THE TITLE.
Charlotte von Kalb had kept her word. She had equipped Schiller with letters of introduction to the Duke Charles August and members of his family; she had also induced Mr. von Dalberg to furnish him with letters to influentialfriends at the court of Darmstadt. Provided with these recommendations, and in his modesty and humility attaching greater importance to them than to his own reputation and dignity, Schiller journeyed to Darmstadt, in the beginning of the year 1785, for the purpose of endeavoring to obtain a friend and protector in the Duke Charles August of Weimar.
Dalberg’s and Charlotte’s letters accomplished more than Schiller’s name and worth could possibly have done. The author of “The Robbers” and “Fiesco,” poems which lauded freedom and popular government, and of “Louise Müllerin,” which branded aristocracy as opposed to the rights of the human heart; a poet who had dared to defy a prince and a ruler could not have entered the golden gates of a princely palace without the golden key of Dalberg’s and Charlotte’s letters.
Frederick Schiller was received at the court of the landgrave in Darmstadt. The young and joyous Duke Charles August of Weimar welcomed the poet cordially, and, prompted by the enthusiastic praises of Madame von Kalb, requested Schiller to read him a portion of the new tragedy.
Schiller offered to read the first act of “Don Carlos,” and his offer was graciously accepted. The reading took place on the afternoon of the same day. A brilliant array of noblemen in embroidered court dress, and adorned with decorations, and of magnificently attired ladies, sparkling with jewels, had assembled in the reception-room of the landgravine. She, the lover of art, the intellectual Landgravine of Hesse, had seated herself at the side of the Duke Charles August on the sofa in the middle of the saloon, behind which the ladies and gentlemen of the court were standing in groups. Not far off, and completely isolated, stood a plain cane-bottomed chair, and a little round table, on which a glass of water had been placed. This was the poet’s throne, and this was the nectar he was to drink at the table of the gods.
He felt embarrassed and almost awe-stricken as he enteredthe brilliant court circle in his homely garb; he felt the blood first rush to his cheeks and then back to his heart again, leaving his countenance deathly pale.
“Rouse yourself, Schiller, and be a man! Shame upon you for being blinded by the trumpery and outward glitter of nobility and princely rank!” He said this to himself as he walked to the place set apart for him, feeling that the eyes of all rested on him with a cold, examining glance.
“What do I care for this pack of courtiers, this court-marshal Von Kalb and his associates?” said he to himself, defiantly. “It was not on their account I came here, and what they may think of me is a matter of complete indifference. I aspire only to the good opinion of the duke, of the friend of the great Goethe.”
He looked over toward the sofa, and his glance encountered the eyes of the young duke, whose countenance was turned to him with a smile and an expression of good-natured sympathy. Schiller felt encouraged, and a smile flitted over his features.
He opened his manuscript and began to read the first act of “Don Carlos” in a clear and loud voice. His voice was full and sonorous, and his delivery, thanks to Charlotte’s admonitions, was purer and more moderate; and, as he read on, his embarrassment disappeared, and the clouds lifted from his high brow.
The courtiers, who had first regarded the young poet contemptuously, now began to show some sympathy; the head, covered with light-yellow locks, with its sharply-chiselled features and large Roman nose, was, now that it was illumined with earnest thought, no longer so homely and uninteresting.
The countenance of the landgravine was expressive of the closest attention, and the reading of “Don Carlos” affected her so profoundly, that she had recourse to her handkerchief to wipe the tears of emotion from her eyes.
At times Charles August could not repress an exclamation of delight, a loud bravo; and when Schiller arose from his seat, after finishing the first act, Charles August walked forwardto thank the poet with a warm pressure of the hand, and to conduct him to the landgravine, that she might also express her thanks and sympathy.
The duke then took the poet’s arm, and walked with him through the saloon, to the disgust of the courtiers, who, notwithstanding their devotion, found it somewhat strange that the duke could so demean himself as to walk arm-in-arm with a man without birth or name.
But of course this was a natural consequence of the mania after geniuses which reigned in Weimar; such abnormities should no longer excite surprise. Was there not at the court in Weimar so variegated an admixture of well-born and ill-born, that one ran the risk of encountering at any moment a person who was not entitled to be there? Had not the duke carried his disregard of etiquette so far, that he had made Wolfgang Goethe, the son of a citizen of Frankfort, his privy-councillor, and an intimate associate? And was it not well known that his mother, the Duchess Amelia, as well as himself, never made a journey without picking up some genius on the road for their establishment at Weimar?
This time Frederick Schiller was the genius whom the duke desired to recruit. That was quite evident, for the duke had been standing with the poet for more than a quarter of an hour in a window-niche, and they were conversing with vivacity. It was offensive and annoying to see this Mr. Schiller standing before the duke, with a proud bearing and perfect composure; and conversing with him without the slightest embarrassment.
But the duke seemed to be greatly interested, and his countenance expressed lively sympathy and kindliness.
“I believe that destiny has intrusted you with a great mission, Mr. Schiller,” said the duke, when the poet had given him a brief and terse account of the continuation and contents of his “Don Carlos.” “I believe that you are destined to be the poet-preacher of the people; and to refresh the hearts and enliven the imagination of the degenerate Germans;and I prophesy a great future for you! Your aim is a noble one. You desire not only to assign to the purely human, but also to the ideal, its proper sphere in this world; and your ‘Don Carlos’ is an open combat between the purely human and ideal, against materialism and custom. Through it you will make many enemies among the higher classes, and acquire many friends among the masses; and, although you will not be the favorite of princes, you will certainly be beloved by the people. For the judgment of the people is good and sound, and it will always give its sympathies to the champion of the purely human, as opposed to the ridiculous assumptions of etiquette and prejudice. But I tell you beforehand, that, in so-called noble society, you will, with great difficulty, have to fight your way step by step.”
“I have been accustomed to such warfare since my earliest youth,” said Schiller, smiling. “Fate has not given me a bed of roses, and Care has as yet been the only friend who stood faithfully at my side.”
“You forget the Muses,” cried the duke, with vivacity. “It seems to me that you have no right to complain of a want of attention on the part of these ladies!”
“True, your highness,” responded Schiller earnestly; “they have at times been graciously inclined, and I am indebted to them for some of the most delightful hours of my life.”
