CHAPTER IV.

JOY AND SORROW.

How long he had sat there and written he knew not, he only knew that these had been happy moments of action and creation; that his heart had been full of bliss and his soul overflowing with enthusiasm, and that this high thought had found expression in words. He felt that, like a god, he was creating human beings who lived, moved, and suffered before him. But alas! he was doomed to descend from the serene heights of poetry to the dusty earth; the cares of life were about to recall him from the bright sphere of poetical visions.

His door was violently thrown open, and Oswald Schwelm rushed in, pale and breathless.

"Help me, for God's sake, Schiller! Hide me! I have recognized him! He has just turned into this street, followed by two constables."

"Who? Of whom do you speak? Who pursues you?" exclaimed Schiller, bounding from his seat.

"The hard-hearted creditor from Stuttgart. Some one has advised him that I have come to Mannheim, and he has followed me with his warrant, determined to arrest me here. Of this I felt assured when I saw him accompanied by the two constables: but, hoping that I had not been perceived, I ran hastily to your room, and now, Schiller, I implore you to rescue me from my pursuers, from my unmerciful creditor; to preserve my freedom and protect me from arrest."

"That I will do," said Schiller, with an air of determination and defiance: and he stood erect and held up his hand as if threatening the invisible enemy. "You shall suffer no more on my account; you shall not be robbed of your freedom."

"Be still, my friend! I think I hear steps and whispering voices outside the door. Hide me! for God's sake, hide me, or--"

Too late! too late! The door is opened and the cruel creditor enters, accompanied by two constables.

Schiller uttered a cry of rage, sprang like a chafed lion at the intruder, caught hold of him, shook him, and pressed him back to the door.

"What brings you here, sir? How can you justify this intrusion? how dare you cross this threshold without my permission?"

To the stormy questions addressed to him by Schiller, with a threatening look and knitted brow, the man replied by a mute gesture toward the two constables, who, with a grave official air, were walking toward Oswald Schwelm, who had retired to the farthest corner of the room.

"Mr. Oswald Schwelm, we arrest you in the name of the Superior Court of Mannheim, by virtue of this warrant, made out by the judicial authorities in Stuttgart; and transferred, at the request of Mr. Richard, to the jurisdiction of the authorities in Mannheim. By virtue of the laws of this city we command you to follow us without offering any resistance whatsoever."

"You have heard it, Mr. Schiller," said the printer Richard, emphatically. "I have a perfect right to enter this room to arrest my debtor."

"No, bloodsucker!" cried Schiller, stamping the floor with his foot. "No, you have not the right. You are a barbarian, for you desire to deprive a man of his liberty of whom you know that he owes you nothing!"

"He made himself responsible for the payment of a sum of three hundred florins; the sum is due, and Mr. Schwelm must either pay or go to prison."

"God help me!" cried Schiller, trembling with anger, and deathly pale with agitation. "Give me patience that I may not crush this monster in my righteous indignation. I will be calm and humble, I will beg and implore, for something high and noble is at stake, the liberty of a man! Be tranquil, friend Schwelm; this man shall not carry out his base intention, he shall not arrest you here in my room. This room is my house, my castle, and no one shall violate its sanctity. Out with you, you cruel creditor, ye minions of the law! You can stand before my door and await your prey like blood-hounds, but you shall not lay hands on this noble game until it leaves this sanctuary and crosses this threshold. Out with you, I say! If you love life, leave quickly. Do you not see that I am filled with the holy wrath of outraged humanity? Do you not feel that my hands will destroy you if you do not go, and go instantly?"

He threw up his arms, and clinched his fists; and, his eyes flaming, and his angry countenance beautiful with inward agitation, he was about to rush upon the men who had taken hold of Oswald Schwelm, and now looked on in confusion and terror. But Oswald Schwelm had, in the mean while, liberated himself from their grasp, and now seized Schiller's arm and held him back, gently entreating him to let the law take its course and leave him to his fate. He then turned to the officers and begged them to forget Mr. Schiller's offensive words, uttered in anger; he admitted that they were perfectly in the right, and he was ready to yield to stern necessity and accompany them.

