CHAPTER V.

CHARLOTTE VON KALB.

She was sitting at the window of the handsomely-furnished room which she used as a parlor. She had just completed her elegant and tasteful toilet; and when the mirror reflected the image of a young woman of twenty, with light hair, slightly powdered, a high, thoughtful forehead, and remarkably large and luminous black eyes, and the tall, graceful figure, attired in a rich and heavy woollen dress of light blue, Charlotte von Kalb turned from the beautiful vision with a sigh.

"I am well worthy of being loved, and yet no one loves me! No one! Neither the husband, forced upon me by my family, nor my sister, who only thinks of the unhappiness of her own married life, nor any other relative. I am alone. The husband who should be at my side, is far away at the court of the beautiful Queen of France. The sister lives with her unloved husband on her estates. I am alone, entirely alone! Ah, this solitude of the heart is cheerless, for my heart is filled with enthusiasm, and longing for love!"

She shuddered as she uttered these words, and turned her eyes with a startled, anxious look to the little picture which, together with several others, hung on the window-frame. She slowly walked forward and gazed at it long and thoughtfully. It was only a plain black silhouette of a head taken in profile. But how expressive was this profile, how magnificent the high, thoughtful forehead, how proud the sharply-defined nose, how eloquent the swelling lips, and how powerful the massive chin! It would have been evident to any observer, that this picture represented the head of a man of great intellect, although he had not seen, written underneath, the name Frederick Schiller!

"Frederick Schiller,"--whispered Charlotte, with a sigh,--"Frederick Schiller!"

Her lips said nothing more, but an anxious voice kept on whispering and lamenting in her heart; and she listened to this whispering, and gazed vacantly out into the street!

The door-bell rang and roused Charlotte von Kalb from her dreams. Some one has entered the house! She hopes he is not coming to see her! She does not wish to see any one, for no one will come whom she cares to see!

Some one knocks loudly at the door; a crimson glow suffuses itself over Charlotte's cheeks, for she knows this knock, and it echoes so loudly in her heart, that she is incapable of answering it.

The knocking is heard for the second time, and a sudden unaccountable terror takes possession of Charlotte's heart; she flies through the room and into her boudoir, closing the door softly behind her. But she remains standing near it, and hears the door open, and the footsteps of a man entering; and then she hears his voice as he calls to the servant: "Madame von Kalb is not here! Go and say that I beg to be permitted to see her."

Oh, she recognizes this voice!--the voice of Frederick Schiller; and it pierces her soul like lightning, and makes her heart quake.

It may not be! No, Charlotte; by all that is holy, it may not be! Think of your duty, do not forget it for a moment! Steel your heart, make it strong and firm! Cover your face with a mask, an impenetrable mask! No one must dream of what is going on in your breast--he least of all!

A knock is heard at the door leading to her bedchamber. It is her maid coming to announce that Mr. Schiller awaits her in the reception-room.

"Tell him to be kind enough to wait a few minutes. I will come directly."

After a few minutes had expired, Charlotte von Kalb entered the reception-room with a clear brow and smiling countenance. Schiller had advanced to meet her, and, taking the tapering little hand which she extended, he pressed it fervently to his lips.

"Charlotte, my friend, I come to you because my heart is agitated with stormy thoughts, for I know that my fair friend understands the emotions of the heart."

"Emotions of the heart, Schiller?" she asked, laughing loudly. "Have we come to that pass again? Already another passion besides the beautiful Margaret Schwan and the little Charlotte von Wolzogen?"

He looked up wonderingly, and their eyes met; Charlotte's cheeks grew paler in spite of her efforts to retain the laughing expression she had assumed.

"How strangely you speak to-day, Charlotte, and how changed your voice sounds!"

"I have taken cold, my friend," said she, with a slight shrug of her shoulders. "You know very well that I cannot stand the cold; it kills me! But it was not to hear this you came to see me?"

"No, that is very true," replied Schiller, in confusion. "I did not come for that purpose. I--why are your hands so cold, Charlotte, and why have you given me no word of welcome?"

"Because you have not yet given me an opportunity to do so," she said, smiling. "It really looks as if you had come to-day rather in your capacity of regimental surgeon, to call on a patient, than as a poet, to visit an intimate acquaintance."