“Nor has the favor of earthly goddesses and Muses been wanting to the inspired poet’s happiness,” said the duke, and he laughed loudly when he saw Schiller blush and cast his eyes down.
“Oh, I see,” he cried gayly, “you have earthly Muses also, your ideal has become reality! Could there be any connection between this and the songs of praise which Madame von Kalb wrote me concerning you?”
“Your highness, I really do not understand your meaning.”
“Or rather, will not understand it! But we will not examine the affair any closer. Madame von Kalb has certainly made it my duty to interest myself for her poet, and I thankher for having made me acquainted with you. And now I should like to give a proof of my gratitude, and it would afford me pleasure to have you tell me in what manner I can be useful to you.”
“Your kind and gracious words have already been of great benefit to me,” said Schiller, heartily; “your goodness has shed a ray of sunshine into my sometimes cold and cheerless heart.”
“Your heart is never cold, Schiller, for the fire of poetry burns there. But in your little chamber it may sometimes be cold and cheerless. That I can well believe, for when the gods rain down blessings upon the poet they generally forget but one thing, but that is the one thing needful, money! The gods generally lay but one sort of capital in the cradle of mortal man, either a capital in mind or one of more material value; and truly he must be a great favorite to whom they give both.”
“Yes, a very great favorite,” murmured Schiller, in a low voice; and he read in the prince’s countenance that he was thinking of his favorite, Wolfgang Goethe, who had arisen like a meteor before Schiller’s gaze at the time he visited the Charles School in Stuttgart, in company with the duke, to witness the distribution of prizes to the scholars of this institution. While the scholar, Frederick Schiller, was receiving a prize which had been awarded him, the gaze of Goethe’s large eyes was fixed upon him, but only with the composed expression of a great man who wished him well and condescended to evince sympathy. This look had sunk deep into Schiller’s heart, and he thought of it now as he stood before the duke in the palace of Darmstadt—the duke, who could be a friend to Goethe, but to him only a patron and an almsgiver.
“I desire to be of service to you if I can,” said the duke, who, for some time, had been silently regarding Schiller, whose eyes were cast down thoughtfully. “Have you any wish, my dear Mr. Schiller, that I can perhaps gratify? I amcertainly not a mighty prince, and unfortunately not a rich one, but if I can help you in any way, I will gladly do so.”
Schiller raised his head quickly, and his eye met the inquiring look of the duke with a proud gaze. Not for all the world would he have told the prince of his distress and want, would he have stood on the floor of that palace as an humble beggar, soliciting alms for the journey through life!
“Your highness, I repeat it, your friendly reception and your sympathy have already been a great assistance to me.”
The duke’s countenance brightened, and he breathed freer, as if a burden had fallen from his soul. “And this assistance shall never be wanting, of that you may be assured. Every one shall learn that Charles August, of Weimar, is happy to know the German poet, Frederick Schiller, and that he counts him among those who are dear to him. A German duke was your tyrant; a German prince drove you out into the world, therefore it is just and right that another German duke should show you friendship, and endeavor to make your path in life a little smoother. I will be ready to do so at all times, and to testify to my high opinion of yourself and your talents before the whole world, your tyrannical prince included. And a proof of it shall be given you before you leave Darmstadt! For the present, farewell, and if you should come to Weimar at any time, do not forget to pay your good friend, Charles August, a visit! You will not leave until to-morrow morning, I suppose?”
“No, your highness, not until to-morrow morning.”
“Well, then, my dear Mr. Schiller, you will hear from me this evening.”
Schiller returned to his hotel in a thoughtful mood. What could the duke’s words mean? What token of esteem would Charles August give him? Perhaps even an appointment. Ah, and if ever so unimportant a one, it would still be an alleviation of relief. Perhaps the duke only intended to offer him the use of one of his unoccupied castles, in order that he might finish his “Don Carlos” in peaceful seclusion.Well, that also would be a blessing, a benefit! The homeless one would then have a resting-place from which he could not be driven, where he would not be assailed by the cares and vexations of life. The hours dragged on sluggishly in the bare, uncomfortable little room at the hotel, and the poet tormented himself with suppositions and questions, while he listened attentively to hear the footstep of the expected messenger of the duke.
At last, after hours of waiting, a knock was heard at the door, and a ducal lackey handed Schiller a large sealed document. It seemed to regard him with a right official and solemn look with its great seal of state bearing the inscription, “Ducal private cabinet,” and the poet’s feelings were of the same nature when he opened it after the lackey’s departure. What could it be that the duke offered him, an appointment or a retreat?
An expression of astonishment and surprise was depicted on Schiller’s countenance as he read the document; his brow darkened, and he let the paper fall to the table. The duke offered him neither an appointment nor a retreat. He gave him a title, the title of a ducal counsellor. The secretary of the cabinet made known the generous determination of his master, and informed him that the document appointing him to this office would be made out in official form and forwarded to him on the duke’s return to Weimar. Frederick Schiller should, however, be enabled to wear the title so graciously conferred, and call himself “ducal counsellor” from that hour.
While reading it for the second time, the poet laughed derisively. This was the solution of the riddle. He who had scarcely known how to counsel himself, was now the counsellor of a prince who would probably never desire his counsel. He who was tormented with cares, who had no home, had nothing he could call his own besides his manuscripts—he was now the possessor of a title.
How strange the contrast! The tragedy which waged war against princely prerogatives, etiquette, and ceremony, infavor of humanity, equality before the law, and nobility of soul—this tragedy was to bear, as its first fruit, the favor of a prince.
It was strange—it looked almost like irony, and yet!—He thought of Charlotte von Kalb—she would rejoice to see him thus honored by a German prince. He thought of his old parents, to whom it would undoubtedly be a great satisfaction to know that the former regimental-surgeon of the Duke of Wurtemberg had become so distinguished. It would prove to them that their Fritz, of whom the severe father had often despaired, had nevertheless attained honor and respectability in the eyes of the world.
Well, then, let it be so! A little appointment would certainly have been better, and some hunting-castle as a retreat would probably have furthered the completion of “Don Carlos.” But one must be contented, nevertheless. The little was not to be despised, for it was an honor and a public acknowledgment, and would, perhaps, have the effect of infusing into the directors a little more respect for the poet, whose dramas they often maltreated and injured by poor and careless representation.
