CHAPTER III.

HENRIETTA VON WOLZOGEN.

"Breakfast," murmured Schiller, after his two friends had taken leave of him. "Oh, yes, it were certainly no bad idea to indulge in a hot cup of coffee and fresh sweet rolls. But it costs too much, and one must be contented if one can only have a cup of fresh water and a piece of bread."

He stood up and returned to the chamber, to complete the toilet so hastily made before, to adjust his hair, and put on the sober, well-worn suit which constituted alike his work-day and holiday attire.

After having finished his toilet, Schiller took the pitcher, which stood on a tin waiter by the side of a glass, and bounded gayly down the stairway into the large courtyard and to the fountain, to fill his pitcher at the mouth of the tragic mask from which a stream of water constantly gushed.

This was Schiller's first morning errand. Every morning the people in the house could see the pale, thin young man go to the fountain with his pitcher; and it amused them to watch him as he walked up and down the yard with long strides, looking heavenward, his head thrown back, and his chest expanded with the fresh morning air, which he inhaled in long draughts. Then, when he had stretched and exercised his limbs, breathed the air, and looked at the heavens, he returned to the fountain, took up his pitcher, running over with water, ran into the house, up the stairway, and re-entered his dingy little room.

But he brought the heavens and the fresh morning air with him, and his soul was gladdened and strengthened for his poetic labors.

To-day the fresh air had done him much good; and, after he had drunk his first glass of water, and eaten his bread and butter, which he took from a closet in the wall, he looked pleased and comfortable; a smile glided over his features, and his eyes brightened.

"How rich is he who has few wants," he said softly to himself, "and how freely the spirit soars when its wings are unencumbered with the vanities of life! Come, ye Muses and Graces, keep a loving watch around my table, and guide my hand that I may write nothing that does not please you!"

He threw himself on the chair before the table, took up his pen, rapidly read what he had last written, and with a few strokes finished the last great scene of the third act of his new tragedy, "Don Carlos."

"Und jetzt verlaszt mich!"[2] recited Schiller, as his pen flew over the paper; and then he continued, in a changed voice: "Kann ich es mit einer erfüllten Hoffnung,--dann ist dieser Tag der schönste meines Lebens!" And then he added, in the first voice: "Er ist kein verlorener in dem meinigem!"

"Yes," exclaimed Schiller, in a loud voice, as he threw his pen aside, "and it is not a lost one in mine. At some future day I will think of this hour with joy and satisfaction--of the hour in which I wrote the closing scene of the third act of a tragedy, a dramatist's greatest and most difficult task. Oh, ye Muses and Graces, whom I invoked, were you near me, blessing my labors? I laid my human sacrifice of pain and suffering on your altar this morning, and my poor head once more received the baptism of tears. Bless me with your favor, ye Muses and Graces, and let me hope that the tears of the man were the baptism of the poet! Yes, my soul persuades me that I am a poet; and this new work will attest it before the world and mankind, and--"

A cry of surprise and dismay escaped his lips, and he stared toward the door which had just been opened, and in which a lady appeared who was completely wrapped up in furs, and whose face was entirely shaded by a hood.

"Madame von Wolzogen," he exclaimed, rising quickly. "Is it possible? Can it be you?" He rushed forward and seized her hand, and when he encountered her mournful gaze he sank on his knees and wept bitterly.

"Oh, my friend, my mother, that we should meet under such circumstances! That I should be compelled to throw myself at your feet in shame and penitence!"

"And why, Schiller?" asked Madame von Wolzogen, in her soft, kindly voice. "Why must you throw yourself at my feet, and why this penitence? Be still. Do not reply yet, my poor child. First, hear me! My only reason in coming here was to see you. It seemed impossible, unnatural, that I should pass through Mannheim without seeing my friend, my son, my Frederick Schiller! My sister, who lives in Meiningen, has suddenly fallen ill, and has called me to her bedside. Well, I am answering her call; for no one has ever appealed to Henrietta von Wolzogen in vain. I have ridden all night, and will soon resume my journey. The carriage is waiting for me at the corner. I inquired my way to Schiller's dwelling; and here I am, and I wish to know, Frederick Schiller, what this silence means, and why you have not written to me for so long a time? That I must know; and I am only here for the purpose of putting this one question: Schiller, have you forgotten your friends in Bauerbach? have you forgotten me, who was your friend and your mother?"