"An intimate acquaintance!" exclaimed Schiller, throwing her hand ungently from him. "Charlotte, will you then be nothing more to me than an intimate acquaintance?"

"Well, then, a good friend," she said quietly. "But let us not quarrel about terms, Schiller. We very well know what we are to each other. You should at least know that my heart sympathizes with all that concerns you. And now tell me, my dear friend, what brings you here at this unusual hour? It must be something extraordinary that induces the poet Schiller to leave his study at this hour. Well, have I guessed right? Is it something extraordinary?"

"I don't know," replied Schiller, in some confusion.

"You don't know!" exclaimed Charlotte, with a peal of laughter, which seemed to grate on Schiller's ear, for he recoiled sensitively, and his brow darkened.

"I cannot account for the sudden change that has come over me," said Schiller, thoughtfully. "I came with a full, confiding heart, Charlotte, longing to see you, and now, all at once I feel that a barrier of ice has arisen around my heart; your strangely cold and indifferent manner has frozen me to the core."

"You are a child; that is to say, you are a poet. Come, my poet, let us not quarrel about words and appearance; whatever my outward manner may be, you know that I am sound and true at heart. And now I see why you came. That roll of paper is a manuscript! Frederick Schiller has come, as he promised to do a few days ago, to read his latest poem to the admirer of his muse. You made a mystery of it, and would not even tell me whether your new work was a tragedy or a poem. And now you have come to impart this secret. Is it not so, Schiller?"

"Yes, that was my intention," he replied, sadly. "I wished to read, to a sympathizing and loved friend, the beginning of a new tragedy, but--"

"No 'but' whatever," she exclaimed, interrupting him. "Let me see the manuscript at once!" and she tripped lightly to the chair on which he had deposited his hat and the roll of paper on entering the room.

"May I open it, Schiller?"--and when he bowed assentingly, she tore off the cover with trembling hands and read, "Don Carlos, Infanta of Spain; a Tragedy."--"Oh, my dear Schiller, a new tragedy! Oh, my poet, my dear poet, what a pleasure! how delightful!"

"Oh," cried Schiller, exultingly; "this is once more the beautiful voice, once more the enthusiastic glance! Welcome, Charlotte, a thousand welcomes!"

He rushed forward, seized her hand, and pressed it to his lips. She did not look at him, but gazed fixedly at the manuscript which she still held in her hand, and repeated, in a low voice, "Don Carlos, Infanta of Spain."

"Yes, and I will now read this Infanta, that is, if you wish to hear it, Charlotte?"

"How can you ask, Schiller? Quick, seat yourself opposite me, and let us begin."

She seated herself on the little sofa, and, when Schiller turned to go after a chair, she hastily and noiselessly pressed a kiss on the manuscript, which she held in her hand.

When Schiller returned with the chair, the manuscript lay on the table, and Charlotte sat before him in perfect composure.

Schiller began to read the first act of "Don Carlos" to his "friend," in an elevated voice, with pathos and with fiery emotion, and entirely carried away by the power of his own composition!

But his friend and auditor did not seem to participate in this rapture! Her large black eyes regarded the reader intently. At first her looks expressed lively sympathy, but by degrees this expression faded away; she became restless, and at times, when Schiller declaimed in an entirely too loud and grandiloquent manner, a stealthy smile played about her lips. Schiller had finished reading, and laid his manuscript on the table; he now turned to his friend, his eyes radiant with enthusiasm. "And now, my dear, my only friend, give me your opinion, honestly and sincerely! What do you think of my work?"

"Honestly and sincerely?" she inquired, her lips twitching with the same smile.

"Yes, my friend, I beg you to do so."

"Well, then, my dear friend," she exclaimed, with a loud and continuous peal of laughter; "well, then, my dear Schiller, I must tell you, honestly and sincerely, that 'Don Carlos' is the very worst you have ever written!"

Schiller sprang up from his chair, horror depicted in his countenance. "Your sincere opinion?"

"Yes, my sincere opinion!" said Charlotte von Kalb, still laughing.

"No," cried Schiller, angrily, "this is too bad!"

Schiller seized his hat, and, without taking the slightest notice of Charlotte, left the room, slamming the door behind him.[8]

With great strides, he hurried through the streets, chagrin and resentment in his heart; and yet so dejected, so full of sadness, that he could have cried out with pain and anguish against himself and against the whole world.