With a smile, Schiller folded the document and laid it aside. “Well,” said he to himself, in a low voice, “I entertain the proud hope that I am a poet ‘by the grace of God!’ Moreover, I have now become a counsellor by the grace of a duke. All that I now wish is, that I may at last become a poet and a counsellor, by the grace of the people, and that they may approve my works, and hold me worthy of the title to their love and honor. To be the people’s counsellor, is truly an honor above all honors. My soul longs for this holy and beautiful title. With all that I possess in mind and talent, in strength and energy, I will endeavor to deserve it, and to become that which is the poet’s greatest and noblest recompense—the teacher and counsellor of the people!”
ADIEU TO MANNHEIM!
Schiller had returned to Mannheim as ducal counsellor of Weimar. Charlotte von Kalb received this intelligence with so much joy, that Schiller could not help feeling pleased himself. He threw his arms around her, and demanded a kiss as a condition of his retention of the title. Charlotte blushingly hid her face on his bosom, but he gently raised her head, and pressed an ardent kiss on the lips which uttered no refusal. But Charlotte now demanded that Schiller should leave her; and when he refused, and begged and implored that he might be permitted to remain, her eyes glistened, and a glowing color suffused itself over her cheeks.
“Oh, Schiller, you know not what you are doing and what you demand! Do you not see that an abyss lies between us?”
“I see it, Charlotte; but the arm of Love is strong and mighty, and he who truly loves, carries the loved woman over all abysses, or else precipitates himself with her into the yawning chasm.”
“There is another alternative, Schiller, and a terrible one. The abyss is crossed, and they are joined; and then afterward his illusion vanishes—he is undeceived. The ideal has been transformed into a very ordinary woman, whom he scorns, because her love was dearer and holier to her than her virtue. She feels his scorn, and the abyss over which he had borne her becomes the grave in which she voluntarily precipitates herself, in order to escape from him she had loved. Oh, Schiller, if the eye which has heretofore regarded me lovingly should ever cast upon me a glance of contempt! It would crush me, and I should die! Yet, in dying, my lips would denounce him who had known how to love, but had not kept faith; and would arraign him as a traitor and murderer before the judgment-seat of God! Oh, Schiller, I warn youonce more not to enkindle a fire in my breast which can never be extinguished or repressed when once in flames, but will blaze upward grandly and proudly, setting aside all thought of the world and its rules and prejudices. We are now walking on the verge of the abyss; you on the one side, I on the other. But our voices reach each other; we can see each other’s faces, and our glances can meet in loving friendship. You are free to go where you will; and if your path in life should lead you aside from the road on which I am journeying, I will look after you and weep, but I will make you no reproaches! Think of this, Schiller, and be contented that Charlotte should call you by the name of friend! Do not demand that she should give you another name, which you would now bless, but hereafter curse! Flee now, while it is yet time; and we shall still have the happy remembrance of the beautiful days of our friendship. Let us await the future in quiet resignation, and sustain ourselves with recollections of the past!”
“You are in a strange humor to-day, Charlotte,” said Schiller, sadly. “Your eyes are so threatening, that I would almost be afraid of you, if I did not know that my Titaness is still a gentle, loving woman in spite of her fiery enthusiasm. No, Charlotte, you accuse yourself unjustly. No, you would never curse the man you had loved; in death you would bless him for the love he had once given you. You would not denounce, but pity and excuse him whom stern necessity compelled to separate from you—from what is dearest to him on earth. You would know that his path was bleak and lonely, and that, like the faces in Dante’s ‘Inferno,’ he could only look back at the past with a tearful glance while wandering into the dreary future. This you would do, Charlotte. I know you better than you know yourself. The woman never curses the man she has truly loved; she pardons and still loves him when the stream of life surges in between, and forces him to leave her.”
“For those who truly love, who have plighted troth, thereis no such compulsion,” cried Charlotte, her countenance flushed with indignation. “If you say so, Schiller, you do not know what love is. You make light of the holiest feelings when you believe that it could ever be extinguished—that the necessities of life could ever separate two hearts eternally and indissolubly united in love.”
“How strangely moved you are to-day, Charlotte!” answered Schiller, his countenance darkening. “I came here with a heart full of joy, and had so much to impart to you! I came as to a happy and peaceful retreat. But I now see that the time was badly chosen, and that Charlotte will not understand me to-day. Oh, why is it, my dear, that we human beings are all like Erostratus, who hurled the firebrand into the holy temple of the gods, and why do we all desire to unveil the mysterious picture in the temple of Isis!”
“Because we wish to look at the truth,” she cried, passionately.
“The truth is death,” sighed Schiller, “error is life; and woe to us if we are not satisfied with the beautiful illusion that adorns and disguises life, and casts a veil over death! I am going, Charlotte. It is better that I should, for you have saddened me, and awakened painful thoughts in my breast. Farewell for the present; and when I come again to-morrow, be kind and gracious to me, Charlotte, as you always are at heart!”
He took his hat, greeted her with a mournful smile, and left the room. Charlotte’s eyes followed him with a glance of dismay.
“He does not love me,” she cried in despair. “He does not love me! If he loved me, he would not have left me without plighting his eternal faith. All that I wished to hear was, that he desired an eternity of love; but he drew back in dismay and left me. He does not love me, and I, O my God, I love him!”
She sank down on her knees, covered her face with her hands, and cried bitterly.
And Schiller’s thoughts were also of a bitter, and, at the same time, somewhat disquieting nature. He avoided seeing any one, and remained in his lonely room the entire day. He walked to and fro restlessly; from time to time, he seated himself at the table and wrote a few lines, and then arose, and, resuming his walking, either talked to himself or was lost in thought.
Charlotte also kept her chamber, and avoided all intercourse with others. Late in the evening, a knock was heard at her door, and her maid announced that a letter had arrived from the Counsellor Schiller.
Charlotte opened the door, took the letter, and ordered lights to be brought in. She then tore the cover from Schiller’s letter; in it she found a little note on which the few words had been hastily written: “Dear Charlotte!—I have written down the thoughts which our conversation of to-day awakened in my bosom; and send them to you, for they belong to you. May we never share the fate of the poor youth in the temple of Sais! To seek the truth is to kill love, and yet love is the most beautiful truth; and true it is also that I love you, Charlotte! Believe this, and let us leave the great Isis veiled! FREDERICKSCHILLER.”
