The German Classics of The Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries, Vol. II | Page 6

no good will come of it."
"You women are invincible in this way," replied Edward. "You are so
sensible, that there is no answering you, then so affectionate, that one is
glad to give way to you; full of feelings, which one cannot wound, and
full of forebodings, which terrify one."
"I am not superstitious," said Charlotte; "and I care nothing for these
dim sensations, merely as such; but in general they are the result of
unconscious recollections of happy or unhappy consequences, which

we have experienced as following on our own or others' actions.
Nothing is of greater moment, in any state of things, than the
intervention of a third person. I have seen friends, brothers and sisters,
lovers, husbands and wives, whose relation to each other, through the
accidental or intentional introduction of a third person, has been
altogether changed--whose whole moral condition has been inverted by
it."
"That may very well be," replied Edward, "with people who live on
without looking where they are going; but not, surely, with persons
whom experience has taught to understand themselves."
"That understanding ourselves, my dearest husband," insisted Charlotte,
"is no such certain weapon. It is very often a most dangerous one for
the person who bears it. And out of all this, at least so much seems to
arise, that we should not be in too great a hurry. Let me have a few
days to think; don't decide."
"As the matter stands," returned Edward, "wait as many days as we will,
we shall still be in too great a hurry. The arguments for and against are
all before us; all we want is the conclusion, and as things are, I think
the best thing we can do is to draw lots."
"I know," said Charlotte, "that in doubtful cases it is your way to leave
them to chance. To me, in such a serious matter, this seems almost a
crime."
"Then what am I to write to the Captain?" cried Edward; "for write I
must at once."
"Write him a kind, sensible, sympathizing letter," answered Charlotte.
"That is as good as none at all," replied Edward.
"And there are many cases," answered she, "in which we are obliged,
and in which it is the real kindness, rather to write nothing than not to
write."

CHAPTER II
Edward was alone in his room. The repetition of the incidents of his life
from Charlotte's lips; the representation of their mutual situation, their
mutual purposes, had worked him, sensitive as he was, into a very
pleasant state of mind. While close to her--while in her presence--he
had felt so happy, that he had thought out a warm, kind, but quiet and
indefinite epistle which he would send to the Captain. When, however,
he had settled himself at his writing-table, and taken up his friend's
letter to read it over once more, the sad condition of this excellent man
rose again vividly before him. The feelings which had been all day
distressing him again awoke, and it appeared impossible to him to leave
one whom he called his friend in such painful embarrassment.
Edward was unaccustomed to deny himself anything. The only child,
and consequently the spoilt child, of wealthy parents, who had
persuaded him into a singular, but highly advantageous marriage with a
lady far older than himself; and again by her petted and indulged in
every possible way, she seeking to reward his kindness to her by the
utmost liberality; after her early death his own master, traveling
independently of every one, equal to all contingencies and all changes,
with desires never excessive, but multiple and various--free-hearted,
generous, brave, at times even noble--what was there in the world to
cross or thwart him?
Hitherto, everything had gone as he desired! Charlotte had become his;
he had won her at last, with an obstinate, a romantic fidelity; and now
he felt himself, for the first time, contradicted, crossed in his wishes,
when those wishes were to invite to his home the friend of his
youth--just as he was longing, as it were, to throw open his whole heart
to him. He felt annoyed, impatient; he took up his pen again and again,
and as often threw it down again, because he could not make up his
mind what to write. Against his wife's wishes he would not go; against
her expressed desire he could not. Ill at ease as he was, it would have
been impossible for him, even if he had wished, to write a quiet, easy
letter. The most natural thing to do, was to put it off. In a few words, he

begged his friend to forgive him for having left his letter unanswered;
that day he was unable to write circumstantially; but shortly, he hoped
to be able to tell him