Delphi Collected Works of Johann Wolfgang von Goethe \(Illustrated\) pdfdrive com

CHAPTER XIII

Men  who  are  complete  strangers,  and  wholly  indifferent  to  one  another,  if

they live a long time together, are sure both of them to expose something of their

inner nature, and thus a kind of intimacy will arise between them. All the more

was  it  to  be  expected  that  there  would  soon  be  no  secrets  between  our  two

friends, now that they were again under the same roof together, and in daily and

hourly intercourse. They went over again the earlier stages of their history, and

the Major confessed to Edward that Charlotte had intended Ottilie for him at the

time  at  which  he  returned  from  abroad,  and  hoped  that  some  time  or  other  he

might  marry  her.  Edward  was  in  ecstasies  at  this  discovery;  he  spoke  without

reserve  of  the  mutual  affection  of  Charlotte  and  the  Major,  which,  because  it

happened  to  fall  in  so  conveniently  with  his  own  wishes,  he  painted  in  very

lively colors.

Deny  it  altogether,  the  Major  could  not;  at  the  same  time,  he  could  not

altogether  acknowledge  it.  But  Edward  only  insisted  on  it  the  more.  He  had

pictured the whole thing to himself not as possible, but as already concluded; all

parties had only to resolve on what they all wished; there would be no difficulty

in obtaining a separation; the marriages should follow as soon after as possible,

and Edward could travel with Ottilie.

Of  all  the  pleasant  things  which  imagination  pictures  to  us,  perhaps  there  is

none more charming than when lovers and young married people look forward

to  enjoying  their  new  relation  to  each  other  in  a  fresh,  new  world,  and  test  the

endurance  of  the  bond  between  them  in  so  many  changing  circumstances.  The

Major and Charlotte were in the meantime to have unrestricted powers to settle

all questions of money, property, and other such important worldly matters; and

to  do  whatever  was  right  and  proper  for  the  satisfaction  of  all  parties.  What

Edward dwelt the most upon, however, what he seemed to promise himself the

most  advantage  from  was  this:  —  as  the  child  would  have  to  remain  with  the

mother, the Major would charge himself with the education of it; he would train

the boy according to his own views, and develop what capacities there might be

in  him.  It  was  not  for  nothing  that  he  had  received  in  his  baptism  the  name  of

Otto, which belonged to them both.

Edward had so completely arranged everything for himself, that he could not

wait  another  day  to  carry  it  into  execution.  On  their  way  to  the  castle,  they

arrived at a small town, where Edward had a house, and where he was to stay to

await  the  return  of  the  Major.  He  could  not,  however,  prevail  upon  himself  to

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alight  there  at  once,  and  accompanied  his  friend  through  the  place.  They  were

both  on  horseback,  and  falling  into  some  interesting  conversation,  rode  on

further together.

On a sudden they saw, in the distance, the new house on the height, with its

red tiles shining in the sun. An irresistible longing came over Edward; he would

have it all settled that very evening; he would remain concealed in a village close

by.  The  Major  was  to  urge  the  business  on  Charlotte  with  all  his  power;  he

would  take  her  prudence  by  surprise;  and  oblige  her  by  the  unexpectedness  of

his  proposal  to  make  a  free  acknowledgment  of  her  feelings.  Edward  had

transferred  his  own  wishes  to  her;  he  felt  certain  that  he  was  only  meeting  her

half-way, and that her inclinations were as decided as his own; and he looked for

an immediate consent from her, because he himself could think of nothing else.

Joyfully  he  saw  the  prosperous  issue  before  his  eyes;  and  that  it  might  be

communicated to him as swiftly as possible, a few cannon shots were to be fired

off, and if it was dark, a rocket or two sent up.

The Major rode to the castle. He did not find Charlotte there; he learnt that for

the  present  she  was  staying  at  the  new  house;  at  that  particular  time,  however,

she  was  paying  a  visit  in  the  neighborhood,  and  she  probably  would  not  have

returned  till  late  that  evening.  He  walked  back  to  the  hotel,  to  which  he  had

previously sent his horse.