After reading this, Charlotte unfolded the large sheet which was also contained in the cover. It was a poem, and bore the title, “The Veiled Picture at Sais.”
Charlotte read it again and again, and her soul grew sadder and sadder. “He does not love me,” she repeated, softly. “If he loved me he would not have written, but would have come to weep at my feet! That would have been a living poem! Oh, Schiller, I am the unhappy youth; I have seen the truth! My happiness is forever gone, and, like him, I will go to the grave in despair. I exclaim, with your youth, ‘Woe to him who commits a crime in order to find the truth! It can never give him joy!’”
When Schiller returned on the following morning, Charlotte gave him a warm welcome, extended both hands, andregarded him with a tender smile, repeating the words from his letter, “Let us leave the great Isis veiled.”
Schiller uttered a cry of joy, fell on his knees at Charlotte’s feet, kissed her hands, and swore that he loved her and her only, and that he would remain true to her in spite of all abysses and chasms!
But the vows of mankind are swept away like the leaves of the forest; what to-day was green and blooming, to-morrow fades and dies!
Charlotte may have been right when she said that Schiller could love, but could not keep faith, for, after scarcely two months had elapsed since his return from Darmstadt, and the date of this interview with Charlotte, Schiller wrote to his new friend Körner, in Leipsic, as follows: “I can no longer remain in Mannheim. I write to you in unspeakable distress of heart. I can no longer remain here. I have carried this thought about with me for the past twelve days, like a determination to leave the world. Mankind, circumstances, heaven, and earth, are against me; and I am separated here from what might be dearer to me than all by the proprieties and observances of the world. Leipsic appears to me in my dreams like the rosy morning beyond the wooded mountain-range; and in my life I have entertained no thought with such prophetic distinctness as the one that I should be happy in Leipsic. Hitherto fate has obstructed my plans. My heart and muse were alike compelled to succumb to necessity. Just such a revolution of destiny is necessary to make me a new man, to make me begin to become a poet.” And his distant friend in Leipsic responded to his cry of distress with a deed of true friendship. He invited Schiller to visit himself and his friends in Leipsic; and, in order that no moneyed embarrassments should delay Schiller’s departure, Körner forwarded him a draft for a sum sufficient to defray his travelling-expenses and pay off his most pressing debts.
PLANS FOR THE FUTURE.
The preparations for his departure were soon made. Schiller had completely severed his connection with the theatre at Mannheim several weeks before. The actors were all inimical to him, because he had dared to take them to task in his journal,The Thalia, for having, as he said, “so badly maltreated his tragedy, ‘Intrigues and Love.’” The director, Mr. von Dalberg, had long since considered himself insulted and injured by the free and independent behavior of him who dared array his dignity and pride as a poet against the dignity of the director’s office and the pride of aristocracy. This gentleman made no attempt whatever to retain Schiller in Mannheim. Schiller had to say farewell to but few acquaintances and friends, and it was soon over. He packed his little trunk, and was now ready to leave on the following morning. There were only two persons to whom he still wished to bid adieu, and these were Charlotte von Kalb and Andrew Streicher. He had agreed to spend the last hours of his stay with Streicher at his home, and as every thing was now in order, Schiller hurried to Charlotte’s dwelling as evening approached.
She was sitting alone in her room when he entered; the noise of the closing door aroused her from her reverie, and she turned her head, but did not arise to meet him; she gave him no word of welcome, and gazed at him sadly. Schiller also said nothing, but walked slowly across the wide room to the sofa on which she was seated, and stood regarding her mournfully.
Neither of them spoke; deep silence reigned in the gloomy chamber, and yet their souls were communing, and one and the same wail was in both hearts, the wail ever approaching separation and parting.
“Schiller, you stand before me like the future,” saidCharlotte, after a long pause. “Yes, like the future—grand, gloomy, and cold—your countenance clouded.”
“Clouded like my soul,” sighed Schiller, as he slowly sank on his knees before Charlotte. She permitted him to do so, and offered no resistance when he took her hand and held it firmly within his own.
“Charlotte, my beloved, my dear Charlotte, I have come to take leave of you. I must leave Mannheim.”
“Why?”
“My position here has become untenable. I am at enmity with the authorities of the theatre, and I no longer desire to waste my time and talents on such ungrateful showmen. Mr. von Dalberg’s short-lived courtesy is long since ended, and he does not take my side in the difficulty with the presuming actors. I am tired of this petty warfare, and I am going.”
“Why?” she repeated.
“You still ask, Charlotte; have I not just told you?”
“I have heard pretences, Schiller, but not the truth. I wish to know the truth, and I am entitled to demand the truth. The time has arrived to tear the veil from the statue of Isis! We must look the truth in the face, even if death should follow in its train! Schiller, why are you leaving Mannheim? Why are you leaving the place where I live?”
“Ah, Charlotte, this is a bitter necessity, but I must bear it. A mysterious power compels me to leave here. Who knows where the star of his destiny will lead him? We must follow its guiding light, although all is dark within and around us! True, I had thought that it would be the greatest delight of life to be ever at your side, to share with you all thought and feeling, our lives flowing together like two brooks united in one, and running its course through the bright sunshine with a gentle murmur! But these brooks have become rivers, and their waves, lashed into fury by passion, brook no control, and break through all restraints and barriers. Charlotte, I go, because I dare not stay! I willtell you all; you demand the truth, and you shall hear it! Charlotte, I go for your sake and for mine! You are married. I go! Your pure light has set fire to my soul; have I not reason to dread a future based on falsehood and deception? Your presence infused into my bosom an enthusiasm before unknown, but to this enthusiasm, peace was wanting.”
“Oh, remain, Schiller, and, if we desire it, we can both find this peace—the peace of friendship!”
“No, Charlotte, our heart-strings are familiar with a greater harmony!”
“Well, if it be so, let the strings resound with the harmony of united souls! Oh, my friend, if we separate, we will no longer be to each other what we now are. I will not complain, and will not unveil the anguish of my soul before you; and yet, Schiller, remain, I implore you! When my candle is brought in, I will no longer enjoy its light; all will still be dark around me, for the evening will no longer bring you, my friend!”