"No, no," he cried, rising and throwing his arms tenderly around Madame von Wolzogen's neck, and pressing her to his heart. "No, how could I forget your goodness, your generosity, and friendship? But can you not comprehend, my friend, why your arrival could have a terrible effect on me--could bring me to the verge of despair?"

"Only see how the poetic flame bursts forth when we prosaic people ask a practical question--when we have to remind poets that, unfortunately, we are not fed upon ambrosia falling from heaven! But I imagined that my wild boy would be once more tearing his own flesh, and terribly dissatisfied with his destiny. And I am here, Schiller, to tell you that you must think better of me and better of yourself, and not confound noble friendship with ignoble gold, which shrewd people call the mainspring of life, but which is, fortunately, not the mainspring of friendship, and--"

"Oh, my friend, if you knew--"

"Silence! The philippic which I had time to prepare at my leisure during my night ride, and which I am determined to inflict upon the capricious and wayward boy, if not upon the man, is not yet ended. Is it possible that your heart could be forgetful of and untrue to the past? And why? Because his poor motherly friend has written him in confidence that she would be glad if he would return at least a part of the sum of money she had loaned him. And what is his reply? Nothing, nothing at all! He throws his friend's letter into the fire, and--"

"Into the fire of his anguish, of his reproaching conscience," interrupted Schiller, passionately. "He was silent, because it wrung his heart to stand even for a moment in the category of those who had defrauded you. Oh, my dear friend, toward whom I feel drawn as a loving, obedient son, consider in your sensitive woman's heart if the thought of breaking my faith and becoming a traitor to you was not calculated to drive me to desperation! Confiding in my honesty, you loaned me a considerable sum of money, the more considerable as you were not rich, and were yourself compelled to borrow the money from a Jew. I solemnly promised to return the borrowed sum within the course of a year. The year has expired, the Jew urges payment; and now, when you gently remind me of my promise, I feel with shame and rage that I have broken my word, and acted dishonorably toward you; and, therefore--oh, out upon contemptible, cowardly human nature, which dares not look its own weakness in the face!--and therefore I was silent. How often did my heart prompt me, in my distress of mind, to fly to your friendship for relief! but the painful consciousness of my inability to comply with your request and pay my debt, held me back. My powerlessness to meet your just demand made the thought of you, which had ever been a source of joy, a positive torment. Whenever your image appeared, the picture of my misery rose up before me. I feared to write to you, because I had nothing to write but the eternal: 'Have patience with me!'"[3]

He laid his head on Madame von Wolzogen's lap and sobbed; but with gentle force she compelled him to rise.

"Stand up, Schiller; hold your head erect. It does not beseem you to despair and complain like other poor, suffering children of humanity. You, who are marching upward to Parnassus, should tread under foot the vermin of earthly cares."

"But this vermin does not lie at my feet, but is in my brain, and will drive me mad if this goes on! But I must tell you, you must know the truth: it is impossible for me to pay you any part of my debt. Oh, it is hard to say these words; nevertheless, I must not be ashamed, for it is destiny. One is not to be deemed culpable because one is unfortunate."[4]

"And one is not unhappy because one has no money," said Madame von Wolzogen, smiling. "One is only retarded and checked, like the fiery young steed, impatient to bound madly over the plain and dash up the mountain, but prevented by the tightly-drawn reins. But, my friend, this need cause you no unhappiness. With the strength of brave determination, and the energy of creative power, you will break the reins, liberate yourself, and soar aloft. Even the winged Pegasus bears restraint, and must suffer it; but the poet, who holds and guides the reins, is free--free to mount aloft on his winged steed. And as he soars higher and higher, the earth, with its want and distress, grows less and less distinct. Then look upward, friend Schiller, upward to Parnassus, where golden renown and immortality await you!"

"Words, beautiful words!" exclaimed Schiller. "Oh, there was a time when the hope of renown was a source of as intense delight to me as an article of jewelry is to a young girl. Now, I am indifferent to every thing. I am willing to serve up my laurels in the next 'boeuf à la mode,' and to resign my tragic muse to your dairy-maid, if you keep cows.[5] How pitiable is a poet's renown, compared with a happy life! And I am so unhappy that I would willingly exchange all my expectations of future renown for a valid check for one hundred thousand florins, and--"

"Be silent!" exclaimed Madame von Wolzogen, imperiously. "You slander yourself. Thank God, these utterances do not come from your heart, but from your lips; and that the blasphemies which anger provokes are in a language known and understood only by your fantasy, and not by your mind! I told you before, that it did not beseem you to grovel in the dust. But now I say: Down on your knees, Frederick Schiller, on your knees, and pray to your own genius for forgiveness for the words which you have just spoken."