Edward, in the meantime, unable to sit still from restlessness and impatience,

stole  away  out  of  his  concealment  along  solitary  paths  known  only  to  foresters

and fishermen, into his park; and he found himself toward evening in the copse

close to the lake, the broad mirror of which he now for the first time saw spread

out in its perfectness before him.

Ottilie  had  gone  out  that  afternoon  for  a  walk  along  the  shore.  She  had  the

child with her, and read as she usually did while she went along. She had gone as

far as the oak-tree by the ferry. The boy had fallen asleep; she sat down; laid it

on  the  ground  at  her  side,  and  continued  reading.  The  book  was  one  of  those

which  attract  persons  of  delicate  feeling,  and  afterward  will  not  let  them  go

again.  She  forgot  the  time  and  the  hours;  she  never  thought  what  a  long  way

round it was by land to the new house; but she sat lost in her book and in herself,

so beautiful to look at, that the trees and the bushes round her ought to have been

alive, and to have had eyes given them to gaze upon her and admire her. The sun

was sinking; a ruddy streak of light fell upon her from behind, tinging with gold

her  cheek  and  shoulder.  Edward,  who  had  made  his  way  to  the  lake  without

being seen, finding his park desolate, and no trace of human creature to be seen

anywhere,  went  on  and  on.  At  last  he  broke  through  the  copse  behind  the  oak-

tree, and saw her. At the same moment she saw him. He flew to her, and threw

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himself at her feet. After a long, silent pause, in which they both endeavored to

collect  themselves,  he  explained  in  a  few  words  why  and  how  he  had  come

there.  He  had  sent  the  Major  to  Charlotte;  and  perhaps  at  that  moment  their

common destiny was being decided. Never had he doubted her affection, and she

assuredly  had  never  doubted  his.  He  begged  for  her  consent;  she  hesitated;  he

implored her. He offered to resume his old privilege, and throw his arms around

her, and embrace her; she pointed down to the child.

Edward looked at it, and was amazed. “Great God!” he cried; “if I had cause

to doubt my wife and my friend, this face would witness fearfully against them.

Is not this the very image of the Major? I never saw such a likeness.”

“Indeed!” replied Ottilie; “all the world say it is like me.”

“Is  it  possible?”  Edward  answered;  and  at  the  moment  the  child  opened  its

eyes — two large, black, piercing eyes, deep and full of love; already the little

face was full of intelligence. He seemed as if he knew both the figures which he

saw standing before him. Edward threw himself down beside the child, and then

knelt a second time before Ottilie. “It is you,” he cried; “the eyes are yours! ah,

but  let  me  look  into  yours;  let  me  throw  a  veil  over  that  ill-starred  hour  which

gave its being to this little creature. Shall I shock your pure spirit with the fearful

thought,  that  man  and  wife  who  are  estranged  from  each  other,  can  yet  press

each other to their heart, and profane the bonds by which the law unites them by

other  eager  wishes?  Oh  yes!  As  I  have  said  so  much;  as  my  connection  with

Charlotte must now be severed; as you will be mine, why should I not speak out

the words to you? This child is the offspring of a double adultery. It should have

been a tie between my wife and myself; but it severs her from me, and me from

her. Let it witness, then, against me. Let these fair eyes say to yours, that in the

arms of another I belonged to you. You must feel, Ottilie, oh! you must feel, that

my fault, my crime, I can only expiate in your arms.”

“Hark!”  he  called  out,  as  he  sprang  up  and  listened.  He  thought  that  he  had

heard a shot, and that it was the sign which the Major was to give. It was the gun

of a forester on the adjoining hill. Nothing followed. Edward grew impatient.

Ottilie now first observed that the sun was down behind the mountains; its last

rays were shining on the windows of the house above. “Leave me, Edward,” she

cried; “go. Long as we have been parted, much as we have borne, yet remember

what we both owe to Charlotte. She must decide our fate; do not let us anticipate

her  judgment.  I  am  yours  if  she  will  permit  it  to  be  so.  If  she  will  not,  I  must

renounce you. As you think it is now so near an issue, let us wait. Go back to the

village, where the Major supposes you to be. Is it likely that a rude cannon-shot

will inform you of the results of such an interview? Perhaps at this moment he is

seeking for you. He will not have found Charlotte at home; of that I am certain.