When he saw acquaintances approaching, he turned into a side street to avoid them. He wished to see no one; he was not in a condition to speak on indifferent subjects.

He reached his dwelling, passed up the stairway, and into the room, which he had left in so lofty a frame of mind, dispirited and cast down.

"It is all in vain, all in vain," he cried, dashing his hat to the floor. "The gold I believed I had found, proves to be nothing but glimmering coals that have now died out. Oh, Frederick Schiller, what is to become of you--what can you do with this unreal enthusiasm burning in your soul?"

He rushed excitedly to and fro in his little room, striking the books, which lay around on the floor in genial disorder, so violently with his foot, that they flew to the farthest corners of the chamber.

He thrust his hands wildly into his disordered hair, tearing off the ribbon which confined his queue, and struck with his clinched fist the miserable little table which he honored with the name of his writing-desk.

These paroxysms of fury, of glowing anger--eruptions of internal desolation and despair--were not of rare occurrence in the life of the poor, tormented poet.

"My father was right," he cried, in his rage. "I am an inflated fool, who over-estimates himself, and boasts of great prospects and expectations which are never to be realized! Why did I not listen to his wise counsel? why did I not remain the regimental surgeon, and crouch submissively at the feet of my tyrant? Why was I such a simpleton as to desire to do any thing better than apply plasters! I imagined myself invited to the table of the gods, whereas I am only worthy to stand as a lackey at the table of my Duke, and eat the hard crust of duty and subserviency! She laughed! Laughed at my poem! All these words, these thoughts that had blossomed up from the depths of my heart; all these forms to whom I had given spirit of my spirit, life of my life: all this had no other effect than to excite laughter--laughter over my tragedy! Oh, Charlotte, Charlotte, why have you done this?"

And he again thrust his hands violently into his hair, and sank groaning into his chair.

"I am unhappy, very unhappy! I believed I could conquer a world, and have not yet conquered a single human heart! I hoped to acquire honor, renown, and a competency by the creative power of my talents, and am but a poor, nameless man, tormented by creditors, by misery, and want, who must at last admit that he placed a false estimate on his abilities. Truly I am unhappy, very unhappy! Entirely alone; none who loves or understands me!"

Deep sighs escaped his breast, and tears stood in the eyes that looked up reproachfully toward heaven.

As he lowered his eyes, he looked toward the writing-table--the writing-table at which he had spent so many hours of the night in hard work; at which he had written, thought, and suffered so much.

"In vain, all in vain! Nothing but illusion and disappointment! If what I have written with my heart's blood excites laughter, I am no poet, am not one of the anointed! It were better I had copied deeds and written recipes, instead of tragedies, for a living, and--"

He ceased speaking as he observed a letter and package, which the carrier had brought and deposited on his table during his absence.

A simple letter would have excited no pleasure or curiosity; yes, would even have filled him with consternation, for the letters he was in the habit of receiving only caused humiliation and pain. They were either from dunning creditors, from his angry father, or from theatre-managers, rejecting his "Fiesco," as useless, and not adapted to the stage.

But beside this letter lay a package; and the letter which Schiller now took from the table bore the postmark Leipsic. From Leipsic! Who could write to him? who could send him a package from that city? Who had ever sent him any thing but rejected manuscripts and theatrical pieces?

"Ah, that was it!" He had also sent his "Fiesco" to the director of the theatre at Leipsic, and this gentleman had now returned it with a polite letter of refusal. Of course, it could be nothing else!

He wrathfully broke the seal, unfolded the letter, and looked first at the signature, to assure himself that he had not been deceived.

But no! This was not the name of the director in Leipsic; and what did these four signatures in different handwritings mean? There were: "C. G. Körner," and, beside it, "Minna Stock;" and under these names two others, "L. F. Huber," and "Dora Stock."

Schiller shook his head wonderingly, and began to read the letter; at first with composure, but, as he read on, became agitated, and his pale cheek colored with pleasure.

From the far-off Leipsic four impassioned beings wafted a greeting to the distant, unknown poet.