“I can, and will be, your friend no longer, Charlotte, and therefore I am going! I will be all, or nothing! This suspension midway betwixt heaven and earth is destroying me! My soul glows with passion, and you inhale it with every breath of life. You have not the courage to face the truth!”
“I say, with you, I will be all, or nothing,” she exclaimed, passionately. “Truth and falsehood cannot exist together; and it would be acting a falsehood if I gave my heart unlimited freedom, while my hands are in chains! All, or nothing! Only no hypocrisy! I will freely acknowledge my love to the whole world, or I will cover it with the veil of duty and resignation. But I will not sin under cover of this veil! Oh, Schiller, our life until now was a bond of truth, and you wish to sever it. Fate sent you to me; moments of the purest delight were vouchsafed us; and is the cup of happiness to be dashed from our lips now?”
Schiller did not reply at once, but bowed down over Charlotte’s hand, and pressed it to his burning brow.
“Above all,” he said, in a low voice, “above all, I know that it is in the bloom of youth only that we truly live and feel. In youth, the soul is illumined with light and glory; and my heart tells me that thou canst never dim its longing.”
“‘Thou,’ you say,” she whispered softly, “then I will also say ‘thou!’ Truthfulness knows no ‘you!’ The blessed are called ‘thou!’[12]It is a seal which unites closely, and therefore we will impress it upon our holy and eternal union!”
She threw her arms around Schiller’s neck—he was still kneeling at her feet—and pressed a kiss on his forehead. He embraced her yet more tenderly, and pressed impassioned kisses upon her brow, her cheeks, and her trembling lips.
“Farewell, thou only one, farewell!”
“Oh, Frederick,” she sobbed, “was this thy parting kiss?”
“Yes, Charlotte, I must go! But you will be present with me in my every thought.”
“And yet you go, Frederick?”
“Destiny so ordains, and I must obey! The world demands of me the use of my talent—I demand of the world its favor.”
“And when you have achieved this favor,” she said, plaintively, “then you will no longer care for love, or me!”
“You should not say so, Charlotte, for you do not believe it,” said Schiller, angrily. “Why these painful words? I lose all in you, but you lose nothing in me! You are so wayward—ah, not like the woman I pictured to myself in the days of my youth.”
“Oh, Frederick,” she murmured, “do you not know that I love you, and you only?”
“I have hoped so in many moments of torment when you treated me coldly; but only for the last few days have I felt assured of it, and, on that account, loved, adored woman, the words must be spoken, therefore I flee from you!”
“You know that I love you,” she cried, plaintively; “you know it, and yet you flee!”
“Yes, Charlotte, I do, because the waves of passion are surging high in my breast, and will destroy me if I remain. Peaceful love is the only atmosphere suited to the poet. Stormy passion distracts his thoughts and casts a shade on the mirror of his soul.”
He arose and walked restlessly to and fro. It had grown dark in the mean while, and the figure of her friend flitted before Charlotte’s vision like a shadow, but her eyes were fixed intently on the shadow which was nevertheless the only light of her being.
The figure now stopped before her, and when he laid his hand on her shoulder she felt the electric touch thrill her whole being. They could not see each other’s faces on account of the darkness.
“Charlotte,” said Schiller, deeply moved, “I owe you a great deal, and I can never forget it. My youth was dreary; I became familiar with error and sorrow at an early day, and this clouded my understanding and embittered my heart! And then my genius found your voice to utter my thoughts. You were my inspired Muse, and I loved you, and would be yours forever if I had the courage requisite for such a love!—the courage to permit myself to be absorbed in this passion; to desire nothing more, to be nothing more, than your creature, Charlotte; the vase only in which the boundless stream of your love empties itself. But this cannot remain so! My soul must be peaceful and independent of this power which terrifies and delights me at the same time. He only is free who elevates himself above passion, and the man who aspires to bend Nature to his will must be free.”
“You are governed by pride,” sighed Charlotte, “and pride has no confidence, no repose. You are not familiar with the sorrow and coldness of the world, or you would remain here with her who feels and sympathizes with you! Nothing is more terrible in its self-inflicted revenge than the determination to disregard the promptings of the heart in life.”
“I do not disregard them, Charlotte, but the heart must notbe the only axis on which my life revolves, and it would be, if I remained near you, you divine woman, to whom my heart and soul will ever lovingly incline, forgetting all else, and yet—I desire your friendship only!”
As he said this he threw his arms around her, raised her up from the sofa, and covered her face with kisses.
“Oh, Frederick, you are crying! I feel your tears falling on my forehead!”
“Be still, Charlotte, be still, and—love me! For a single blissful moment love me, and let yourself be loved!”
“I love you, Frederick,” she cried, passionately. “You fill my soul with anguish and delight, alternately. You love as I do! Only love alarms you; you will not accord to a mortal that which is divinely beautiful! Oh, Schiller, the essence of Divinity is within us; then wherefore should our love not be divinely beautiful, joyfully renouncing hope and desire in humility and resignation?”
He did not reply, but only drew her closer to his heart, bowed down his head on her shoulder, and sobbed.
The silence which now reigned in the dark room was unbroken save by the sobs of the weeping lovers. After a long and painful pause, Schiller raised her head and withdrew his arms from Charlotte’s figure.
“Let us have light,” said he, and his voice now had a harsh sound—“light, that I may once more see your beloved countenance before I leave!”
“No, Frederick, when you leave, I will no longer require light; a cheerless life is more endurable in the dark. No light! Let us part in darkness, for in darkness I am doomed to grope my way hereafter, but the light of your countenance will always be reflected in my soul. Good-night, Frederick! You take with you all that is dear to me, even my beautiful dreams. The most lovely visions have heretofore surrounded my bed at night; but now they will follow you, for they came from you, and were the thoughts of your soul. Your thoughts fly from me, and my dreams follow them. You rob my dayof its sun, and my night of its dream. Let us therefore separate in darkness!”
“Charlotte,” said he, deeply agitated, “your words sound like tones from a spirit-world, and the past seems already to be leaving me! Oh, do not go; stay with me, sweet past, happy present! Stay with me, soul of my soul, beloved being! Where are you, Charlotte—where are you?”
