ust tear himself away, even if he tear out his own
heart. Man possesses that which is more ennobling than mere feeling; he
has intellect--soul."

"Ah!" cried Moritz, "it is easy to see that you have never loved madly,
despairingly. You have never seen the woman whom you adore, and who
perhaps reciprocates your passion, forced to marry another."

A shadow flitted over Goethe's brow, and the flashing brilliancy of his
eyes was changed to gloomy sadness. Gently, but quickly, he laid his
hand upon Moritz's shoulder, saying: "In this hour, when two souls are
revealed to each other, will I acknowledge to you that which I have
never spoken of. I, too, love a woman, who loves me, and yet can never
be mine, for she is married to another. I love this sweet woman as I
have never loved a mortal being. For years my existence has belonged to
her, she has been the centre of all my thoughts. It would seem to me
as if the earth were without a sun, heaven without a God, if she should
vanish from life. I even bless the torture which her prudery, her
alternate coldness and friendliness cause me, as it comes from her, from
the highest bliss of feeling. This passion has swept through my soul, as
if uniting in itself all my youthful loves, till, like a torrent, ever
renewing itself, ever moving onward, it has become the highway of my
future. Upon this stream floats the bark laden with all my happiness,
fame, and poetry. The palaces which my fancy creates rise upon its
shore. Every zephyr, however slight, makes me tremble. Every cloud which
overshadows the brow of my beloved, sweeps like a tempest over my own.
I live upon her smile. A kind word falling from her lips makes me
happy for days; and when she turns away from me with coldness and
indifference, I feel like one driven about as Orestes by the Furies."

"You really are in love!" cried Moritz. "I will take back what I have
said. You, the chosen of the gods, know all the human heart can suffer,
even unhappy love."

Almost angry, and with hesitation, Goethe answered him: "I do not call
this passion of mine an unhappy one, for in the very perception of it
lies happiness. We are only wretched when we lose self-control. To this
point Love shall never lead me. She yields me the highest delight, but
she shall never bring me to self-destruction. Grief for her may, like
a destructive whirlwind, crush every blossom of my heart; but she shall
never destroy me. The man, the poet, must stand higher