Page:Blackwood's Magazine volume 045.djvu/270

"Another door on the left led into Charlotte's bedroom. He heard voices within, and listened. Charlotte spoke to her waiting-maid. 'Is Ottilie gone to bed yet?'

"'No,' replied the other, 'she is down-stairs writing.'

"'Light the night lamp, then,' said Charlotte, ' and retire. 'Tis late I will put out the candle myself and go to bed.'

"Edward was transported with joy to find that Ottilie was still writing. She is busy on my account, he thought, triumphantly. He thought of going to her, to gaze on her, to see how she would turn round to him. He felt an invincible desire to be near her once more. But, alas ! there was no way of getting from where he was to the quarter she lived in. He found himself close to his wife's door. An extraordinary change took place in his soul; he tried to push open the door; he found it bolted, and tapped lightly. Charlotte did not hear.

"She walked quickly to and fro in the large adjoining room. She thought again and again over the unexpected offer of a situation that the Count had made to the Captain. The Captain seemed to stand before her! Now he seemed to fill the house—to enliven the whole scene—and to think that he must go!—how empty would all things be! She said all to herself that is usually said on such occasions. Yes, she anticipated, as people generally do, the miserable consolation that time would mitigate her sorrows. She cursed the time that it needs to mitigate them—she cursed the deathful time when they would be mitigated. She wept at last, and, throwing herself on the sofa, gave way to her grief.

"Edward, on his side, could not tear himself from the door. He knocked again and again. Charlotte heard at last, and stood up alarmed. Her first thought was, it must be the Captain. Her second, that that was impossible. She went into the bedroom and slipt noiselessly to the bolted door.

"'Is any one there?' she asked.

"A low voice answered, ''Tis I.'

"'Who?' she enquired, for she had not recognised the tone. She fancied she saw the Captain's figure at the door.

"The voice added in a louder key, 'Tis I, Edward.'

"She opened the door and her husband stood before her."

I can't go on, sir—one other tumbler, but this must be the last—for the horrors related by the pure-souled Goethe, and published for the edification of boys and virgins, must be left in the fitting incognito of a German dress. I must just give you to understand as delicately as I can, that by a certain process of ratiocination known only to the thinking nation, each of these unhappy persons is persuaded that the object of their passion is before them; Charlotte sees nothing but the Captain, and Edward clasps Ottilie in his arms; and the effect of this strong effort of the imagination will be best shown by going on in the story till Charlotte is again a mother. Recollect, my dear sir, that the whole house has, in the mean-time, been turned topsy-turvy; Edward has gone off to the wars, the Captain has taken possession of his new office, and Charlotte and Ottilie— each being conscious of the other's inclinations—have remained alone. The ceremony of the baptism was therefore shorn a little of its proportions, but still it was got up in a style worthy of the rank of the parents. "The party was collected, the old clergyman, supported by the clerk, stept slowly forward, the prayer was uttered, and the child placed in Ottilie's arms. When she stooped down to kiss it, she started no little at sight of its open eyes, for she thought she was looking into her own! the resemblance was so perfectly amazing. Mittler, the godfather, who took the infant next, started equally on perceiving in its features an extraordinary likeness to the Captain! Such a resemblance he had never seen before."

This, sir, is one of the touches of a supernatural sagacity for which Goethe has credit among his countrymen, and will, no doubt, be quoted in medical books as an instance of the power of imagination, as if it were a real event. But, seriously speaking, can you recollect any scene in a French novel or opera so utterly revolting as this? If you can, your acquaintance with unnatural literature is more extensive than mine; but I am ready to bet you a pipe of Bell and Rannie, you never met with any thing to equal the denouement of this poor infant's story. What do you think of a man trying to gain his reader's sympathy to Ottilie's love-