“The two gentlemen are, of course, acquainted,” said she.
“I believe I have never had the honor,” replied Goethe, who had again assumed the cold reserve of the privy-councillor.
“Who does not know the greatest and most celebrated of Germany’s poets?” said the other gentleman, a slight flush suffusing itself over his pale, hollow cheeks. “I have known the poet Goethe for a long time; I was present when he visited the Charles School in Stuttgart. He, of course, did not observe the poor scholar, but the latter was delighted to see the poet Goethe. And he is now delighted to make the acquaintance of the Privy-Councillor Goethe!”
Perhaps there was a slight touch of irony in these words, but his large blue eyes beamed as mildly and lovingly as ever. A slight shadow flitted over Goethe’s brow.
“You are right,” said he, “in reminding me that there are hours in which the poet must be contented to perform the duties of an official. By the document which I hold in my hand, you will perceive, my lady, that I am an official who has duties to fulfil, and I trust that you will, therefore, excuse me.” He bowed formally, and passed on in the direction of his garden-house.
“He is becoming colder and more reserved each day,” said Madame von Kalb. “He has been completely transformed since I first saw him here in Weimar. Then, radiant and handsome as Apollo, flaming with enthusiasm, carrying all hearts with him by his impetuosity and genial manner—then we were forced to believe that earth had no barriers or fetters for him, but that he could spread his pinions and soar heavenward at any moment; now, a stiff, unapproachable, privy-councillor, reserved and grandly dignified! Schiller, no woman could change so fearfully, or become so false to herself! Goethe’s appearance has saddened me so much that I feel like crying!”
“And I,” said Schiller, angrily, “I feel like calling myself a simpleton for having addressed a kindly greeting to so haughty a gentleman. He despises me, and looks down upon the unknown dramatic writer with contempt; he—”
“Frederick,” said Madame von Kalb, gently, “my Frederick, such petty envy does not beseem a genius like yourself; you—”
“Nor do I envy him,” said Schiller, interrupting her; “in my breast also glows the holy fire that was not stolen from heaven by Prometheus for him alone! My spirit also has pinions that would bear it aloft to the sun, if—yes, if it were not for the paltry fetters that bind my feet to earth!”
“And yet, my beloved friend,” rejoined Charlotte, passionately, “and yet I will be only too happy to share these fetters with you—and I would rather live with you in a modest cottage, than in the most magnificent palace at the side of an unloved man.”