She did not reply. Longingly he stretched out his arms toward her, but did not find her; he found empty space only.
“Charlotte, come for the last time to my heart! Come!—let me inhale from your lips the atmosphere of paradise!”
No reply. He seemed to see a shadow flit through the darkness, and then the words, “Good-night, Schiller!” struck his ear like the low, vibrating tones of an Æolian harp.
The noise of an opening and closing door could be heard, and then all was still.
A groan escaped Schiller’s breast; he felt that Charlotte had left him—that he was alone.
For a moment he stood still and listened, hoping she would return; but the silence remained unbroken.
“Ah,” murmured Schiller, “parting is like death! Ah, Charlotte, I have loved you dearly! I—be still, my heart, no more complaints! It must be so!”
He turned slowly and walked toward the door. “Farewell, Charlotte, farewell!”
No reply. It seemed to be only the echo which responded from out the dark space, “Farewell!”
Schiller opened the door and rushed out into the still night, and through the lonely streets, unconscious that he was bareheaded, oblivious of having left his hat in Charlotte’s room. He rushed on, heedless of the raw night air and cutting wind.
At length he was aroused by the heavy drops of rain which were falling on his forehead. The cold rain awakened him from a last painful struggle with his passion, and cooled his head and heart at the same time.
“O God, I thank Thee for sending down the waters of heaven to cleanse my heart from passion and slavish love, and making me free again! And now I am free!—am once more myself! am free!”
Schiller entered Streicher’s apartment with a cheerful countenance, and greeted his friend heartily; but Andrew regarded his wet clothing and dripping hair with dismay.
“Where in the world do you come from, Fritz? You look as if you had been paying the Maid of the Rhine a visit, and had just escaped from her moist embrace!”
“You are, perhaps, right, Andrew! I have just taken leave of the fair maid who had bewitched me.”
“But what have you done with your hat, Fritz? Did you leave it with the maid as a souvenir?”
“You are, perhaps, right again, Andrew. I left my hat with the maid as a souvenir, and only succeeded in slipping my head out of the noose.”
“Be kind enough to speak sensibly,” said Streicher, “and tell me where your hat is.”
“I have told you already I left it with the Maid of the Rhine as a souvenir.”
“I wish you had not done so,” said Andrew, in grumbling tones. “You had better have left her a lock of your yellow hair; that would have been cheaper, for hair grows again, but hats must be bought. Well, fortunately I happened to buy a new hat to-day, and that you must take, of course.”
He handed Schiller a brand-new beaver hat, telling him to dry his disordered locks and try it on.
“Andrew,” said Schiller, after having tried the hat on, and found that it fitted him perfectly. “Andrew, you bought this hat for yourself to-day?”
“Yes, for myself, of course, but you, wild fellow, come running here bareheaded, and no resource is left but to put my beaver on your head.”
“Come here, Andrew,” said Schiller, smiling, and when hecame up, Schiller placed the hat on the little bald head and pressed it down over his friend’s eyes, making Streicher a very ludicrous object.
Schiller, however, did not laugh, but slowly lifted the hat up, and looked lovingly into the abashed and mortified countenance of his friend. “Andrew, I would never have believed that you knew how to tell an untruth!”
“And you see I acquitted myself badly enough,” growled Streicher. “And bad enough it is that you should compel an honest man to tamper with the truth. Your hat had seen much service and well deserved a substitute, but if I had had the presumption to offer you a new one what a scene there would have been! So I thought I would exchange hats with you at the last moment, after you had entered the stage-coach. And I would have done so, had you not burst in upon me without a hat, and given me what I considered a fine opportunity to make you my trifling present.”
“It is no trifling present, Andrew, but a magnificent one. I accept your hat, and I thank you. I will wear it for the present instead of the laurel-wreath which the German nation is on the point of twining for my brow, but which will probably not be quite ready until my head has long since been laid under the sod; for the manufacture of laurel-wreaths progresses but slowly in Germany; and I sometimes think my life is progressing very rapidly, Andrew, and that I have but little time left to work for immortality. But we must not make ourselves sad by such reflections. I thank you for your present, my friend, and am contented that you should adorn my head with a hat. Yes, when I consider the matter, Andrew, a hat is a far better and more respectable covering for a German head than a laurel-wreath. In our bleak, northern climate, laurels are only good to season carps with, and a sensible German had far better wish for a good hat than a laurel-wreath. Yes, far better, and we will drink a toast to this sentiment, Andrew. You invited me to a bowl of punch; out with your punch, you good, jolly fellow! We will raiseour glasses and drink to a future crowned with beaver hats! Your punch, Andrew!”
Andrew hurried to bring from the warm stove the little, covered bowl of punch, carefully prepared according to all the rules of the art.
The two friends seated themselves at the little table on which the steaming bowl had been placed, and filled their glasses.
“Raise your glass, Andrew; ‘Long live the beaver! destruction to the laurel!’”
“No, Fritz, I will not drink such a toast with you,” said Streicher, slowly setting his glass down. “It would be a sin and a crime for Frederick Schiller to drink so unworthy, so miserable a toast. You are in your desperate humor again to-day, Fritz, and would like to invoke the very lightning from heaven, and concoct with its aid a little tornado in your own heaven.”
“Yes, of course, you droll fellow!” cried Schiller, emptying his glass at one draught. “Lightning purifies the atmosphere and brings the sun out again. And you see my departure is a mighty tornado, with showers of rain, with thunder and lightning, intended, no doubt, to cleanse and purify my life, that it may afterward flow on through the sunshine, clear and limpid. Andrew, I go from here to seek happiness and peace.”
“And, above all, renown,” added Streicher, emptying his glass.
“No,” cried Schiller, vehemently, “no renown for me! Translated into good German, renown means thorns, hunger, want! I intend to have my portion of the viands with which the table of life is richly provided. And do you know what my purpose is?”
“No, but I should like to learn it.”
“I intend to become a jurist,” cried Schiller, emptying his second glass. “Yes, that is it. I will begin a new life and make a jurist of myself. My old life is ended, and when Ienter the stage-coach to-night to go to Leipsic, it will not contain the poet Schiller, the author of ‘The Robbers,’ and other absurdities, but the student, Frederick Schiller, on his way to Leipsic to study jurisprudence at the university. Don’t shake your wise head and look so horrified, Andrew. I tell you I will become a jurist; I am tired of journeying on the thorny path of the poet, with bleeding feet and a hungry stomach. All my illusions are vanished. My vision of a golden meteor sparkling in the sun, proves to have been only a soap-bubble; and this bubble called renown has now bursted.”