As Oswald Schwelm approached the door, Schiller thrust him back, exclaiming in loud and threatening tones: "I will permit no one to pass this threshold. If you will not leave without him, you shall all remain here; and my room, the room of a German poet, shall be the prison of the noble German man, who is guilty of nothing but--"

"But not having paid the money he owes me," interposed Mr. Richard, "the money which he should have paid a year ago. Since then he has been continually putting me off with empty promises and evasions. I am tired of all this, will put up with it no longer, and am determined to resort to extreme measures. Officers of the law, do your duty, arrest this man, and pay no attention to the boastful words of Mr. Schiller. He is a poet, and poets are not so particular in their words. One must just let them talk on without heeding what they say! Forward now, forward!"

"No, no, Oswald," cried Schiller, trembling with anger. "Come to me, Oswald, hold fast to me. They shall never tear you from my side. No, never!--no, never!"

"What is going on here, who uttered that cry?" asked a loud, manly voice, and the broad, well-conditioned body of a man who was plainly dressed, and whose face wore an expression of good-nature and kindliness, appeared in the doorway.

"Herr Hölzel," exclaimed Schiller, with relief. "My landlord, God sends you to our aid!"

"What's the matter? What can I do?" asked Hölzel. "I came down from the floor above, and in passing your door I heard a noise and disturbance, and my Mr. Schiller cry out. 'Well,' thinks I, 'I must go in and see what's going on.'"

"And I will reply--I will tell you what is going on, my dear Hölzel," said Schiller, with flashing eyes. "We have here an unmerciful creditor and rude minions of the law, who dare to enter my room in pursuit of a friend who has fled to me from Stuttgart for help; to me who am the miserable cause of all his misfortunes. Good Oswald Schwelm pledged himself to make good the payment of three hundred florins to the printer who printed my first work, 'The Robbers.' At that time we anticipated brilliant success; we dreamed that 'The Robbers' was a golden seed from which a rich harvest would be gathered. We have erred, and my poor friend here is now called upon to pay for his error with his freedom."

"But he shall not," said Mr. Hölzel, with vivacity, as he laid his broad hand on Schiller's shoulder. "I will not suffer it; your good friend shall have made no miscalculations. Now, Mr. Schiller, you know very well how fond I am of 'The Robbers,' and that I see the piece whenever it is given here in Mannheim, and cry my eyes out over Iffland, when he does Charles Moor so beautifully; and I so much admire those fine fellows the robbers, and Spiegelberg, who loves his captain dearly enough to die for him a thousand times. I will show you, Schiller, that I have learned something from the noble Spiegelberg, and that the high-minded robber captain is my model. I am not rich, certainly, and cannot do as he did when his money gave out, and take it forcibly from the rich on the public highways, but I can scrape together funds enough to help a good man out of trouble, and do a service to the author of 'The Robbers!'"

"What do you say, my friend? What is it you will do?" asked Schiller, joyfully.

"With your permission, I will lend Mr. Schwelm, with whose family in Stuttgart I am well acquainted, and who, I know, will repay me, the sum of three hundred florins for two years, at the usual rate of interest--that is, if he will accept it."

"I will accept it with pleasure," said Oswald Schwelm, heartily grasping Hölzel's proffered hand. "Yes, I accept the money with joy, and I give you my word of honor that I will return it at the expiration of that time."

"I believe you," said Hölzel, cordially, "for he who promoted the publication of 'The Robbers' by giving his money for that purpose, is surely too good and too noble to defraud his fellow-man. Come down into my office with me. Business should be done in an orderly manner," said he, as he laughingly surveyed the room, in which nothing was in its proper place, but every thing thrown around in the greatest disorder. "Things are not exactly orderly here; and I don't believe there would be room enough on that table to count out the three hundred florins."

"Very true," said Schiller, smiling. "But you must also consider, Hölzel, that the table has never had occasion to prepare itself for the reception of three hundred florins."

"I, unfortunately, know very well that the managers of the theatres do not pay the poet as they should," said Hölzel, contemptuously. "They pay him but a paltry sum for his magnificent works. Tell me, Schiller, is what Mr. Schwan told me yesterday true; did the Manager von Thalberg really give you but eight louis d'ors for your tragedy, 'Fiesco?'"

"Yes, it is true, Hölzel, and I can assure you that this table, for my three tragedies, has not yet groaned under the weight of three hundred florins. And this may in some measure excuse me in your eyes for what has occurred."

"No excuse is necessary," said Hölzel, good-humoredly. "Come, gentlemen, let us go down and attend to our business. Above all things, Mr. Printer-of-the-Robbers, send your constables away. They have nothing more to do here, and only offend the eye with their presence. And now we will count out the money, and satisfy the warrant."