They wished to thank Frederick Schiller, they wrote, for the many delightful hours for which they were indebted to him; to thank him for the sublime poetry which had awakened the noblest feelings in their bosoms and filled their hearts with enthusiasm. They, two bridal couples, were deeply imbued with love for each other, and the high thought and feeling of Frederick Schiller's poems had excited emotions in them which tended to make them better and happier. They wrote further, that nothing was wanting to complete their happiness but the presence of the poet at the consummation of their union. Together they had read his "Robbers," his "Louise Müllerin," and his "Fiesco;" and while so engaged love had taken root in their hearts, grown and blossomed, and for all this they were indebted to Frederick Schiller. They therefore implored him to come to Leipsic on the wedding-day. And then in touching, cordial words, they told him that they never spoke of him but as their dearest friend and benefactor. And further, they begged permission to send the accompanying package as a token of their gratitude in the ardent admiration which they entertained for him in common with every feeling heart and thinking head in Germany.

He laid the letter aside, and hastily opened the package, for he longed to see the persons who so ardently admired him.

And there they were, these dear persons, in beautiful miniatures, on each of which the name of the painter, Huber, was inscribed. How charming and beautiful were the two girlish faces which seemed to smile upon Schiller from the two medallions; how grave and thoughtful the head of the young man designated as Körner; how genial and bold the face of the painter Huber! But there was something else in the package besides the four portraits. There was a song neatly written on gilt-edged paper, a song from "The Robbers," and Körner's name was given as the composer. Moreover, the package contained a magnificent pocket-book, worked in gold and silk, and embroidered in pearls; in the inside he found a little note in which Dora and Minna had written that they had worked this pocket-book while their fiancés read his tragedies to them.

Schiller regarded these tokens of love and esteem with astonishment. It seemed to him that he was dreaming; that all this was an illusion, and could not be reality. How could he, who, but a few hours before had experienced such mortification and humiliation, he who had been ridiculed, scolded, and laughed at; how could he be the happy recipient of such appreciation and recognition? How was it possible that people with whom he was not even acquainted, who knew nothing of him, could send him a greeting, presents, and words of thanks? No, no, it was all a dream, an illusion! But there lay the letter, yes, there lay the eloquent witness of truth and reality! Schiller seized the letter with trembling hands, and continued reading.

"We must tell you, you great and noble poet, that we are indebted to you for the brightest and best hours of our life. What was good in us you made better, what was dark in us you made light; our inmost being has been elevated by your poems. Your sublime words are constantly on our lips when we are together. Accept our thanks, Frederick Schiller, accept the thanks of two German youths and two German maidens! Let them speak to you in the name of the German nation, in the name of the thousands of German maidens and youths who sing your songs with enthusiasm, and whose eyes fill with tears of devotion and delight when they see your tragedies!"

Tears of devotion and delight! Schiller's eyes are now filled with such tears. He sinks down upon his knees almost unconsciously, and his soul rises in inspiration to God. He raises his arms and folds his hands as if in prayer, and the tearful eye seeks and finds heaven.

"I thank Thee, God, that Thou hast blessed me with such happiness. I thank you, my absent friends, to whom my heart longs to fly. I thank you for this hour! I thank you, because it is the happiest of my life. Your loving greeting sounds on my ear like a voice in the desert, cheering and consoling. And I, who was crushed in pain and despair, once more arise in renewed hope and happiness. O God! when I think that there are, perhaps, others in this world besides you, the two happy couples who love me, who would be glad to know me; that, perhaps, in a hundred years or more, when my dust is long since scattered to the winds, people will still bless my memory, and pay it a tribute of tears and admiration when my body is slumbering in the grave; then, my beloved unknown friends, then I am proud of my mission, and am reconciled to my God and my sometimes cruel fate.[9]

"Now I know that I am a poet," he exclaimed, rising from his knees and walking to and fro with rapid strides. "It was not a dream, a vain illusion! I am a poet! These noble souls and loving hearts could not have been enkindled by my works if they had not been deeply imbued with the fire of poetry! I am a poet, although she laughed at and ridiculed me! She of all others; she who I thought would certainly understand me!"

Schiller opened the door to admit some one who knocked loudly. A liveried servant entered and handed him a little note.

These few words were written on the sheet of paper in almost illegible characters: "I conjure you to come to me, my friend! I have something of importance to communicate! Be magnanimous, and come at once! /Charlotte/!"

