“Yes, I send you away, Schiller. We must deal economically with the beautiful moments of life. Now go!”
On the evening of this day of so many varied emotions, Schiller wrote letters, in which he warmly thanked his unknown friends in Leipsic. In writing, he opened his heart in an unreserved history of his life—so poor in joys, and so rich in deprivations and disappointed hopes. He imparted to them all that he had achieved; all his intentions and desires. He told them of his poverty and want; for false shame was foreign to Schiller’s nature. In his eyes the want of money was not a want of honor and dignity. He acknowledged every thing to the distant, unknown friends—his homeless feeling, and his longing to be in some other sphere, with other men who might perhaps love and understand him.
As he wrote this he hesitated, and it seemed to him that he could see the sorrowful, reproachful look of Charlotte’s large, glowing eyes; and it seemed to him that she whispered, “Is this your love, Schiller? You wish to leave me, and yet you know that you will be my murderer if you go!”
He shuddered, and laid aside his pen, and arose and walked with rapid strides up and down his room. The glowing words which Charlotte had spoken to him that morning again resounded in his ear, but now, in the stillness of the night, they were no longer the same heavenly music.
“I believe it is dangerous to love her,” he murmured. “She claims my whole heart, and would tyrannize over me with her passion. But I must be free, for he only who is free can conquer the world and achieve honor; and the love which refreshes my heart must never aspire to become my tyrant!”
He returned to his writing-table and finished the letter which he had commenced to Körner. He wrote: “I would that a happy destiny led me away from here, for I feel that my stay in this place should come to an end. I wish I could visit you in Leipsic, to thank you for the hour of delight for which I am indebted to you! Aristotle was wrong when he said: ‘Oh, my friends, there are no friends!’ I think of you and yours; I think of you four, and cry joyously: ‘There are friends, nevertheless! Blessed is he to whom it is vouchsafed by the gods to find friends without having sought them!’”
CHAPTER VI.
THE TITLE.