
numerous. In a neighboring country, there is a peculiar
name by which ladies of this class are invariably designated.
Henrietta. — You must tell us the name: we can never
guess names.
Sinclair. — Well, I must tell you, they are called roguish.
Henrietta. — A strange appellation.
Sinclair. — Some time ago you took great interest in read-
ing the speculations of Lavater upon physiognomy : do you
remember nothing about roguish countenances in his book?
Henrietta. — It is possible, but it made no impression upon
360 THE GOOD WOMEN.
me. I may, perhaps, have construed the word in its ordinary
sense, and read on without noticing it.
Sinclair. — It is true that the word ''roguish," in its
ordinary sense, is usually applied to a person, who, with
malicious levity, turns another into ridicule ; but, in its pres-
ent sense, it is meant to describe a young lady, who, by her
indifference, coldness, and reserve — qualities which attach
to her as a disease — destroys the happiness of one upon
whom she is dependent. We meet with examples of this
everywhere, sometimes even in our own circle. For instance,
when I have praised a lady for her beauty, I have heard it
said in reply, " Yes ; but she is a bit of a rogue." I even
remember a physician saying to a lady, who complained of
the anxiety she suffered about her maid-servant, " She is a
rogue, and will give a deal of trouble."
Amelia rose from her seat, and left the apartment.
Henrietta. — That seems rather strange.
Sinclair. — I thought so too : and I therefore took a note
of the symptoms, which seemed to mark a disease half moral
and half physical, and framed an essay which I entitled,
" Chapter on Rogues ; " and, as I meant it to form a portion
of a work on general anthropological observations, I have
kept it by me hitherto.
Henrietta. — But you must let us see it ; and, if you know
any interesting anecdotes to elucidate your meaning of the
word '' rogue," they must find a place in our intended col-
lection of novels.
Sinclair. — This may be all very well, but I find I have
failed in the object which brought me hither. I was anxious
to find some one in this gifted assembly to undertake an ex-
planation of these engravings, to recommend some talented
writer for the purpose ; in place of which, the engravings are
abused and pronounced worthless, and I must take my leave
without having attained my purpose. But, if I had ouly
made notes of our conversation and anecdotes this evening,
1 should almost possess an equivalent.
Armidoro. — (Coming from the cabinet, to which he had
frequently retired.) Your wish is accomplished. I know the
motive of our friend, the editor of the work. I have taken
down the heads of our conversation upon this paper. I will
arrange the draught ; and, if Eulalia will kindly promise to
impart to the whole that spirit of charming animation whici>
she possesses, the graceful tone of the work, and pernaps
also its contents, will in some measure expiate the offence of
the artist for his ung^allaut attack.
THE GOOD WOMEN. 361
Henrietta. — I cannot blame your officious friendship,
Armidoro : but I wish you had not taken notes of our con-
versation ; it is setting a bad example. Our intercourse has
been quite free and unrestrained ; and nothing can be worse
than that our unguarded conversation should be overheard
and written down, perhaps even printed for the amusement
of the public.
But Henrietta's scruples were silenced by a promise that
nothing should meet the public eye except the little anecdotes
which had been related.
Eulalia, however, could not be persuaded to edit the notes
of the short-hand writer. She had no wish to withdraw her
attention from the fairy-tale with which she was then occu-
pied. The notes remained in possession of the gentlemen
of the party, who, with the aid of their own memories,
generously afforded their assistance, that they might thereby
contribute to the general edification of all " good women."
A TALE.
The thick fog of an early autumnal morning obscured the
extensive courts which surrounded the prince's castle ; but
through the mists, which gradually dispersed, a stranger
might observe a cavalcade of huntsmen, consisting of horse
and foot, already engaged in their early preparations for the
field. The active employments of the domestics were already
discernible. These latter were engaged in lengthening and
shortening stirrup-leathers, preparing the rifles and ammuni-
tion, and arranging the game-bags ; whilst the dogs, impatient
of restraint, threatened to break away from the slips by which
they were held. Then the horses became restive, from their
own high mettle, or excited by the spur of the rider, who
could not resist the temptation to make a vain display of his
prowess, even in the obscurity by which he was surrounded.
The cavalcade awaited the arrival of the prince, who was
delayed too long while taking leave of his young wife.
Lately married, they thoroughly appreciated the happiness
of their own congenial dispositions : both were lively and
animated, and each shared with delight the pleasures and
pursuits of the other. The prince's father had lived long
'uough to enjoy that period of life when one learns that all
the members of a state should spend their time in diligent
employments, and that every one should engage in some
energetic occupation corresponding with his taste, and should
by this means first acquire, and then enjoy, the fruits of his
labor.
How far these maxims had proved successful might have
been observed on this very day ; for it was the anniversary of
the great market in the town, a festival which might indeed
be considered a species of fair. The prince had, on the
363
364 A TALE.
previous day, conducted his wife on horseback through the
busy scene, and had caused her to observe what a convenient
exchange was carried on between the productions of the
mountainous districts and those of the plain ; and he took
occasion then and there to direct her attention to the indus-
trious character of his subjects.
But whilst the prince was entertaining himself and his
courtiers almost exclusively with subjects of this nature, and
was perpetually employed with his finance minister, his chief
huntsman did not lose sight of his duty : and, upon his repre-
sentation, it was impossible, during these favorable autumnal
days, any longer to postpone the amusement of the chase ;
as the promised meeting had already been several times
deferred, not only to his own mortification, but to that of
many strangers who had arrived to take part in the sport.
