“Charlotte,” cried he, in angry tones, “whenever I have been so fortunate as to find you reasonable and disposed to converse on interesting topics, I have felt that this confidence still existed. But this I must admit,” he continued, with increased violence, and now, that the floodgates were once opened, no longer able to repress his indignation; “this I must admit, the manner in which you have treated me of late is no longer endurable. When I felt disposed to converse, you closed my lips; when I was communicative, you accused me of indifference; and when I manifested interest in my friends, you accused me of coldness and negligence. You have criticised my every word, have found fault with my manner, and have invariably made me feel thoroughly ill at ease. How can confidence and sincerity prosper when you drive me from your side with studied caprice?”[57]
“With studied caprice?” repeated Charlotte, bursting into tears. “As if my sadness, which he calls studied caprice, were not the natural result of the unhappiness which he has caused me.”
“I should like to know what unhappiness I have caused you. Tell me, Charlotte; make your accusations; perhaps I can succeed in convincing you that you are wrong.”
“It shall be as you say,” cried Charlotte, passionately. “I accuse you of being faithless, of having forgotten the love which you vowed should live and die with you—of having forgotten it in a twofold love, in a noble and in an unworthy one.”
“Charlotte, consider well what you say; weigh your words lest they offend my soul.”
“Did you weigh your words? You have offended my soul mortally, fearfully. Or, perhaps, you suppose your telling me to my face that you had loved another woman in Italy, and had left there in order to flee from this love, could not have inflicted such fearful pain.”
“Had left there in order to preserve myself for you, Charlotte; to remain true to you.”
“A great preservation, indeed, when love is already lost. And even if I admit that the beauty of the charming Italian girl made you for the moment forgetful of your plighted faith, what shall I say to what is now going on here in Weimar? What shall I think of the great poet, the noble man, the whole-souled, loving friend, when he finds his pleasure in secret, disreputable intercourse with a person who has neither standing nor education, who belongs to a miserable family, and who, in my estimation, is not even worthy to be my chambermaid? Oh, to think, to know, that the poet Goethe, the privy-councillor Goethe, the scholar Goethe—that he steals secretly to that wretched house in the evening to visit the daughter of a drunkard! To think that my Goethe, my heart’s favorite, my pride, and my love, has turned from me to a person who is so low that he himself is ashamed of her, and only visits her clandestinely, anxiously endeavoring to avoid recognition!”
“If I did that, it was for your sake,” cried he, pale with inward agitation, his lips quivering, and his eyes sparkling. “If I visited her clandestinely, I did so because I knew that your noble perception was dimmed, and that you were no longer capable of looking down upon these petty, earthly relations from a more exalted stand-point. If you were wise and high-hearted, Charlotte, you would ignore a relation that lies entirely out of the sphere in which we both live. Of what nature is this relation? Upon whose rights does it trespass? Who lays claim to the feelings I bestow upon this poor creature? Who claims the hours that I pass in her company?” [58]
With a loud cry of anguish, Charlotte raised her arms toward heaven, “O God, he admits it! He admits this fearful relation!”