She had appealed to his magnanimity at a favorable moment! She had irritated and mortified him greatly, but balm had been applied to the wound, and it no longer smarted.

"Go, Charles, and tell Madame von Kalb that I will come at once!"

Charles leaves the room, followed by Schiller, whose thoughts are not occupied with Charlotte on the way this time, but with the four friends in Leipsic, who love him and who did not laugh at his "Don Carlos." These thoughts illumine his countenance with serenity and noble self-consciousness. He carries himself more proudly and his face is brighter and clearer than ever before, for the recognition of his fellow-man has fallen upon and elevated him like the blessing of God.

He enters Charlotte's dwelling and passes through the hall to the door of her room.

Charlotte awaits him, standing at the open door, her eyes red with weeping, and yet a heavenly smile resting on her countenance. She beckons to him to enter; and when he had done so and closed the door, Charlotte falls on her knees before him; she, the beautiful, high-born lady, before the poor young poet--but yet the poet "by the grace of God." "Oh, Schiller, dear Schiller, can you forgive me? I appeal to you, the genius, the noblest of German poets, for forgiveness!"

He stooped down to her in dismay. "For God's sake, my lady, what are you doing? How can you so debase yourself? Stand up. I conjure you, stand up!"

"Schiller, not until you have forgiven my error; not until you swear that that horrible scene no longer excites your anger!"

"I swear to you, Charlotte, that I feel no trace of displeasure. Good angels have wafted from me all irritation and anger with the breath of love. And now arise, Charlotte! Let me assist you with my hand."

She took hold of the large hand which he extended, with her two little hands, and raised herself up. "Oh, my dear Schiller, how I have suffered, and yet how much delight I have experienced since your departure! How fortunate it was that you had forgotten your manuscript in your displeasure! I read it once more, to strengthen my opinion as to its want of merit. But how completely had I been deceived, how sublime a poem is this tragedy, how melodious is the flow of words, how poetic is the heavenward flight of thought! Hail to you, my friend, hail to your future, for your latest poem, your 'Don Carlos,' is the most beautiful you have yet written!"

"Oh, Charlotte," exclaimed Schiller, joyfully, "is it true, are you in earnest? But no, only your goodness of heart prompted you to utter these words. In your generosity you wish to soothe the pain your condemnation inflicted."

"No, Schiller, I swear by all that is high and beautiful, by yourself, by your poetic genius, that your 'Don Carlos' will adorn your brow with a laurel-wreath of immortality. After the lapse of centuries this tragedy will be still praised and esteemed as a masterpiece; and the entire German nation will say with pride, 'Frederick Schiller was our own! The poems which excited enthusiasm and delight throughout all Europe were written in the German language, and Frederick Schiller was a German poet!' Oh, could my spirit wing its flight earthward to hear posterity proclaim these words, and to sing the song of rejoicing on the immortal grave of him whom my spirit recognized and revered while he still trod the earth in the flesh! Schiller, something seems to tell me that I am the Muse destined to consecrate the poet with the kiss of love and of pain. What can a woman give the man she honors above all others, and for whom she entertains the purest affection, what more noble gift can she bestow upon him than the kiss of consecration from her lips? Take it, Frederick Schiller, poet of 'Don Carlos,' take from my lips the kiss of consecration, the kiss of gratitude."

"Oh, Charlotte, my Muse, my friend, and let me say the grand, the divine word, my beloved! I thank you!"

He entwined her slender figure with his arms; pressed her to his heart, and imprinted a long and ardent kiss upon her lips, then looked at her with sparkling eyes, and, enraptured with her blushing countenance, his lips were about to seek hers for the second time.

With a quick movement, Charlotte withdrew from his embrace, and stepped back. "The sublime moment has passed," she said, with earnestness and dignity. "We again belong to the world, to reality; now, that we have done homage to the gods and muses, we must again accommodate ourselves to the rules and customs of the world."

"And why, Charlotte, why should we do so? Are not those rules changeable and fleeting? What men denounce as crimes to-day, they proclaim as heroic deeds at some other time; and what they to-day brand as vice, they will perhaps praise as virtue at some future day. Oh, Charlotte, I love you, my soul calls for you, my heart yearns for you. When I look upon you, all is feeling and blissful enjoyment! Let us unite the souls which arise above earthly feeling to divine sublimity; let us unite in the godlike love in which heart responds to heart, and soul to soul. Oh, do not look wonderingly at me with those profound and glowing eyes! Charlotte, have you not long since known and divined that I loved you, and you only?"