The princess remained, reluctantly, at home. It had been
determined to hunt over the distant mountains, and to disturb
the peaceful inhabitants of the forests in those districts by
an unexpected declaration of hostilities.
Upon taking his departure, the prince recommended his
wife to seek amusement in equestrian exercise, under the
conduct of her uncle Frederick. ''And I commend you,
moreover," he said, " to the care of our trusty Honorio, who
will act as your esquire, and pay you every attention ; " and
saying this as he descended the stairs, and gave the needful
instructions to a comely youth, the prince quickly disappeared
amid the crowd of assembled guests and followers.
The princess, who had continued waving her handkerchief
to her husband as long as he remained in the court-yard, now
retired to an apartment at the back of the castle, which
showed an extensive prospect over the mountain ; as the
castle itself was situated on the brow of the hill, from which
a view at once distant and varied opened in all directions.
She found the telescope in the spot where it had been left
on the previous evening, when they had amused themselves
in surveying the landscape, and the extent of mountain and
forest amid which the lofty ruins of their ancestral castle
were situated. It was a noble relic of ancient times, and
shone out gloriously in the evening illumination. A grand
but somewhat inadequate idea of its importance was conveyed
by the large masses of light and shadow which now fell on it.
Moreover, by the aid of the telescope, the autinnnal foliage
was seen to lend an indescribable charm to the prospect,
as it waved upon trees which had grown up amid the ruins.
A TALE. 365
undisturbed, for a great many years. But the princess soon
turned the telescope in the. direction of a dry and sandy
plain beneath her, across which the hunting cavalcade was
expected to bend its course. She patiently surveyed the
spot, and was at length rewarded, as the clear magnifying
power of the instrument enabled her delighted eyes to recoo--
nize the prince and his chief equerry. Upon this she once
more waved her handkerchief as she observed, or, rather,
fancied she observed, a momentary pause in the advance of
the procession.
Her uncle Frederick was now announced ; and he entered
the apartment, accompanied by an artist, bearing a large
portfolio under his arm.
" Dear cousin," observed the vigorous old man, address-
ing her, "we have brought some sketches of the ancestral
castle for your inspection, to show how the old walls and
battlements were calculated to afford defence and protection
during stormy seasons in years long passed ; though they
have tottered in some places, and in others have covered the
plain with their ruins. Our efforts have been unceasing to
render the place accessible, since few spots offer more
beauty or sublimity to the eye of the astonished traveller."
The prince continued, as he opened the portfolio contain-
ing the different views, "Here, as you ascend the hollow
way, through the outer fortifications, you meet the principal
tower ; and a rock forbids all farther progress. It is the
firmest of the mountain-range. A castle has been erected
upon it, so constructed that it is difficult to say where the
work of nature ceases and that of art begins. At a little
distance side-w^alls and buttresses have been raised, the
whole forming a sort of terrace. The height is surrounded
by a wood. For upwards of a century and a half no sound
of an axe has been heard within these precincts, and giant
trunks of trees appear on all sides. Close to the ver}^ walls
spring the glossy maple, the rough oak, and the tall pine.
They oppose our progress with their boughs and roots, and
compel us to make a circuit to secure our advance. See
how admirably our artist has sketched all this upon paper ;
how accurately he has represented the trees as they become
intwined amid the masonry of the castle, and thrust their
boughs through the opening in the walls. It is a solitude
which possesses the indescribable charm of displaying the
traces of human power, long since passed away, contending
with perpetual and still reviving nature."
366 A TALE.
Opening a second picture, lie continued his discourse.
' ' Wliat say you to this representation of the castle-court,
which has been rendered impassable for countless years by
the falling of the principal tower? We endeavored to
approach it from the side, and, in order to form a conven-
ient private road, were compelled to blow up the old walls
and vaults with gunpowder. But there was no necessity for
similar operations within the castle-walls. Here is a flat,
rocky surface which has been levelled by the hand of nature,
through which, however, mighty trees have here and there
been able to strike their roots. They have thriven well, and
thrust their branches into the very galleries where the knights
of old were wont to exercise, and have forced their way
through doors and windows into vaulted halls, from which
they are not likely now to be expelled, and whence we, at
least, shall not remove them. They have become lords of
the territory, and may remain so. Concealed beneath heaps
of dried leaves, we found a perfectly level floor, which prob-
ably cannot be equalled in the world.
" In ascending the steps which lead to the chief tower, it
is remarkable to observe, in addition to all we have men-
tioned above, how a maple-tree has taken root on high, and
grown to a great size ; so that, in ascending to the highest
turret to enjoy the prospect, it is diflticult to pass. And here
you may refresh yourself beneath the shade ; for, even at
this elevation, the tree of which we speak throws its shadows
over all around.
" We feel much indebted to the talented artist, who, in the
course of several views, has brought thus the whole scenery
as completel}^ before us as if we had actually witnessed the
original scene. He selected the most beautiful hours of the
day, and the most favorable season of the year, for his task,
to which he devoted many weeks. A small dwelling was
erected for him and his assistant in the corner of the castle :
you can scarcely imagine what a splendid view of the coun-
try, court, and ruins he there enjoyed. We intend these
pictures to adorn our country-house ; and every one who
enjoys a view of our regular parterres, of our bowers and
ehady walks, will doubtless feel anxious to feed his imagina-
tion and his eyes with an actual inspection of these scenes,
and so enjoy at once the old and new, the rigid and the
unyielding, the indestructible and the young, the pliant and
the irresistible."