"Forgiveness," groaned Schiller, falling on his knees. "I beg forgiveness of you, my friend, my mother. I am a criminal--am like Peter, who in the hour of trial denied his Lord and Saviour--and reviled that which is greatest and holiest on earth. Be indulgent, have patience with me! Better times will come! The foaming and fomenting juice of the grape will clear, and become the rich, fiery wine which refreshes and makes glad. No, I do not despair of my future, and you who love me shall not do so either, and--"

"We do not," said Madame von Wolzogen, smiling. "You are a wonderful man! You are like the changing skies in storm and sunshine--first threatening clouds, then celestial blue; before anger and despair, now joy and hope. And this, my dear young friend, is the best evidence that you are truly a poet; and if you had not known it already, this hour should assure you of the fact. I, however, Frederick Schiller, have never doubted either your genius or yourself; and I have come to tell you this, and dissipate the dark cloud that was forming between two friends.--No, Frederick, we will not permit the sun of our friendship to be darkened. We must be honest, true, and sincere to one another; but we must not be silent and withhold a word of sympathy whenever one of us cannot grant what the other requires. I know that you are embarrassed and in want; and notwithstanding all my friendship, I cannot aid you. You know that the Jew Israel demands the sum which I borrowed of him; and it is not in your power to return it, although it is very inconvenient for me, and very painful to you. But shall we, because we are needy, make ourselves poor also? Shall we, because we have no money, have no friendship either?"

"No, my dear, my great, my good lady," exclaimed Schiller, his countenance radiant with joy. "No, we will strengthen and console ourselves with friendship, and it must compensate us for all else. Oh, how poor and needy one would be in the possession of millions, without love and friendship! I, however, am rich, for I have dear friends--"

"And have, perhaps, besides friends, the precious treasure of a sweetheart? Oh, Schiller, how very prettily you blush, and how conscious you look. In love--once more in love! But in love with whom, my poet, with one or with two? And is the dear one's name Margaret, or Charlotte, or Laura, or--"

"Enough, enough," cried Schiller, laughing, "the dear one's name is Love, and I seek her everywhere, and think I find her in every noble and beautiful female face that wears the smile of innocence and the dignity of beauty, that meets my gaze. My heart is thrown open to permit Love to enter as a victorious queen, and take possession of the throne of beauty which I have erected in its sanctuary at the side of the altar of friendship, on which you reign supreme, my dear Madame Wolzogen, my second mother! Ah, how I thank you for having come! Your loving hand has removed from my soul the load of shame and humiliation, and I once more feel light and free; and I can now speak to you about these disagreeable money matters with calmness. No, no, do not forbid me, my dear lady, but let me speak on. Listen! I have been sick throughout almost the entire past year. Gnawing disquiet and uncertainty in regard to my prospects have retarded my recovery. This alone is the reason why so many of my plans have miscarried, and I have not been able to work and earn as much as I hoped. But I have now marked out my future course after mature consideration. And, if I am not disturbed on my way, my future is secured. I am putting my affairs in order and will soon be in a condition to pay all my debts. I only require a little time, until my plans begin to work. If I am hampered now, I am hampered forever. This week I will commence editing a journal, the _Rhenish Thalia_. It will be published by subscription; and a helping hand has been extended to me from many places. The journal will be a success, and I shall derive from it a certain income which will be sufficient for my support. From the proceeds of my theatrical pieces I shall be able to pay off my debts by degrees, and above all, my debt to you, my friend. I solemnly promise to pay you the entire amount, in instalments, by the end of next year, and I will make out three drafts which shall certainly be honored when due. Do not smile incredulously, my dear lady, but depend upon my assurances. I am certain that God will give me health to attain this noble aim."[6]

"My friend," said Madame Wolzogen, with emotion, "may God give you health and strength, not to enable you to pay this little debt, but to enable you to pay the great debt you owe the world! For the world requires of you that you use the great capital of poetry and mind with which God has intrusted you, as the talent which shall bear interest to the joy of mankind and your own honor and renown. It is a high and difficult calling for which God has chosen you. You must march in advance of humanity as its poet and priest, proclaiming and sympathizing with its sorrows and sufferings, and awakening that enthusiasm which leads to action and promotes happiness. Ever keep your noble ends in view, my friend, and when the little cares of life annoy you, disregard them, as the lion does the insects that fly around his head, and which he could destroy with a single blow of his paw, did he deem it worth the trouble. And now that we have come to an understanding, and know what we are and intend to remain to each other, and as my time has expired, I must leave you, for my sister is awaiting me. Farewell, Frederick! Give me your hand once more, and now, hand in hand, let us vow true friendship, that friendship which is never dumb, but imparts to the sister soul its joys and sorrows."