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He may have gone to meet her; for they knew at the castle where she was. How

many things may have happened! Leave me! she must be at home by this time;

she is expecting me there with the baby.”

Ottilie  spoke  hurriedly;  she  called  together  all  the  possibilities.  It  was  too

delightful to be with Edward; but she felt that he must now leave her. “I beseech,

I implore you, my beloved,” she cried out; “go back and wait for the Major.”

“I obey your commands,” cried Edward. He gazed at her for a moment with

rapturous love, and then caught her close in his arms. She wound her own about

him,  and  pressed  him  tenderly  to  her  breast.  Hope  streamed  away,  like  a  star

shooting  in  the  sky,  above  their  heads.  They  thought  then,  they  believed,  that

they  did  indeed  belong  to  each  other.  For  the  first  time  they  exchanged  free,

genuine kisses, and separated with pain and effort.

The sun had gone down. It was twilight, and a damp mist was rising about the

lake. Ottilie stood confused and agitated. She looked across to the house on the

hill, and she thought she saw Charlotte’s white dress on the balcony.

It was a long way round by the end of the lake; and she knew how impatiently

Charlotte  would  be  waiting  for  the  child.  She  saw  the  plane-trees  just  opposite

her,  and  only  a  narrow  interval  of  water  divided  her  from  the  path  which  led

straight up to the house. Her nervousness about venturing on the water with the

child  vanished  in  her  present  embarrassment.  She  hastened  to  the  boat;  she  did

not  feel  that  her  heart  was  beating;  that  her  feet  were  tottering;  that  her  senses

were threatening to fail her.

She sprang in, seized the oar, and pushed off. She had to use force; she pushed

again.  The  boat  shot  off,  and  glided,  swaying  and  rocking  into  the  open  water.

With the child in her left arm, the book in her left hand, and the oar in her right,

she lost her footing, and fell over the seat; the oar slipped from her on one side,

and as she tried to recover herself, the child and the book slipped on the other, all

into  the  water.  She  caught  the  floating  dress,  but  lying  entangled  as  she  was

herself, she was unable to rise. Her right hand was free, but she could not reach

round to help herself up with it; at last she succeeded. She drew the child out of

the water; but its eyes were closed, and it had ceased to breathe.

In  a  moment,  she  recovered  all  her  self-possession;  but  so  much  the  greater

was her agony; the boat was drifting fast into the middle of the lake; the oar was

swimming far away from her. She saw no one on the shore; and, indeed, if she

had, it would have been of no service to her. Cut off from all assistance, she was

floating on the faithless, unstable element.

She  sought  for  help  from  herself;  she  had  often  heard  of  the  recovery  of  the

drowned;  she  had  herself  witnessed  an  instance  of  it  on  the  evening  of  her

birthday; she took off the child’s clothes, and dried it with her muslin dress; she

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threw open her bosom, laying it bare for the first time to the free heaven. For the

first time she pressed a living being to her pure, naked breast.

Alas!  and  it  was  not  a  living  being.  The  cold  limbs  of  the  ill-starred  little

creature chilled her to the heart. Streams of tears gushed from her eyes, and lent

a show of life and warmth to the outside of the torpid limbs. She persevered with

her efforts; she wrapped it in her shawl, she drew it close to herself, stroked it,

breathed upon it, and with tears and kisses labored to supply the help which, cut

off as she was, she was unable to find.

It  was  all  in  vain;  the  child  lay  motionless  in  her  arms;  motionless  the  boat

floated on the glassy water. But even here her beautiful spirit did not leave her

forsaken. She turned to the Power above. She sank down upon her knees in the

boat,  and  with  both  arms  raised  the  unmoving  child  above  her  innocent  breast,

like  marble  in  its  whiteness;  alas,  too,  like  marble,  cold;  with  moist  eyes  she

looked up and cried for help, where a tender heart hopes to find it in its fulness

when all other help has failed.

The stars were beginning one by one to glimmer down upon her; she turned to

them and not in vain; a soft air stole over the surface, and wafted the boat under

the plane-trees.

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