Honorio now enierea, aud announced the arrival of the
A TALE. 367
horses. The princess, thereupon, addressing her uncle,
expressed a wish to ride up to tlie ruins, and "examine per-
sonally the subjects he had so graphically described. '^ Ever
since my arrival here," she said, "this excursion has been
intended ; and I shall be delighted to accomplish what has
been declared almost impracticable, and what the pictures
show to be so difficult."
" Not yet, my dear," replied the prince : " these pictures
only portray what the place will become, but many difficul-
ties impede a commencement of the work."
"But let us ride a little towards the mountain," she
rejoined, " if only to the beginning of the ascent: I have a
great desire to-day to enjoy an extensive prospect."
"Your desire shall be gratified," answered the prince.
"But we will first direct our course through the town,"
continued the lady, "and across the market-place, where a
countless number of booths wear the appearance of a small
town or of an encampment. It seems as if all the wants
and occupations of every family in the country were brouglit
together and supplied in this one spot; for the attentive
observer may here behold whatever man can produce or
require. You would suppose that money was wholly unne-
cessary, and that business of every kind could be carried on
by means of barter; and such, in fact, is the case. Since
the prince directed my attention to this view yesterday, I
have felt pleasure in observing the manner in which the
inhabitants of the mountain and of the valley mutuall}^
comprehend each other, and how both so plainly speak their
wants and their wishes in this place. The mountaineer, for
example, has cut the timber of his forests into a thousand
forms, and applied his iron to multifarious uses; while the
inhabitant of the valley meets him with his various wares
and merchandise, the very materials and object of which it
is difficult to know or conjecture."
"I am aware," observed the prince, "that my nephew
devotes his attention wholly to these subjects, for at this
particular season of the year he receives more than he
expends ; and this, after all, is the object and end of every
national financier, and, indeed, of the pettiest household
economist. But excuse me, my dear, I never ride with any
pleasure through the market or the fair ; obstacles impede
one at every step : and my imagination continually recurs to
that dreadful calamity which happened before my own eyes,
when I witnessed the conflagration of as large a collection of
merchandise as is accumulated here, i had scarcely ' ' —
368 A TALE.
"Let us not lose our time/' said the princess, interrupt-
ing him, as her worthy uncle had more than once tortured
her with a literal account of the very same misfortune. It
had happened when he was upon a journey, and had retired,
fatigued, to bed, in the best hotel of the town, which was
situated in the market-place. It was the season of the fair,
and in the dead of the night he was awoke by screams and
by the columns of fire which approached the hotel.
The princess hastened to mount her favorite palfrey, and
led the way for her unwilling companion, when she rode
through the front gate down the hUl, in place of passing
through the back gate up the mountain. But who could
have felt unwilling to ride at her side, or to follow wherever
she led? And even Honorio had gladly abandoned the
pleasure of his favorite amusement, the chase, in order to
officiate as her devoted attendant.
As we have before observed, they could only ride through
the market step by step ; but the amusing observations of
the princess rendered every pause delightful. "I must
repeat my lesson of yesterday," she remarked, " for neces-
sity will try our patience." And, in truth, the crowd pressed
upon them in such a manner that they could only continue
their progress at a very slow pace. The people testified
great joy at beholding the young princess, and the complete
satisfaction of many a smiling face evinced the pleasure of
the people at finding that the first lady in the land was at
once the most lovely and the most gracious.
Promiscuously mingled together were rude mountaineers
who inhabited quiet cottages amongst bleak rocks and tow-
ering pine-trees, lowlanders from the plains and meadows,
and manufacturers from the neighboring small towns. After
quietly surveying the motley crowd, the princess remarked
to her companion, that all the people she saw seemed to
take delight in using more stuff for their garments than was
necessary, whether it consisted of cloth, linen, ribbon, or
trimming. It seemed as if the wearers, both men and
women, thought they would be better if they looked puffed
out as much as possible.
" We must leave that matter to themselves," answered
the uncle. "Every man must dispose of his superfluity as
he pleases : well for those who spend it in mere ornament."
The princess nodded her assent.
They had now arrived at a wide, open square which led to
one of the suburbs : they there perceived a number of small
A TALE. 369
booths and stalls, and also a large wooden building whence
a most discordant howling issued. It was the feeding- hour
of the wild animals which were tliere enclosed for exhibition.
The lion roared with that fearful voice with which he was
accustomed to terrify both woods and wastes. The horses
trembled, and no one could avoid observing how the mon-
arch of the desert made himself terrible in the tranquil circles
of civilized life. Approaching nearer, thc}^ remarked the
tawdry, colossal pictures on which the beasts were painted in
the brightest colors, intended to afford irresistible temptation
to the busy citizen. The grim and fearful tiger was in the
act of springing upon a negro to tear him to pieces. The
lion stood in solemn majesty, as if be saw no worthy prey
before him. Other wonderful creatures in the same groujp
presented inferior attractions.
"Upon our return," said the princess, "we will alight,
and take a nearer inspection of these rare creatures."
"Is it not extraordinary," replied the prince, " that man
takes pleasure in fearful excitements? The tiger, for in-
stance, is lying quietly enough within his cage ; and yet here
the brute must be painted in the act of springing fiercely on
a negro, in order that the public may believe that the same
scene is to be witnessed within. Do not murder and death,
fire and desolation, sufficiently abound, but that every moun-
tebank must repeat such horrors? The worthy people like
to be alarmed, that they may afterwards enjoy the delight-
ful sensation of freedom and security."
But whatever feelings of terror such frightful representa-
tions might have inspired, they disappeared when they
reached the gate and surveyed the cheerful prospects around.