"And make out a note of indebtedness to you, you worthy helper in time of trouble," said Oswald Schwelm, as he followed the printer and constables out of the room.

Schiller was also about to follow, but Hölzel gently pushed him back. "It is not necessary for you to accompany us, Mr. Schiller. What has the poet to do with such matters, and why should you waste your precious time? We can attend to our money matters without you; and I am not willing that this harpy of a printer should any longer remain in your presence."

"My dear friend," exclaimed Schiller, with emotion, "what a kind, noble fellow you are, and how well it becomes you to do good and generous actions in this simple, unostentatious manner! You have freed me from a heavy burden to-day, and relieved my soul of much care; and if my next drama succeeds well, you can say to yourself that you are the cause, and that you have helped me in my work!"

"Great help, indeed," laughed the architect. "I can build a pretty good house, but of your theatrical pieces I know nothing at all; and no one would believe me if I should say I had helped Frederick Schiller in his tragedies. Nor is it necessary that they should. Only keep a kind remembrance of me in your heart, that is renown enough for me, although men should hear nothing about the poor architect, Hölzel."

"My friend," said Schiller, in an earnest, solemn voice, "if I am really a poet, and the German nation at some future day recognizes, loves, and honors me as such, you also will not be forgotten, and men will keep your name in good remembrance; for what a good man does in love and kindness to a poet, is not lost. Children and grandchildren will praise his good action, as if he had done it to themselves, and will call him the nation's benefactor, because he was the poet's benefactor. May this be your reward, my friend! I wish this for your sake and for my own. And now go, for my heart is filled with tears, and I feel them rushing to my eyes!"

Hölzel had already passed out, and gently closed the door, and did not hear these last words. No one saw Schiller's gushing tears; no one heard the sobs which escaped his breast; no one witnessed the struggle with himself, with the humiliations, sorrows, and distress of life; no ear heard him complain sadly of want and poverty, the only inheritance of the German poet!

But Frederick Schiller's soul of fire soon rose above such considerations. His glance, which had before been tearfully directed to the present, now pierced the future; and he saw on the distant heights, on the temple of renown, inscribed in golden letters, the name /Frederick Schiller/.

"I am a poet," he cried, exultingly, "and more 'by the grace of God' than kings or princes are. If earth belongs to them, heaven is mine. While they are regaled at golden tables, I am feasted at the table of the gods with ambrosia and nectar! What matter, if poets are beggars on earth--if they are not possessed of riches? They should not complain. Have they not the God-given capital of mind and poetry intrusted to them, that it may bear interest in their works? And, though the man must sometimes hunger, a bountiful repast awaits the poet on the heights of Olympus! With this thought I will console myself," he added, in a loud voice, "and will proclaim it to others for their consolation. I will write a poem on this subject, and its name shall be, 'The Partition of the Earth!'"

He walked to the table, and noted this title in his diary with a few hasty strokes of the pen.

He now wished to return to his tragedy. But the Muses had been driven from this consecrated ground by discordant earthly sounds, and were now not disposed to return at his bidding, and the poet's thoughts lacked buoyancy and enthusiasm.

"It is useless," exclaimed Schiller, throwing his pen aside. "The tears wrung from my heart by earthly sorrow have extinguished the heavenly fire, and all is cold within me! Where shall I find the holy, soul-kindling spark?"

"In her," responded a voice in his heart. "In Charlotte von Kalb! Yes, this fair young woman, this impassioned soul will again enliven and inspire me. She understands poetry; and all that is truly beautiful and great finds an echo in her heart. I will go to Charlotte! I will read her the first two acts of my 'Carlos,' and her delight will kindle anew the fire of enthusiasm."

He hastily rolled up his manuscript, and took down his hat. He cast no look at the dusty, dingy little mirror fastened to the window-frame. No brush touched his dishevelled hair, or removed the dust and stains from his dress. It never occurred to the poet to think of his outward appearance. What cared he for outward appearances--he who occupied himself exclusively with the mind? He rushed out of the house, and through the streets of the little city. The people he met greeted him with reverence, and stood still to look after the tall, thin figure of the poet. He neither saw nor heeded them. His eyes were upturned, and his thoughts flew on in advance of him to Charlotte--to the impassioned, enthusiastic young woman.

Does her heart forebode the poet's coming? Does the secret sympathy which links souls together, whisper: "Charlotte von Kalb, Frederick Schiller approaches?"