His head erect, his countenance grave and earnest, Goethe walked on to pay his calls; and those whom he thus honored found that be had come home colder and more reserved than when he had departed. But, at the banquet, in the ducal palace, he was neither cold nor reserved; there he was eloquent and impassioned,—there enthusiastic words of poetic description flowed like golden nectar from his smiling lips; there his eye sparkled and his cheek glowed, and his illustration of life in Italy awakened delight and admiration in the hearts of all—of all, except Charlotte von Stein! She sat at Goethe’s side, and he often turned his lightning glance on her, as though speaking to her alone, but Charlotte felt only that what he said was intended for all. Had he but attempted to whisper a single word in her ear, had he given her hand a gentle pressure, had he but made her some secret sign understood by herself only, and permitted her to feel that something peculiar and mysterious was going on in which they two alone participated! In society, Goethe had formerly, before his journey to Italy, availed himself of every little opportunity that arose to press her hand and whisper loving words in her ear. To-day he was wanting in these delicate little attentions—in these little love-signals, for which she had so often scolded him in former times! She was therefore very quiet, and did not join in the applause of the rest of the company. But, amidst the admiration evoked by his eloquence, Goethe listened only to hear a word of approval from Charlotte, and, when his friend still remained silent, his animation vanished and his countenance darkened.
But they had loved each other too long and too tenderly not to be alarmed by the thought of a possible coolness and separation. True, Charlotte often wept in the solitude of her chamber, and accused him of ingratitude; true, Goethe often grumbled in silence, and lamented over Charlotte’s irritability and sensitiveness, but yet he was earnest in his desire to avoid all estrangement, and to restore to their hearts the beautiful harmony that had so long existed.
He resumed the habit that had formerly given him so much delight—that of writing to Charlotte almost daily. But her sensitive woman’s ear detected a difference in the melody of his letters; they were no longer written in the same high, passionate key, but had been toned down to a low, melancholy air. Her own replies were of a like character, and this annoyed Goethe greatly. He abused the gloomy skies of Germany, and lamented over the lost paradise of Italy; and Charlotte could not help comprehending that she was the cause of his discontent and anger.
But still he visited her almost every day, and was always animated and communicative in her society. He read portions of his newly-commenced drama “Torquato Tasso,” with her, told her of his plans for the future, and permitted her to take part in his intellectual life. Then she would soon forget her little sorrows and her woman’s sensitiveness, and become once more the intelligent friend, with the clear judgment and profound understanding.
On an occasion of this kind, Goethe requested his “beloved friend” to return the letters he had written to her during the two years of his sojourn in Italy.
Charlotte looked at him in astonishment. “My letters—the dear letters I have kept so sacred that I have not shown a single one of them to my most intimate friends—these letters you desire me to return?”
“Certainly, my dear, I beg you to do so. I intend having an account of my Italian journey published—have also promised Wieland some fragments for his “Mercury,” and, in order to prepare these for the press, it will only be necessary to have the letters I have written to you copied.”
“Can this be possible, Wolf?” asked she, in dismay. “Do you really intend to have the letters, written by you to me, read and copied by a third person?”
“As a matter of course, I will first correct these letters, and leave nothing in them addressed to you personally and intended for your dear eyes only,” replied Goethe, laughing. “I always had this end in view while writing to you in Italy, and you will have observed that my letters were always divided, to a certain extent, into two portions. The first is addressed to you only, my dear Charlotte—to you, my friend and my beloved—and this was filled with the words of love and longing that glowed in my own heart. The second portion is a mere narrative and description of what I have seen, heard, and done while in Italy, and was intended for publication.”
“But this is unheard of,” cried Charlotte, angrily; “this experiment does great honor to your cold calculation, but very little to your heart.”