The road led down to a river, a narrow brook in truth, and
only calculated to bear light skiffs, but destined afterwards,
when swelled into a wider stream, to take another name,
and to water distant lands. They then bent their course
farther through carefully cultivated fruit and pleasure gar-
dens, in an orderly and populous neighborhood, until first
a copse and then a wood received them as guests, and de-
lighted their eyes with a limited but charming landscape.
A green valley leading to the heights above, which had been
lately mowed for the second time, and wore the appearance
of velvet, having been copiously watered by a rich stream,
now received them with a friendly welcome. They then
bent their course to a higher and more open spot, which,
upon issuing from the wood, they reached after a short
370 A TALE.
ascent, and whence they obtained a distant view of the old
castle, the object of their pilgrimage, which shone above
the groups of trees, and assumed the appearance of a well-
wooded rock. Behind them (for no one ever attained this
height without turning to look round) they saw, through
occasional openings in the lofty trees, the prince's castle on
the left, illuminated by the morning sun ; the higher portion
of the town, obscured by a light, cloudy mist ; and, on the
right hand, the lower part, through which the river flowed
in many windings, with its meadows and its mills ; whilst
straight before them the country extended in a wide, pro-
ductive plain.
After they had satisfied their eyes with the landscape, or
rather, as is often the case in surveying an extensive view
from an eminence, when they had become desirous of a wider
and less circumscribed prospect, they rode slowly along a
broad and stony plain, where they saw the mighty ruin
standing with its coronet of green, whilst its base was clad
with trees of lesser height ; and proceeding onwards they
encountered the steepest and most impassable side of the
ascent. It was defended by enormous rocks, which had
endured for ages : proof against the ravages of time, they
were fast rooted in the earth, and towered aloft. One part
of the castle had fallen, and lay in huge fragments irregu-
larly massed, and seemed to act as an insurmountable bar-
rier, the mere attempt to overcome which is a delight to
youth ; as supple limbs ever find it a pleasure to undertake,
to combat, and to conquer. The princess seemed disposed
to make the attempt ; Honorio was at hand ; her princely
uncle assented, unwilling to acknowledge his want of agility.
The horses were directed to wait for them under the trees ;
and it was intended they should make for a certain point
where 'a large rock had been rendered smooth, and from
which a prospect was beheld, which, though of the nature
of a bird's-eye view, was sufficiently picturesque.
It was mid-day : the sun had attained its highest altitude,
and shed its clearest rays around ; the princely castle, in all
its parts, battlements, wings, cupolas, and towers, presented
a glorious appearance. The upper part of the town was seen
in its full extent : the eye could even penetrate into parts of
the lower town, and, with the assistance of the telescope,
distinguish the market-place, and even the very booths. It
was Honorio' s invariable custom to sling this indispensable
instrument to his side. They took a view of the river in its
A TALE. 371
course and its descent, and of the sloping plain, and of the
luxuriant country with its gentle undulations, and then of
the numerous villages, for it had been from time immemorial
a subject of contention, how many could be counted from
this spot.
Over the wide plain there reigned a calm stillness, such as
is accustomed to rule at mid-day, — an hour when, accord-
ing to classical phraseology, the god Pan sleeps, and all
nature is breathless, that his repose may be undisturbed.
" It is not the first time," observed the princess, ''that,
standing upon an eminence which presents a wide-extended
view, I have thought how pure and peaceful is the look of
holy Nature ; and the impression comes upon me, that the
world beneath must be free from strife and care : but return-
ing to the dwellings of man, be they the cottage or the
palace, be they roomy or circumscribed, we find that there
is, in truth, ever something to subdue, to struggle with, to
quiet and allay."
Honorio, in the mean time, had directed the telescope
towards the town, and now exclaimed, ''Look, look! the
town is on fire in the market-place."
They looked, and saw some smoke ; but the glare of daylight
eclipsed the flames. " The fire increases ! " they exclaimed,
still looking through the instrument. The princess saw the
calamity with the naked eye : from time to time they per-
ceived a red flame ascending amid the smoke. Her uncle at
length exclaimed, " Let us return : it is calamitous ! I have
always feared the recurrence of such a misfortune."
They descended ; and, having reached the horses, the prin-
cess thus addressed her old relative: "Ride forward, sir,
hastily, with your attendant, but leave Honorio with me, and
we will follow."
Her uncle perceived the prudence and utility of this
advice, and, riding on as quickly as the nature of the ground
would allow, descended to the open plain. The princess
mounted her steed, upon which Honorio addressed her thus :
" I pray your Highness to ride slowly ; the fire-engines are
in the best order, both in the town and in the castle ; there
can surely be no mistake or error, even in so unexpected an
emergency. Here, however, the way is dangerous, and riding
is insecure, from the small stones and the smooth grass ; and,
in addition, the fire will no doubt be extinguished before we
reach the town."
But the princess indulged ■ in uo such hope : she saw the
/■/
372 A TALE.
smoke ascend, and thought she perceived a flash of lightning
and heard a thunder-clap ; and her mind was filled with the
frightful pictures of the conflagration her uncle's oft-repeated
narrative had impressed on her.