"Me only," she cried, sadly. "No, it is not so, not me only! It is love that you love in me, and not myself. Oh, Schiller, beware, I pray you; for your own sake, beware! Take back your avowal. I will not have heard it, it shall have died away inaudibly--have been erased from my fantasy. Take it back--but no, rather say nothing more about it. Let this moment be forgotten, as the last golden ray of the setting sun is forgotten. Let us speak to each other as we have been accustomed to do, as friends!"

"Friends!" exclaimed Schiller, angrily. "I say to you, with Aristotle: 'Oh, my friends, there are no friends!' At least what I feel for you, Charlotte, is not friendship! It is ardent, passionate love! But this you cannot comprehend. You do not know what love is; your heart is cold!"

"My heart cold?" she repeated, with sparkling eyes. "I not know what love is! And Frederick Schiller tells me this! The poet's eyes are clouded! He does not look behind the veil, which the usage of the world has thrown over my countenance. I know what love is, Frederick Schiller! But ought I, the married woman, the wife of an unloved and unloving husband, ought I to know love? Must I not wipe the tear of delight from my eye, suppress the longing cry on my lips, and erect a barrier of ice around the heart, that burns and glows with the flames which animate my whole being, giving warmth and light, like the fires in the bosom of the earth? If I were free, if the will of my relations had not forced me to the altar, where I fainted after my lips pronounced the fatal word of assent;[10] if I could name the man I love, I would say to him: 'Beloved, you are the life of my life, the heart of my heart, and the thought of my thought. From you I receive all being, and breathe all inspiration from your glances! Take me to yourself as the sea receives the drop of rain, absorbing it in its bosom! Let me be a part of your life! Let me feel that my own being merges its identity in yours! I have lost myself that I may find myself in you. My sun sets, to rise again with you to the serene heights of bliss, of knowledge, and of poetry. For us there is no more parting on earth or in heaven; for we are one, and by murder only can you make of this union two distinct beings capable of going in different directions. But I would not wander on, for separation from you, my beloved, with whom I had been made one, would only be accomplished by shedding my heart's blood. But my lips would not accuse you; they would receive the kiss of death in silence! Therefore, if you do not wish to kill me, be true, as I shall be unto death.'"

"Charlotte, heavenly being," cried Schiller, gazing at her radiant countenance with astonishment and delight, "you stand before me as in a halo! you are a Titaness; you storm the ramparts of heaven!"

A smile flitted over her features, and she lowered the eyes, which had been gazing upward, again to earth, and regarded Schiller earnestly and intently. "I have told you how I would speak to the man I loved, if I dared. Duty forbids it, however, and I must be dumb. But I can speak to you as a friend and as a sympathizing acquaintance, and rejoice with you over your magnificent work. Seat yourself at my side, Schiller, and let us talk about your 'Don Carlos.'"

"No, Charlotte, not until you have first honestly and openly acknowledged why this sudden change took place, and how it is you are now pleased with what only excited your laughter a few hours ago?"

"Shall I tell you, honestly and openly?"

"Yes, my friend, henceforth everything must be open and honest between us!"

"Well, then, my friend, you yourself bear the blame."

"Myself? How so, Charlotte?"

"I acknowledge it out of friendship, your tragedy was spoiled in the reading. You are a poet, but not an orator. In the heat of delivery, my friend forgets that Don Carlos did not speak Suabian German, and that King Philip 'halt nit aus Stuckart ist.'[11] And now, that I have told you, give me your hand, Schiller, and swear that you will forget my laughter!"

"No, I will forget nothing that you say or do, Charlotte; for all that you do is good, and beautiful, and amiable! I kiss the loved hand that struck me, and would like to demand as an atonement a kiss from the cruel lips which laughed at me."

