Goethe and Schiller. L. Muhlbach

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