That calamity had indeed been dreadful, sudden, and im-
pressive enough to make one apprehensive for the repetition
of a like misfortune. At midnight a fearful fire had broken
out in the market-place, which was filled with booths and
stalls, before the occupants of those temporary habitations
had been roused from their profound dreams. The prince
himself, after a weary day's journey, had retired to rest, but,
rushing to the window, perceived with dismay the flames which
raged around on every side, and approached the spot where
be stood. The houses of the market-place, crimsoned with
the reflection, appeared already to burn, and threatened every
instant to burst out into a general conflagration. The fierce
element raged irresistibly ; the beams and rafters crackled ;
whilst countless pieces of consumed linen flew aloft, and the
burnt and shapeless rags sported in the air and looked like
foul demons revelling in their congenial element. With loud
cries of distress, each individual endeavored to rescue what
he could from the flames. Servants and assistants vied with
their masters in their efforts to save the huge bales of goods
already half consumed, to tear what still remained uninjured
from the burning stalls, and to pack it away in chests ;
although they were even then compelled to abandon their
labors, and leave the whole to fall a prey to the conflagration.
How many wished that the raging blaze would allow but a
single moment's respite, and, pausing to consider the possi-
bility of such a mercy, fell victims to their brief hesitation.
Many buildings burned on one side, while the other side lay in
obscure darkness. A few determined, self-willed characters
bent themselves obstinately to the task of saving something
from the flames, and suffered for their heroism. The whole
scene of misery and devastation was renewed in the mind of
the beautiful princess : her countenance was clouded, which
had beamed so radiantly in the early morning ; her eyes had
lost their lustre ; and even the beautiful woods and meadows
around now looked sad and mournful. ^
Riding onward, she entered the sweet valley, but felt un-
cheered by the refreshing coolness of the place. She had,
however, not advanced far, before she observed an unusual
appearance in the copse near the meadow where the sparkling
brook which flowed through the adjacent country took its
A TALE. 373
r
rise. She at once recognized a tiger couched in the attitude
to spring, as she had seen him represented in the painting.
The impression was fearful. "Flee! gracious lady," cried
Honorio, " flee at once ! " She turned her horse to mount the
steep hill she had just descended : but her young attendant
drew his pistol, and, approaching the monster, fired ; unfor-
tunately he missed his mark, the tiger leaped aside, the horse
started, and the terrified beast pursued his course and fol-
lowed the princess. The latter urged her horse up the steep,
stony acclivity, forgetting for a moment that the pampered
animal she rode was unused to such exertions ; but, urged
by his impetuous rider, the spirited steed made a new effort,
till at length, stumbling at an inequality of the ground, after
many attempts to recover his footing, he fell exhausted to
the ground. The princess released herself from the saddle
with great expertness and presence of mind, and brought her
horse again to its feet. The tiger was in pursuit at a slow
pace. The uneven ground and sharp stones appeared to re-
tard his progress ; though, as Honorio approached, his speed
and strength seemed to be renewed. They now came nearer
to the spot where the princess stood by her horse ; and Honorio,
bending down, discharged a second pistol. This time he was
successful, and shot the monster through the head. The
animal fell, and, as he lay stretched upon the ground at full
length, gave evidence of that might and terror which was
now reduced to a lifeless form. Honorio had leaped from his
horse, and was now kneeling on the body of the huge brute.
He had already put an end to his struggles with the hunting-
knife which gleamed within his grasp. He looked even more
handsome and active than the princess had ever seen him in
list or tournament. Thus had he oftentimes driven his bullet
through the head of the Turk in the riding-school, piercing
his forehead under the turban, and, carried onward by his
rapid courser, had oftentimes struck the Moor's head to the
ground with his shining sabre. In all such knightly feats
he was dexterous and successful, and here he had found an
opportunity for putting his skill to the test.
"Despatch him quickly," said the princess faintly: "I
fear he may injure you with his claws."
" There is no danger," answered the youth ; " he is dead
enough : and I do not wish to spoil his skin, — it shall orna-
ment your sledge next winter."
"Do not jest at such a time," continued the princess;
" such a moment calls forth every feeling of devotion that
can fill the heart." ^ -^
874 A TALE.
*' And I never felt more devout than now," added Honorio,
'* and therefore are my thoughts cheerful : I only consider
how this creature's skin may serve your pleasure."
*' It would too often remind me of this dreadful moment,*'
she replied.
" And yet," answered the youth with burning cheek, '' this
triumph is more innocent than that in which the arms of the
defeated are borne in proud procession before the con-
queror. ' '
" I shall never forget your courage and skill," rejoined
the princess; "and let me add that you may, during your
whole life, command the gratitude and favor of the prince.
But rise, — the monster is dead : rise, I say ; and let us think
what next is to be done."
"Since I find myself now kneeling before you," replied
Honorio, "let me be assured of a grace, of a favor, which
you can bestow upon me. I have oftentimes implored your
princely husband for permission to set out upon my travels.
He who dares aspire to the good fortune of becoming your
guest should have seen the world. Travellers flock hither
from all quarters ; and when the conversation turns on some
town, or on some peculiar part of the globe, your guests are
asked if they have never seen the same. No one can expect
confidence who has not seen every thing. We must instruct
ourselves for the benefit of others."
" Rise ! " repeated the princess : " I can never consent to
desire or request any thing contrary to the wish of my hus-
band ; but, if I mistake not, the cause of j^our detention here
has alread}^ been removed. It was the wish of your prince
to mark how your character would ripen, and prove worthy
of an independent nobleman, who might one day be to both
himself and his sovereign as great an honor abroad, as had
hitherto been the case here at court ; and I doubt not that
your present deed of bravery will prove as good a passport
as any youth can carry with him through the world."