“You are again talking wildly and romantically, like Charles Moor, in ‘The Robbers,’” cried Streicher; “and yet you are not in earnest!”
“But I am in earnest, my friend! The sad experience of my past life has made me wise and practical. I will not discard poetry altogether, but will indulge in it at times only, as one indulges in oysters and champagne on great and festive occasions. My ordinary life will be that of a jurist. I have given the matter much thought and consideration. Fortunately, I have a clear head and quick comprehension, I will, therefore, with a firm will and untiring diligence, study and learn as much in one year as others do in three. The university in Leipsic is rich in resources, and I will know how to avail myself of them. If an ordinary head, by ordinary application, can acquire in three years sufficient knowledge to enable a man to earn a comfortable living in the practice of his profession, I can certainly attain the same end in a shorter time. My attention has been directed to the study of systems since my earliest youth; and in our Charles School, of blessed memory, I have at least learned to express myself as fluently in Latin as in German. Study, thought, and reflection, is a delight to me, and the explication of difficult subjects a pleasure; and, therefore, I am convinced that I can become a good jurist, and, with bold strides, swiftly overtake the snail-moving pace of others, and in a brief time attain that which themost sanguine would scarcely imagine could be achieved in years.”
“Then you, at least, admit that you are no ordinary man,” said Andrew Streicher, shrugging his shoulders. “And, nevertheless, you propose to confine this extraordinary man in the strait-jacket of practical science. Truly, I lose my appetite, and even this punch seems sour, when I reflect that the poet of ‘The Robbers’ is to become an advocate!”
“You had rather he hungered, and wrote dramas, than he should lead a happy and comfortable life, and write deeds. Ah, my friend, the career of a poet is full of bitterness and humiliation. The wise and sensible shrug their shoulders when mention is made of him, as though he were a crazy fool; the so-called gentlefolk do not recognize him as their equal, and even the players on the stage act as though they conferred a favor on the poet when they render his dramas, and, as they say, give life to inanimate forms by their sublime impersonations. No, no, my mind is made up, I will write no more stage pieces, at least until I have achieved a respectable position in the world as a jurist. Man must always push on and possess the ambition which leads higher and higher. Are not you, too, ambitious, Andrew?”
“Of course, I am, and will strive with all my might to obtain my ideal, and become the leader of an orchestra.”
“And I, Andrew, I will become a minister,” cried Schiller, with enthusiasm. “Yes, that is my ideal!—minister of a little state—to devote my whole life, my thought, and being, to the happiness of mankind, to be a benefactor to the poor and oppressed, to advance men of talent and science, to promote the good and useful, to cultivate the beautiful. This, Andrew, is my ideal; and this is attained if I succeed in becoming a good jurist and a minister at one of our dear little Saxon courts. Yes, my friend, thus it shall be! You, an orchestra-leader—I, a minister! Let us arise with our foaming glasses, and shake hands over it. Let this be our last toast, and our final compact: ‘We will neither write to, norvisit each other, until Andrew Streicher is the orchestra-leader, and Frederick Schiller the minister.’”[13]
“So let it be,” cried Andrew, laughing. “Hurrah, the orchestra-leader! hurrah, the minister!”
They raised their glasses exultingly, and emptied them. They then gave each other one last embrace. The hour of departure and parting had come.
Andrew accompanied his friend in silence through the deserted streets of the slumbering city, to the post-office, where the coach stood awaiting the passengers. A last pressure of the hand, a last loving look, and the coach rolled on, and carried into the world the “new Cæsar and his fortunes!”
THE LAST RIDE.
Years, when we look back at them in the past, are but as fleeting moments; when we look forward to them in the future, they are eternities! How long was the year from the spring of 1785 to the spring of 1786 to be for young Frederick Schiller, who looked forward to it with so much hope and so many beautiful dreams!
How long was the same year to be for old Frederick, for the old philosopher of Sans-Souci, who grew day by day more hopeless, in whose ear was daily whispered the awful tidings, “You must die!”
He did not close his ear to these mutterings of age and decrepitude, nor did he fear death. For him life had been a great battle—a continuous conflict. He had ever faced death bravely, and had fought gallantly against all sorts of enemies; and truly the worst and most dangerous among them were not those who opposed him with visible weapons, and on the real battle-field. It had been far more difficult to contend withfolly, malice, envy, and prejudices—to pursue his conquering course regardless of the cries of the foolish and the calumnies of the ungrateful.
It is easier to conquer on the field of battle than to combat prejudices, than to extirpate abuses. And, after the days of real battles were over, Frederick was compelled to wage incessant war against these evils. The one great and holy aim of his life was to make his people happy and respected, rich and powerful; and with all the energy and strength of which he was capable he strove to accomplish these ends, never permitting himself to be confounded or dismayed by malice and ingratitude. Commerce flourished under his rule—the fruits of Prussian industry found a market in the most distant lands. Barren lands had been made fertile. The soldiers of war had become the soldiers of peace, who were now warring for the prosperity of the people. This warfare was certainly at times a little severe, and the good and useful had to be introduced by force. But what of that? Were potatoes less nutritious, because the peasants of Silesia were driven into the field by armed soldiers, and compelled to plant this vegetable? Did it not become a great favorite with the people, notwithstanding their resistance to its introduction in the beginning? Were not vast sums of money retained in the land by the cultivation of this vegetable, which would otherwise have been used to purchase rice and other grains in foreign countries? Had not the king succeeded in introducing the silkworm into his dominions? Had not the manufacture of woollen goods been greatly promoted by the adoption of a better system of raising sheep?
But Frederick had not only fostered agriculture and industry, he had also evinced the liveliest sympathy for the arts and sciences. Scholars and artists were called to his court, and every assistance was rendered them. Universities and academies were endowed.