"So let it be," said Schiller, earnestly. "In joy and in sorrow I will ever turn to you, my friend, and second mother; and I now beg you never to doubt me. You were, are now, and always will be, equally dear to my heart. I can never be faithless to you, although circumstances and fate might make me appear so outwardly. Never withdraw your love from me. You must and will learn to know me well, and you will then, perhaps, love me a little better. Let nothing impair a friendship so pure, sealed under the eye of God.[7] And be assured I will always love you with the tenderness of a son, although you would not permit me to become your son. I do not reproach you, because I knew you were right. I am at the starting-point of my career, and dare not yet stretch out my hand after the woman I love!"

Henrietta von Wolzogen laid her hand on Schiller's shoulder and looked smilingly into his large blue eyes.

"After the woman you love?" she whispered. "You, dear boy, admit that the woman you love has not yet been found, and that for the present your heart is playing blind-man's-buff with all the pretty young women? For instance, my daughter Charlotte is almost forgotten, because the beautiful Madame Vischerin has such lovely eyes and converses so agreeably. Then we have Margaret Schwan, who Schiller would now certainly love to the exclusion of all others, if, fortunately or unfortunately, Madame Charlotte von Kalb had not been sojourning in Mannheim for the last few weeks. She is certainly not exactly beautiful, but then she has such eyes; eyes that glow like a crater of passion, and her words are flaming rockets of enthusiasm. This, of course, charms the young poet; he stands hesitating between Margaret and Charlotte; and will at last, because he does not know whether to turn to the right or to the left, walk straight on, and look farther for the lady of his love. Farewell, Schiller, you faithful friend, you faithful lover! Farewell!"

And waving her hand as a last adieu, Madame von Wolzogen left the room. Schiller cast a confused and troubled look after her.

"Can she be right?" he murmured. "Have I really a heart that only seizes upon an object to relax its hold again? Where is the solution of this enigma? Have I ever loved, and is my heart so fickle that it can hold fast to nothing?"

He walked to and fro in his little room with great strides, his brow clouded and his eyes looking inward, endeavoring to unravel the mysteries of his heart.

"No," he said, after a pause. "No, I am not fickle. To her who loved me I would hold firmly in love for ever and ever. But here is the difficulty! I have never found a woman who could or would love me. My heart longs for this sweet interchange of thought; and new sources of happiness and enthusiasm would be opened to me if this ardently-wished-for woman would but appear! It seems the poor, ugly, and awkward Frederick Schiller is not worthy of such happiness, and must be contented with having had a modest view of love in the distance, like Moses of the promised land, without ever having entered its holy temple."

With a sigh, Schiller threw himself in the chair before the table and covered his quivering face with his hands. But he soon let them fall, and shook his head with an energetic movement.

"Away with sensitiveness!" said he, almost angrily, "I must accustom myself to be happy on earth without happiness. And if I have no sweetheart, I have friends who love me, and the friendship of a noble soul can well console me for the denied love of a perhaps fickle heart. For he who can call but one soul on earth his friend is blessed, and sits at the round-table of the gods. My poor Posa, I will learn from you, and will infuse into you my own feelings. You had but one friend on earth, and the love you could give to no woman you bestowed upon humanity, upon your people. I also will open my heart to humanity, and one woman I will love above all others, and her name shall be Germania! I will serve her, and belong to her, and love her as long as I live. Hear my vow, ye Muses and gods! Germania is my love. I will be her poet and her servant; on bended knees I will worship her; I will raise her to the skies, and never falter in my devotion, for to her belong the holiest impulses of heart and soul alike. And now, Frederick Schiller, be resolute, be strong and joyful. You are Germania's lover and her son. Determine to do what is good and great, throughout your lifetime, to her honor and renown! Take up the pen, Frederick Schiller! The pen is the sword with which you must fight and conquer!"

He took the pen and held it aloft; his eyes sparkled with enthusiasm, and on his smiling lips a silent prayer trembled.

The deep silence was again unbroken, save by the rustling of the pen as it glided over the paper. The Muses gathered round the poet and smiled on his labors.