The princess had scarcely time to mark, that, instead of an
expression of youthful delight, a shade of grief now dark-
ened his countenance ; and he could scarcely display his
emotion, before a woman approached, climbing the mountain
hastily, and leading a boy by the hand. Honorio had just
risen from his kneeling posture, and seemed lost in thought,
when the woman advanced with piercing cries, and imme-
diately flung herself upon the lifeless body of the tiger. Her
conduct, no less than her gaudy ^nd peculiar attire, bore
A TALE. 876
evidence that she was the owner and attendant of the ani-
mal. The boy, by whom she was accompanied, was remark-
able for his sparkling eyes and jet-black hair. Ho carried a
flute in his hand, and joined his tears to those of his mother ;
whilst, with a more calm but deep-felt sorrow than she dis-
played, he knelt quietly at her side.
The violent expression of this wretched woman's grief was
succeeded by a torrent of expostulations, which rushed from
her in broken sentences, reminding one of a mountain stream
whose course is interrupted by impeding rocks. Ilcr natural
expressions, short and abrupt, were forcible and pathetic :
vain would be the endeavor to translate them into our idiom ;
we must be satisfied with their general meaning. "They
have murdered thee, poor animal, murdered thee without
cause ! Tamely thou wouldest have lain down to await our
arrival ; for thy feet pained thee, and thy claws were power-
less. Thou didst lack thy burning native sun to bring thee
to maturity. Thou wert the most beautiful animal of thy
kind ! Whoever beheld a more noble royal tiger stretched
out to sleep, than thou art as thou liest here, never to rise
again? When in the morning thou awokest at the earliest
dawn of day, opening thy wide jaws, and stretching out thy
ruddy tongue, thou seemedst to us to smile ; and even wlieu
a growl burst from thee, still didst thou ever playfully take
thy food from the hand of a woman, or from the fingers of a
child. Long did we accompany thee in thy travels, and loug
was thy society to us as indispensable as profitable. To us,
in very truth, did food come from the ravenous, and sweet
refreshment from the strong. But alas, alas ! this can never
be again ! '*
She had not quite ended her lamentations, when a troop
of horsemen was observed riding in a body over the heights
which led from the castle. They were soon recognized as
the hunting cavalcade of the prince, and he himself was at
their head. Riding amongst the distant hills, they had ob-
served the dark columns of smoke which obscured the atmos-
phere ; and pushing on over hill and dale, as if in the heat
of the chase, they had followed the course indicated by the
smoke, which served them as a guide. Rushing forward,
regardless of every obstacle, they had come by surprise upon
the astonished group, who presented a remarkable appear-
ance in the opening of the hills. Their mutual recognition
produced a general surprise ; and, after a short pause, a few
words of explanation cleared up the apparent mystery. The
376 A TALE.
prince heard with astonishment the extraordinary occurrence,
as he stood surrounded by the crowd of attendants on foot
and on horseback. There seemed no doubt about the neces-
sary course. Orders and commands were at once issued by
the prince.
A stranger now forced his way forward, and appeared
within the circle. He was tall in figure, and attired as
gaudily as the woman and her child. The members of the
family recognized each other with mutual surprise and pain.
But the man, collecting himself, stood at a respectful distance
from the prince, and addressed him thus : —
"This is not a moment for complaining. My lord and
mighty master, the lion has also escaped, and is concealed
somewhere here in the mountain ; but spare him, I implore
you ! have mercy upon him, that he may not perish like this
poor animal ! ' '
" The lion escaped ! '* exclaimed the prince. " Have you
found his track ? ' *
" Yes, sir. A peasant in the valley, who needlessly took
refuge in a tree, pointed to the direction he had taken, — this
is the way, to the left ; but, perceiving a crowd of men
and horses before me, I became curious to know the occasion
of their assembling, and hastened forward to obtain help."
"Well," said the prince, " the chase must begin in this
direction. Load your rifles, go deliberately to work : no
misfortune can happen, if you but drive him into the thick
woods below us. But in truth, worthy man, we can scarcely
spare your favorite : why were you negligent enough to let
him escape?"
" The fire broke out," replied the other, " and we remained
quiet and prepared : it spread quickly round, but raged at a
distance from us. We were provided with water in abun-
dance ; but suddenly an explosion of gunpowder took place,
and the conflagration immediately extended to us and beyond
us. We were too precipitate, and are now reduced to ruin."
The prince was still engaged in issuing his orders, and
there was general silence for a moment, when a man was
observed flying, rather than running, down from the castle.
He was quickly recognized as the watchman of the artist's
studio, whose business it was to occupy the dwelling and
look after the workmen. Breathless he advanced, and a
few words served to announce the nature of his business.
"The lion had taken refuge on the heights, and had lain
down in the sunshine behind the lofty walls of the castle.
A TALE. 877
He was reposing at the foot of an old tree in perfect tran-
quillity. But," continued the man in a tone of bitter com-
plaint, " unfortunately, I took my rifle to the town yesterday,
to have it repaired, or the animal had never risen again : his
skin, at least, would have been mine ; and I had worn it in
triumph all my life."
The prince, whose military experience had often served
him in time of need, — for he had frequently been in situa-
tions where unavoidable danger pressed on every side, —
observed, in reply to the man, '* What pledge can you give,
that, if we spare your lion, he will do no mischief in the
country ? ' *
" My wife and child," answered the father hastily, " will
quiet him and lead him peacefully along, until I repair his
shattered cage ; and then we shall keep him harmless and
uninjured."
The child seemed to be looking for his flute. It was that
species of instrument which is sometimes called the soft,
sweet flute, short in the mouthpiece, like a pipe. Those who
understood the art of using it could draw from it the most
delicious tones.
* In the mean time, the prince inquired of the keeper by
which path the lion had ascended the mountain.