But, while looking to the internal welfare of his kingdom, his gaze was ever fastened on Austria, the hereditary enemyof Prussia. He did not permit the house of Hapsburg to stretch out its rapacious hands after German lands. Looking to the future, and contemplating his death, he endeavored to secure his kingdom against the Hapsburgs beyond the time when he should be no more. This was evinced by Frederick’s last political act—the formation of the “Union of Princes”—the Prussian king’s last defiance to Austria. This “Union of Princes” was a confederation of German princes against rapacious, grasping Austria. It united all against one, and made the one the enemy of all. The intention and object of this union was to assist and protect each state against the common enemy, to tolerate no trespass on the rights of any one of them, to revenge a wrong done to the smallest member of the union, as if it had been perpetrated on the greatest. Moreover, the welfare of the German people was to be duly considered and promoted, the constitution maintained, and no violation of its requirements to be tolerated.
This “Union of Princes” was determined upon, and carried into effect, between Prussia and all the other German states, except Austria, and other states whose sovereigns were related to the Hapsburgs.
This union was Frederick’s last political act! Against Austria he had first drawn his sword as a young king, and against Austria this, his last blow, was directed in uniting Germany, and making it strong in unity, and free in strength!
He had sown the seed destined to bear rich fruit, but he was not to be permitted to reap the harvest. His life was drawing to a close; and the poor, decrepit body reminded the strong and active mind that it would soon leave its prison, and soar to heaven, or into illimitable space!
But Frederick wished to serve his people to the last moment. As long as he could still move his hands, they should work for the welfare of his kingdom. As long as his intellect remained clear and active, he would continue to work. At times, however, bodily pain clouded his understanding, and made him peevish and irritable. To have occupied himselfwith matters of state at such times would have been dangerous, as his physical condition might have affected the decisions he was called upon to make. In his paternal solicitude for the welfare of his people, Frederick gave this subject due consideration, and endeavored to render his bodily afflictions harmless. There were several hours in which he suffered but little from the gout and the asthma, and these were in the early morning, when he felt refreshed after having slept for one or two hours.
One or two hours’ sleep! This was all Nature accorded the royal invalid, who had watched over Prussia’s honor for half a century, and whose eyes were now weary, and longed for slumber and repose. But the king bore this affliction with the patience of a sage—he could even jest about it.
“My dear duke,” said he to the Duke of Courland, who paid him a visit in June, 1786, “if, on your return to Courland, you should hear of a vacancy among the night-watchmen, I beg of you to reserve the place for me, for, I assure you, I have learned the art of watching at night thoroughly.”
But he wished to employ his hours of wakefulness in the night for the good of his people, and ordered that the members of his cabinet, who had been in the habit of coming to his room with their reports at seven o’clock in the morning, should now assemble there at four.
“My condition,” said the king, when he acquainted the three members of his cabinet with his desire, “my condition necessitates my giving you this trouble, but it will be of short duration. My life is on the decline, and I must make the most of the time which is still allotted me. It does not belong to me, but to the state.”[14]
Yes, his life was on the decline; but for a long time his heroic mind found strength to overcome the weakness of the body. At times, when the physicians supposed his strength was entirely exhausted, and that the poor, worn-out figure sitting out on the terrace under the burning July sun, and yettrembling with cold, would soon be nothing more than the empty tenement of the departed soul, he would gather the energies of his strong and fiery mind together, and contend successfully with the weakness of the body. Thus it was in the month of April, when his physicians believed him to be at the point of death. He suddenly recovered one morning, after a refreshing slumber, arose from his bed, dressed himself, and walked with a firm step down the stairway to the carriage, which he had ordered to be held in readiness to drive him out; he entered the carriage, but not with the intention of returning to the palace of Potsdam, but to drive to his dear Sans-Souci, to take up his residence there for the summer.
And thus it was to-day, on the fourth of July, when the king, who had passed the day before in great pain and distress, felt wonderfully refreshed and restored on awaking. He sent for the members of his cabinet at four o’clock in the morning, and worked with them until eight, dictating dispatches and lengthy administrative documents, which bore witness to the vigor of his mind. At eight o’clock he desired that his friends should pay him a visit, and conversed with them as gayly and wittily as in the long-gone-by days of unbroken health. He laughed and jested about his own weakness and decrepitude so amiably, that Count Lucchesini could not refrain from giving utterance to his delight, and hailing the king as a convalescent. “My dear count,” said Frederick, shrugging his shoulders, “you are right; I will soon be well, but in another sense than the one you mean. You take the last flare of the lamp for a steady flame. My dear count, darkness will soon convince you that you are wrong. But I will profit by this transient light, and will persuade myself that I am well. Gentlemen, with your leave I will avail myself of the bright sunshine and take a ride. Order Condé to be saddled.”
“But, sire!” cried Lucchesini, in dismay.
A glance from Frederick silenced the count.
“Sir,” said he, severely, “while I still live, I must be addressed with no ‘buts.’”
The count bowed in silence, and followed the other two gentlemen who were leaving the room. Frederick followed his favorite with a look of lively sympathy, and, as Lucchesini was about to cross the threshold, called him back. The count turned quickly, and walked back to the king.
Frederick raised his hand and pointed to the window through which the sunshine and green foliage of the trees could be seen.
“Look how beautiful that is, Lucchesini! Do you not consider this a fine summer day?”
“Yes, sire, a very fine summer day; but it is to be hoped we shall have many more such; and if your majesty would be quiet for the next few days, you would, with increased strength, be better able to enjoy them.”
“And yet I will carry out my intention, you obstinate fellow,” exclaimed the king, smiling. “But I tell you I will never recover, and I have a question to ask. If you had lived together with intimate friends for long years, and were compelled to take your departure and leave them, would you not desire to bid them adieu, and say to them, ‘Farewell! I thank you!’ Or would you leave your friends like a thief in the night, without a word of greeting?”
“No, sire, that I would certainly not do,” replied Lucchesini. “I would throw my arms around my friend’s neck, and take leave of him with tears and kisses.”
“Now, you see,” said Frederick, gently, “the trees of my garden are also my friends, and I wish to take leave of them. Be still, not a word! I am old, and the young must yield to the old. I have no fear of death. In order to understand life rightly, one must see men entering and leaving the world.[15]It is all only a change, and the sun shines at the same time on many cradles and many graves. Do not look at me so sadly, but believe me when I say that I am perfectly willing to leave the stage of life.”
And, raising his head, the king declaimed in a loud, firm voice: