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EDWARD TO OTTILIE
“While you read this letter, my best beloved, I am close to you. Do not agitate
yourself; do not be alarmed; you have nothing to fear from me. I will not force
myself upon you. I will see you or not, as you yourself shall choose.
“Consider, oh! consider your condition and mine. How must I not thank you,
that you have taken no decisive step! But the step which you have taken is
significant enough. Do not persist in it. Here, as it were, at a parting of the ways,
reflect once again. Can you be mine: — will you be mine? Oh, you will be
showing mercy on us all if you will; and on me, infinite mercy.
“Let me see you again! — happily, joyfully see you once more! Let me make
my request to you with my own lips; and do you give me your answer your own
beautiful self, on my breast, Ottilie! where you have so often rested, and which
belongs to you for ever!”
As he was writing, the feeling rushed over him that what he was longing for
was coming — was close — would be there almost immediately. By that door
she would come in; she would read that letter; she in her own person would
stand there before him as she used to stand; she for whose appearance he had
thirsted so long. Would she be the same as she was? — was her form, were her
feelings changed? He still held the pen in his hand; he was going to write as he
thought, when the carriage rolled into the court. With a few hurried strokes he
added: “I hear you coming. For a moment, farewell!”
He folded the letter, and directed it. He had no time for sealing. He darted into
the room through which there was a second outlet into the gallery, when the next
moment he recollected that he had left his watch and seals lying on the table. She
must not see these first. He ran back and brought them away with him. At the
same instant he heard the hostess in the antechamber showing Ottilie the way to
her apartments. He sprang to the bedroom door. It was shut. In his haste, as he
had come back for his watch, he had forgotten to take out the key, which had
fallen out, and lay the other side. The door had closed with a spring, and he
could not open it. He pushed at it with all his might, but it would not yield. Oh,
how gladly would he have been a spirit, to escape through its cracks! In vain. He
hid his face against the panels. Ottilie entered, and the hostess, seeing him,
retired. From Ottilie herself, too, he could not remain concealed for a moment.
He turned toward her; and there stood the lovers once more, in such strange
fashion, in each other’s presence. She looked at him calmly and earnestly,
without advancing or retiring. He made a movement to approach her, and she
withdrew a few steps toward the table. He stepped back again. “Ottilie!” he cried
aloud, “Ottilie! let me break this frightful silence! Are we shadows, that we
stand thus gazing at each other? Only listen to me; listen to this at least. It is an
accident that you find me here thus. There is a letter on the table, at your side
there, which was to have prepared you. Read it, I implore you — read it — and
then determine as you will!”
She looked down at the letter; and after thinking a few seconds, she took it up,
opened it, and read it: she finished it without a change of expression; and she
laid it lightly down; then joining the palms of her hands together, turning them
upward, and drawing them against her breast, she leant her body a little forward,
and regarded Edward with such a look, that, eager as he was, he was compelled
to renounce everything he wished or desired of her. Such an attitude cut him to
the heart; he could not bear it. It seemed exactly as if she would fall upon her
knees before him, if he persisted. He hurried in despair out of the room, and
leaving her alone, sent the hostess in to her.
He walked up and down the antechamber. Night had come on, and there was
no sound in the room. At last the hostess came out and drew the key out of the
lock. The good woman was embarrassed and agitated, not knowing what it
would be proper for her to do. At last as she turned to go, she offered the key to
Edward, who refused it; and putting down the candle, she went away.
In misery and wretchedness, Edward flung himself down on the threshold of
the door which divided him from Ottilie, moistening it with his tears as he lay. A
more unhappy night had been seldom passed by two lovers in such close
neighborhood!
Day came at last. The coachman brought round the carriage, and the hostess
unlocked the door and went in. Ottilie was asleep in her clothes; she went back
and beckoned to Edward with a significant smile. They both entered and stood
before her as she lay; but the sight was too much for Edward. He could not bear
it. She was sleeping so quietly that the hostess did not like to disturb her, but sat
down opposite her, waiting till she woke. At last Ottilie opened her beautiful
eyes, and raised herself on her feet. She declined taking any breakfast, and then
Edward went in again and stood before her. He entreated her to speak but one
word to him; to tell him what she desired. He would do it, be it what it would, he
swore to her; but she remained silent. He asked her once more, passionately and
tenderly, whether she would be his. With downcast eyes, and with the deepest
tenderness of manner she shook her head in a gentle No. He asked if she still
desired to go to the school. Without any show of feeling she declined. Would she
then go back to Charlotte? She inclined her head in token of assent, with a look
of comfort and relief. He went to the window to give directions to the coachman,
and when his back was turned she darted like lightning out of the room, and was
down the stairs and in the carriage in an instant. The coachman drove back along
the road which he had come the day before, and Edward followed at some
distance on horseback.
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