"No jesting, Schiller; let us be grave, and discuss the future of your 'Don Carlos.' Something great, something extraordinary, must be done for this great and extraordinary work! It must shoot like a blazing meteor over the earth, and engrave its name in characters of flame on huts and palaces alike. The poet who makes kings and princes speak so beautifully, must himself speak with kings and princes--must obtain a princely patron. And I have already formed a plan to effect this. Schiller, you must become acquainted with the Duke Charles August of Weimar, or rather he must become acquainted with you, and be your patron. Do you desire this?"

"And if I do," sighed Schiller, shrugging his shoulders, "he will not! He, the genial duke, who has his great and celebrated Goethe, and his Wieland, and Herder, he will not trouble himself much about the poor young Schiller. At the best, he will anathematize the author of 'The Robbers,' like all the other noblemen and rulers, and be entirely satisfied if his mad poetry is shipwrecked on the rock of public indifference."

"You do the noble Duke Charles and yourself wrong," cried Charlotte, with vivacity. "Charles August of Weimar is no ordinary prince, and you are no ordinary poet. You should know each other, because you are both extraordinary men. May I make you acquainted with each other? The Duke Charles August is coming to Darmstadt to visit his relations. Are you willing to go there and be introduced to him?"

"Yes; I will gladly do so," exclaimed Schiller, with eagerness. "The poet needs a princely protector! Who knows whether Tasso would ever have written his 'Jerusalem Delivered,' if the Duke of Este had not been his friend--if he had not found an asylum at the court of this prince? If you can, Charlotte, and if you consider me worthy of the honor procure me this introduction, and the patronage of the Duke Charles August. May he, who lets the sun of his friendship shine upon Goethe, send down one little ray of his grace to warm my cold and solitary chamber! I will crave but little, if the Duke would only interest himself in the interdicted 'Robbers.' This alone would be of great service to me."

"He will, I hope, do more for you, Schiller. I know the Duke, and also the Landgravine of Hesse! I will give you letters to both of them, and Mr. von Dalberg, toward whom the Duke is graciously inclined, will also do so. Oh, it will succeed, it must succeed! We will draw you forcibly out of the shade and into the light! Not only the German people, but also the German princes, shall love and honor the poet Frederick Schiller; and my hand shall lead him to the throne of a prince."

"And let me kiss this fair hand," said Schiller, passionately. "Believe me, Charlotte, all your words have fallen like stars into my heart, and illumined it with celestial splendor!"

"May these stars never grow pale!" sighed Charlotte. "May we never be encompassed with the dark night! But now, my friend, go!"

"You send me away, Charlotte?"

"Yes, I send you away, Schiller. We must deal economically with the beautiful moments of life. Now go!"

On the evening of this day of so many varied emotions, Schiller wrote letters, in which he warmly thanked his unknown friends in Leipsic. In writing, he opened his heart in an unreserved history of his life--so poor in joys, and so rich in deprivations and disappointed hopes. He imparted to them all that he had achieved; all his intentions and desires. He told them of his poverty and want; for false shame was foreign to Schiller's nature. In his eyes the want of money was not a want of honor and dignity. He acknowledged every thing to the distant, unknown friends--his homeless feeling, and his longing to be in some other sphere, with other men who might perhaps love and understand him.

As he wrote this he hesitated, and it seemed to him that he could see the sorrowful, reproachful look of Charlotte's large, glowing eyes; and it seemed to him that she whispered, "Is this your love, Schiller? You wish to leave me, and yet you know that you will be my murderer if you go!"

He shuddered, and laid aside his pen, and arose and walked with rapid strides up and down his room. The glowing words which Charlotte had spoken to him that morning again resounded in his ear, but now, in the stillness of the night, they were no longer the same heavenly music.

"I believe it is dangerous to love her," he murmured. "She claims my whole heart, and would tyrannize over me with her passion. But I must be free, for he only who is free can conquer the world and achieve honor; and the love which refreshes my heart must never aspire to become my tyrant!"

He returned to his writing-table and finished the letter which he had commenced to Körner. He wrote: "I would that a happy destiny led me away from here, for I feel that my stay in this place should come to an end. I wish I could visit you in Leipsic, to thank you for the hour of delight for which I am indebted to you! Aristotle was wrong when he said: 'Oh, my friends, there are no friends!' I think of you and yours; I think of you four, and cry joyously: 'There are friends, nevertheless! Blessed is he to whom it is vouchsafed by the gods to find friends without having sought them!'"