“My dear,” said he, gently, “as you have asked me no question, what can I answer? You asserted that I no longer loved and adored you as in former days. To such an assertion, Charlotte, I can make no reply; I would consider it a sacrilegious breach of the union that has been sanctified and confirmed by long years of love and fidelity, and that should be elevated above all doubt and protestations.”
“Then you love me, Wolf? You still love me?”
“Yes,” said he; and it seemed to Charlotte as though he had laid a peculiar emphasis on this little word. It sounded like another echo of the ominous whisperings of her mirror.
For a moment both were silent, perhaps because Charlotte was too completely absorbed in her own thoughts. When they conversed again it was on an entirely different topic.
After a short time Goethe tenderly took leave of Charlotte, and left the house; he hurried through the streets and entered the park, to the densest and most obscure retreats of which he had so often revealed his thoughts in past years. This park had been Goethe’s true and discreet friend for many years, and he now turned his footsteps once more toward the favorite retreat in which he had so often poured out his sighs and complaints in former days, when Charlotte had cruelly repelled the advances of her tender friend and lover. Goethe suffered to-day also, but his sufferings were not to be compared to those he had formerly experienced in the same shady avenues. Then his soul was filled with a despair that was tempted with hope and joyousness. For was there ever a true lover whose ladylove had driven him to despair by her cruelty, who did not nevertheless entertain a joyous hope that her hard heart would at last be softened, and that he would yet become a happy lover? Then these avenues had often resounded with Goethe’s sighs and lamentations, and there the tears of wounded pride had often filled his eyes. To-day he neither sighed nor lamented, and his eyes were tearless, but he looked gloomy, and an expression of annoyance rather than of sadness rested on his countenance. In silence he walked to and fro with hasty strides; suddenly he raised the light cane which he held in his hand and struck a sprig of blossoming woodbine from a vine that overhung the walk, so violently that it fell to his feet; and then his lips murmured: “She is very much changed. She has become an old woman, and I—I cannot make myself ridiculous by playing the lover—no!”
He ceased speaking, without having finished his sentence, as if alarmed at his own words. He then stooped down, picked up the sprig of woodbine, and regarded it thoughtfully.
“Poor blossom,” said he, gently, “I did wrong to strike you! You are not beautiful, but you are very fragrant, and it is for this reason probably that the kindly and delicate feeling of the people has given you so pretty a name. They call you, ‘The longer, the dearer!’ I will not tread you under foot, you poor ‘the longer the dearer;’ your fragrance is very delightful, and somehow it seems to me as though Charlotte’s eyes were gazing at me from out your tiny cups.”
He placed the flower in a button-hole of his coat, and, as though his little “the longer the dearer” blossom had given him a satisfactory solution of his heart-troubles, he left the shady retreat and went toward an opening in the park. He walked rapidly, and was on the point of turning into a path that led to his garden-house, when he saw a young girl approaching from the other side of the road. She was unknown to Goethe, and her whole appearance indicated that she did not belong to that favored class that claims to constitute what is called “society.” The simple calico dress which enveloped her full and graceful figure, the coarse shoes in which her little feet were enclosed, and the white and delicate little ungloved hands, proclaimed that she did not belong to “society.” Moreover, the light little hat which ladies of rank wore jauntily on one side of their powdered hair at that time, was wanting. Her hair was uncovered, and surrounded her lovely little head with a mass of sunny curls. Her countenance was radiant with youth, innocence, and freshness; she blushed as her eyes encountered Goethe’s lightning glances. Her large blue eyes rested on him with an expression of gentle entreaty and tender humility, and a soft smile played about her pouting, crimson lips. This youthful, charming apparition resembled but little the pale, faintly-colored blossoms of the flower which he wore in his button-hole; she was more like the rich mossrose-bud which nestled on the fair girl’s bosom, and with which she had confined the two ends of the lace shawl that hung loosely over her beautiful shoulders.
Goethe now stood before her, regarding her with inquiring, wondering glances. With a graceful movement the young girl raised her right hand, in which she held a folded paper.
“Mr. Privy-Councillor, I beg you to take this and read it.”