“Me only,” she cried, sadly. “No, it is not so, not me only! It is love that you love in me, and not myself. Oh, Schiller, beware, I pray you; for your own sake, beware! Take back your avowal. I will not have heard it, it shall have died away inaudibly—have been erased from my fantasy. Take it back—but no, rather say nothing more about it. Let this moment be forgotten, as the last golden ray of the setting sun is forgotten. Let us speak to each other as we have been accustomed to do, as friends!”
“Friends!” exclaimed Schiller, angrily. “I say to you, with Aristotle: ‘Oh, my friends, there are no friends!’ At least what I feel for you, Charlotte, is not friendship! It is ardent, passionate love! But this you cannot comprehend. You do not know what love is; your heart is cold!”
“My heart cold?” she repeated, with sparkling eyes. “I not know what love is! And Frederick Schiller tells me this! The poet’s eyes are clouded! He does not look behind the veil, which the usage of the world has thrown over my countenance. I know what love is, Frederick Schiller! But ought I, the married woman, the wife of an unloved and unloving husband, ought I to know love? Must I not wipe the tear of delight from my eye, suppress the longing cry on my lips, and erect a barrier of ice around the heart, that burns and glows with the flames which animate my whole being, giving warmth and light, like the fires in the bosom of the earth? If I were free, if the will of my relations had not forced me to the altar, where I fainted after my lips pronounced the fatal word of assent; [10] if I could name the man I love, I would say to him: ‘Beloved, you are the life of my life, the heart of my heart, and the thought of my thought. From you I receive all being, and breathe all inspiration from your glances! Take me to yourself as the sea receives the drop of rain, absorbing it in its bosom! Let me be a part of your life! Let me feel that my own being merges its identity in yours! I have lost myself that I may find myself in you. My sun sets, to rise again with you to the serene heights of bliss, of knowledge, and of poetry. For us there is no more parting on earth or in heaven; for we are one, and by murder only can you make of this union two distinct beings capable of going in different directions. But I would not wander on, for separation from you, my beloved, with whom I had been made one, would only be accomplished by shedding my heart’s blood. But my lips would not accuse you; they would receive the kiss of death in silence! Therefore, if you do not wish to kill me, be true, as I shall be unto death.’”
“Charlotte, heavenly being,” cried Schiller, gazing at her radiant countenance with astonishment and delight, “you stand before me as in a halo! you are a Titaness; you storm the ramparts of heaven!”
A smile flitted over her features, and she lowered the eyes, which had been gazing upward, again to earth, and regarded Schiller earnestly and intently. “I have told you how I would speak to the man I loved, if I dared. Duty forbids it, however, and I must be dumb. But I can speak to you as a friend and as a sympathizing acquaintance, and rejoice with you over your magnificent work. Seat yourself at my side, Schiller, and let us talk about your ‘Don Carlos.’”
“No, Charlotte, not until you have first honestly and openly acknowledged why this sudden change took place, and how it is you are now pleased with what only excited your laughter a few hours ago?”
“Shall I tell you, honestly and openly?”
“Yes, my friend, henceforth everything must be open and honest between us!”
“Well, then, my friend, you yourself bear the blame.”
“Myself? How so, Charlotte?”