" Through the low road," replied the latter : " it is walled
in on both sides, has long been the only passage, and shall
continue so. Two footpaths originally led to the same point ;
but we destroyed them, that there might remain but one way
to that castle of enchantment and beauty which is to be
formed by the taste and talent of Prince Frederick."
After a thoughtful pause, during which the prince stood
contemplating the child, who continued playing softly on his
flute, the former turned towards Honorio, and said, —
''Thou hast this day performed a great deal: finish the
task you have begun. Occupy the narrow road of which we
have heard ; hold your rifle ready, but do not shoot if you
think it likely that the lion may be driven back ; but, under
any circumstances, kindle a fire, that he may be afraid to
descend in this direction. The man and his wife must
answer for the consequences."
Honorio proceeded without delay to execute the orders he
had received.
The child went on with his tune, which was not exactly a
Melody : but a mere succession of notes followed, without
any precise order or artistic arrangement ; yet, perhaps for
I
378 A TALE.
this very reason, the effect seemed replete with enchantment.
Every one was delighted with the simple music ; when the
father, full of a noble enthusiasm, addressed the assembled
spectators thus : —
" God has bestowed the gift of wisdom upon the prince,
and the power of seeing that all divine works are good, each
after its kind. Behold how the rocks stand firm and motion-
less, proof against the effects of sun and storm. Their sum-
mits are crowned with ancient trees ; and, elated with the
pride of their ornaments, they look round boldly far and wide.
But, should a part become detached, it no longer appears aa
before : it breaks into a thousand pieces, and covers the side
of the declivity. But even there the pieces find no resting-
place : they pursue their course downwards, till the brook
receives them, and carries them onward to the river. Thence,
unresisting and submissive, their sharp angles having become
rounded and smooth, they are borne along with greater
velocity from stream to stream, till they finally attain the
ocean, in whose mighty depths giants abide and dwarfs
abound.
" But who celebrates the praise of the Lord, whom the stars
praise from all eternity? Why, however, should we direct
our vision so far? Behold the bee, how he makes his pro-
vision in harvest- time, and constructs a dwelling, correct in
angle and level, at once the architect and workman. Behold
the ant : she knows her way, and loses it not ; she builds her
habitation of grass and earth and tiny twigs, builds it high,
and strengthens it with arches, but in vain, — the prancing
steed approaches, and treads it into nothing, destroying the
little rafters and supports of the edifice. He snorts with im-
patience and with restlessness ; for the Lord has formed the
horse as companion to the wind, and brother to the storm,
that he may carry mankind whither he will. But in the palm-
forest even he takes to flight. There, in the wilderness, the
lion roams in proud majesty : he is monarch of the beasts,
and nothing can resist his strength. But man has subdued
his valor : the mightiest of animals has respect for the image
of God, in which the very angels are formed ; and they minis-
ter to the Lord and his servants. Daniel trembled not in the
lions' den : he stood full of faith and holy confidence, and
the wild roaring of the monsters did not interrupt his pious
song."
This address, which was delivered with an expression of
natural enthusiasm, was accompanied by the child's sweet
A TALE. 379
music. But, when his father had conckidecl, the boy com-
menced to sing with clear and sonorous voice, and some
degree of skill. His parent in the mean time seized liis flute,
and in soft notes accompanied the child as he sung : —
** Hear the prophet's song ascending
From tlie cavern's dark retreat,
Whilst an angel, earthward bending,
Cheers his soul with accents sweet.
Fear and terror come not o'er him,
As the lion's angry brood
Crouch with placid mien before him, •
By his holy song subdued."
The father continued to accompany the verses with his
flute, whilst the mother's voice was occasionally heard to in-
tervene as second.
The effect of the whole was rendered more peculiar and
impressive by the child's frequently inverting the order of
the verses. And if he did not, by this artifice, give a new
sense and meaning to the whole, he at least highly excited
the feelings of his audience : —
" Angels o'er us mildly bending,
Cheer us with their voices sweet.
Hark! what strains enchant the earl
In the cavern's dark retreat,
Can the prophet quake with fear ?
Holy accents, sweetly blending,
Banish ev'ry earthly ill,
Whilst an angel choir descending,
Executes the heavenly will."
Then all three joined with force and emphasis : —
*' Since the eternal Eye, far-seeing,
Earth and sea surveys in peace,
Lion shall with lamb agreeing
Live, and angry tempests cease.
Warriors' sword no more shall lower.
Faith and Hope their fruit shall bear:
Wondrous is the mighty power
Of Love, which pours its soul in prayer."
The music ceased. Silence reigned around. Each one
listened attentively to the dying tones, and now only one
could observe and note the general impression. Every lis-
tener was overcome, though each was affected in a different
manner. The prince looked sorrowfully at his wife, as
though he had only just perceived the danger which had
380 A TALE.
lately threatened him ; whilst she, leaning upon his arm, did
not hesitate to draw forth her embroidered handkerchief to
dry the starting tear. It was delightful to relieve her youth-
ful heart from the weight of grief with which she had for
some time felt oppressed. A general silence reigned around ;
and forgotten were the fears which all had experienced, both
from the conflagration below and the appearance of the for-
midable lion above.
The repose of the whole company was first interrupted by
the prince, who made a signal to lead the horses nearer : he
then turned to the woman, and addressed her thus: "You
think, then, to master the lion wherever you meet him,
by the power of your song, assisted by that of the child
and the tones of your flute, and believe that you can thus
lead him harmless and uninjured to his cage? '*
She protested and assured him that she would do so,
whereupon a servant was ordered to show her the way to the
castle. The prince and a few of his attendants now took
their departure hastily ; whilst the princess, accompanied
by the rest, followed more slowly after. But the mother
and the child, accompanied by the servant, who had armed
himself with a rifle, hastened to ascend the mountain.
