“The house where dwells my beloved, my dearest friend, my sister, and the mistress of my heart,” interrupted Goethe. “She is all this, for she is my all in all. The fountains of bliss and love which here and there I have drawn from, refreshing my heart and occupying my mind, flow toward her, united in one broad, silvery stream, with heaven and earth mirrored therein, and revealing wonderful secrets in its rushing waves.”
“Ah, Wolf!” cried the duke, “you are a happy, enviable creature, free and unfettered, sending your love where it pleases you. My dear Wolf, I advise you never to marry, for—”
Goethe hastily closed the duke’s mouth with his hand. “Hush! not a word against the noble Duchess Louisa, my master and friend. She is an example of refined, womanly dignity; and you, Charles, are to be envied the love of so estimable a wife and sweet mother for your children.”
“Indeed I am,” cried the duke, enthusiastically. “I could not have found a more high-minded, lovely wife, or a more excellent, virtuous mother for my descendants. But you know, Wolf, that your Charles has still another heart, very susceptible and tender, which seeks for an affinity to call its own, and vent itself in the pleasures of youth, in glorious flirtations, melancholy signs, and blissful longings. You cannot expect me at twenty-two to play the grandfather, and have no eyes or heart for other captivating women, though I love my young wife most affectionately, and bless Fate that I am bound with silken cords to Hymen’s cart—though I am forever bound, and you, Wolf, are happily free!”
“Because grim Fate refuses to unite me to my beloved. Oh, Charlotte, if you were free, how blessed would I be, enchained by you! Not to ‘Hymen’s cart,’ as the fortunate mocker says, but to the chariot of Venus, drawn by doves, enthroned upon which you would bear me to heaven!”
“Do not blaspheme, Wolf,” cried the duke; “rather kneel and thank the gods that you are not fettered and your wings clipped. They wish to preserve to you love’s delusion, because you are a favorite, and deny you the object adored. Beware of the institution which the French actress, Sophie Arnould, has so wittily called the ‘consecration of adultery.’ You will agree with me that we have many such little sacraments in our dear Weimar, and I must laugh when I reflect for what purpose those amiable beauties have married, as not one of them love their husbands, but they all possess a friend besides.”
“The human heart is a strange thing,” said Goethe, as they descended the hill, arm in arm, “and above all a woman’s heart! It is a sacred riddle, which God has given Himself to solve, and that only a God could unravel!”
At this instant a flash of lightning, followed by heavy-rolling thunder, was heard.
“Hear, Wolf—only hear!” laughed Charles—“God in heaven responds, and confirms your statement.”
“Or punishes me for my bold speech,” cried Goethe, as the hailstones rattled around him hitting his face with their sharp points. “Heaven is whipping me with rods.”