At the very entrance of the narrow road which led to the
castle, they found the hunting attendants busily employed
in piling together heaps of dry brushwood, to kindle a large
fire.
" There is no necessity for such precaution," observed the
woman : "all will yet turn out well."
They perceived Honorio at a little distance from them,
sitting upon a fragment of the wall, with his double-barrelled
rifle in his lap, prepared as it seemed for every emergency.
But he paid little attention to the people who approached :
he was absorbed in his own contemplations, and seemed
engaged in deepest thought. The woman entreated that he
would not permit the fire to be kindled : he, however, paid
not the smallest attention to her request. She then raised
her voice, and exclaimed, "Thou handsome youth who
killed my tiger, I curse thee not ; but spare my lion, and I will
bless thee!"
But Honorio was looking upon vacancy : his eyes were
bent upon the sun, which had finished its daily course, and
was now about to set.
"You are looking to the setting sun," cried the woman;
and you are right, for jthere is yet much to do : but hasten,
A TALE. 381
delay not, and you will conquer. But, Mrst of all, conquer
yourself." He seemed to smile at this observation. The
woman passed on, but could not avoid looking round to
observe him once more. The setting sun had cast a rosy
glow upon his countenance : she thought she had never be-
held so handsome a youth.
''If your child," said the attendant, "can, as you ima-
gine, with his fluting and his singing, entice and tranquillize
the lion, we shall easily succeed in mastering him ; for the
ferocious animal has lain down to sleep under the broken
arch, through which we have secured a passage into the
castle-court, as the chief entrance has been long in ruins.
Let the child, then, entice him inside, when we can close the
gate without difficulty ; and the child may, if he please,
escape by a small winding staircase, which is situated in one
of the corners. We may, in the mean time, conceal our-
selves ; but I shall take up a position which will enable me
to assist the child at any moment with my rifle."
"These preparations are all needless: Heaven, and our
own skill, bravery, and good fortune, are our best defence."
" But first let me conduct you by this steep ascent to the
top of the tower, right opposite to the entrance of which I
have spoken. The child may then descend into the arena,
and there he can try to exercise his power over the obedient
animal."
This was done. Concealed above, the attendant and the
mother surveyed the proceeding. The child descended the
narrow staircase, and soon appeared in the wide court-yard.
He immediately entered into tlie narrow opening opposite,
when the sweet sounds of his flute were heard ; but these
gradually diminished, till they finally ceased. The pause
was fearful : the solemnity of the proceeding filled the old
attendant with apprehension, accustomed as he was to every
sort of danger. He declared that he would rather engage
the enraged animal himself. But the mother preserved her
cheerful countenance, and, leaning over the parapet in a
listening attitude, betrayed not the slightest sign of fear.
At length the flute was heard again. The child had issued
from the dark recess, his face beaming with triumph: the
lion was slowly following, and seemed to walk with diflficulty.
Now and then the animal appeared disposed to lie down;
but the child continued to lead him quietly along, bending
his way through the half-leafless autumn-tinged trees, until
he arrived at a spot which was illumined by the last rays of
882 A TALE.
the setting sun. They were shedding their parting glory
throngli the ruins ; and in this spot he recommenced his sweet
song, which we cannot refrain from repeating : —
"Hear the prophet's song ascending
From the cavern's dark retreat,
Whilst an angel, earthward bending,
Cheers his soul with accents sweet.
Fear and terror come not o'er him,
As the lion's angry brood
Crouch with placid mien before him,
By his lioly song subdued."
The lion, in the mean time, had lain quietly down, and,
raising his heavy paw, had placed it in the lap of the child.
The latter stroked it gently, and continued his chant, but
soon observed that a sharp thorn had penetrated into tlie
ball of the animal's foot. With great tenderness, the child
extracted the thorn, and, taking his bright-colored silk hand-
kerchief from his neck, bound it round the foot of the huge
creature ; whilst the attentive mother, still joyfully leaning
over the parapet with outstretched arms, would probably, as
was her wont, have testified her approbation with loud shouts
and clapping of hands, if the attendant had not rudely
seized her, and reminded her that the danger was not yet
completely over.
The child now joyfully continued his song, after he had
hummed a few notes by way of prelude : —
"Since the eternal Eye, far-seeing,
Earth and sea surveys in peace,
Lion shall with lamb agreeing
Live, and angry tempests cease.
Warriors' sword no more shall lower,
Faith and Hope their fruit shall bear:
Wondrous is the mighty power
Of Love, which pours its soul in prayer."
If it were possible to conceive that the features of so fierce
a monster, at once the tyrant of the forest and the despot of
the animal kingdom, could display an expression of pleasure
and grateful joy, it might have been witnessed upon this
occasion ; and, in very truth, the child, in the fulness of his
beauty, looked like some victorious conqueror ; though it
could not be said that the lion seemed subdued, for his
mighty power was only for a time concealed. He wore the
aspect of a tamed creature, who had been content to make a
voluntary surrender of the mighty power with which it was
A TALE. 383
endued. And thus the child continued to play and to sing,
transposing his verses or adding to them, as he felt iucliued.
"Holy angels, still untiring,
Aid the good and virtuous child,
Every noble deed inspiring.
And restraining actions wild.
So the forest king to render
Tame as child at parent's knee,
Still be gentle, kind, and tender,
Use sweet love and melody."
THE EKD.
3 1197 00413 5288
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