Goethe and Schiller. L. Muhlbach

to remain a poor poet than become a rich idler. But to see you, my friends, in trouble and suffering on my account, and powerless to relieve you, is truly bitter, and—”

      “The letter-carrier,” exclaimed Streicher joyfully, as, after a timid knock, the door was softly opened, and a man in the uniform of the Thurn and Taxis post-office officials entered the room.

      “A letter from Ludwigsburg. Ten kreutzers postage,” said the carrier, holding out a large sealed letter.

      “Ten kreutzers,” murmured Schiller, as he nervously fumbled in the pockets of his dressing-gown and then in the table-drawer.

      “Here are the ten kreutzers, in case you should not happen to have the small change,” said Streicher, hastily, as he handed the carrier the money and received the letter. “And here it is, friend Schiller. Is it from your father?”

      “Yes, my friends, it is from him. And may the gods have been graciously inclined, and have opened my father’s heart to his son’s prayer!”

      He hastily tore off the cover and threw open the large folded sheet. “Alas, my friends,” he sighed, “it is a very long letter, and that bodes no good, for he who gives says but little, but he who denies clothes his refusal in many prettily-turned phrases. Let me read!”

      A few moments of silence followed. Schiller, seated on his chair, his arm resting on the table, was reading his father’s letter, while Andrew Streicher and Oswald Schwelm were standing opposite him, in the window-niche, regarding him anxiously and inquiringly. They saw that Schiller’s brow grew darker and darker; that his cheek became paler; and that the corners of his mouth quivered, as they always did when the poet’s soul was moved with anger or pain.

      “Read, Andrew,” said Schiller, handing the letter to Andrew Streicher, after a long silence. “Read my father’s letter aloud, that you may both know what I have to expect; that you may perceive that I am nothing but a poor, miserable dreamer, in whom no one believes, not even his own father, and who must be awakened from his illusions by harsh words. Andrew, read the lecture addressed by my father to his miserable son. To hear these unhappy words from your lips will serve as a penance, and may perhaps have the effect of bringing you to the conclusion that my father is right in giving me up. Read it, Streicher.”

      Streicher took the proffered letter and read aloud:

      “ ‘MY SON!—Here I sit with his letter before me, and its perusal has provoked tears of displeasure. I have long since foreseen his present position, the foundation of which has already been laid in Stuttgart. I have faithfully warned him against it, given him the best advice, and cautioned him against expending any thing over his income, and thereby involving himself in debts, which are very readily made, but not so easily paid. I gave him an adequate outfit upon leaving the academy. To give him a start in the world, our gracious duke gave him for his services what, together with the little his parents were able to do for him from day to day, would have been an ample support for him as an unmarried man. But all these advantages, all my teachings, and all hopes of better prospects here, have been able to effect nothing. He has combated all my reasons, made light of my experience and of the experience of others, and has only listened to such counsels as would inevitably insure his destruction. God in His wisdom and goodness could choose no other way to bring him to a knowledge of himself than by sending this affliction to convince him that all our intellect and power, all reliance upon other men, and upon accidental and happy contingencies, are for the most part vain, foolish, and fallacious, and that it is He alone who helps all those who pray to Him earnestly and patiently.’ ”

      “As if I had not done so!” interrupted Schiller. “As if I had not besought the great Ruler of the destinies of men, in deep fervor and humility of soul, to cast a ray of enlightening grace upon the head of him who had believed it to be his duty to follow the divine call of poetry, and who for its own sake had joyfully relinquished all other earthly prospects and hopes! But my fervid prayers were in vain; no ray of mercy has illumined my poor, gloomy chamber; and from God and man alike the poet receives an angry refusal, and is dismissed as a beggar!—Read on, Streicher! I will drink the cup of bitterness to the dregs; not a single drop of gall shall remain untasted. Read on, my friend!”

      “But, Frederick,” said Streicher, in a tender, imploring voice, “why impose upon yourself and us the penance of reading these hard words? Your father means well with you undoubtedly. He is a good and honorable man, but from his stand-point the world has a different appearance than from that of the heights of Parnassus. He estimates you by an ordinary scale, and that is not adapted to Frederick Schiller. That your father will not furnish you the required three hundred florins was evident from the commencement of the letter, and that suffices.”

      “No, that is not enough,” exclaimed Schiller, earnestly. “You shall know what my own father thinks of me, that you may be under no more illusions concerning me, and not have to reproach me some day with having infected you with my fantasies, and held out hopes that would never be realized. I beg you, therefore, to read on. It seems as if the scorching words of paternal anger might in some degree expiate the criminality of my conduct. Read!”

      “Well, Fritz, if you insist upon it, I will do so,” sighed Streicher; and in a loud voice he resumed the reading: “ ‘He has not been humbled by all the chastening administered to him since his departure, and experience only has made him wiser. That he has suffered from intermittent fever for eight entire months, does no credit to his professional studies; and in the same case he would certainly have bitterly reproached a patient for not having followed instructions in regard to diet and mode of living. Man is not always dependent upon circumstances, or he would be a mere machine. My dear son has never striven with himself, and it is highly improper and sinful to throw the responsibility of his not having done so upon his education in the academy. Many young men have grown up in this institution who demanded and received as little assistance, and they are now doing well, and are much esteemed and provided for. How does he suppose we poor parents feel when we reflect that these troubles would not have overtaken him, that we would have been spared a thousand cares on his account, and that he would certainly have achieved what he sought if he had remained here? In brief, he would have been happier, more contented, and more useful in his day and generation, if he had been satisfied to pursue a medium course in life, and had not aspired to take so high a flight. Nor is it necessary that a superior talent should be made manifest outwardly, at least not until the benefits accruing from its exercise can be shown and proven, and it can be said, “These are the fruits of diligence and intelligence.” Pastor Hahn and Pastor Fulda are both great men, and are visited by all travelling scholars, and yet they look like other men. As for the three hundred florins, I must say that this demand has excited my great displeasure. I have never given him cause to think, “My father can and will rescue me when I become involved in difficulties.” And he knows himself that I have three other children, none of whom are provided for, and from whom much has already been withheld on his account. On his prospects, hopes, plans, and promises, I can advance nothing, as I have already been so badly deceived. Even if it were possible to place some faith in them, I could not raise the money; for, although I am known as an honest man, my financial condition, and the amount of my salary, are also well known; and it is evident that I would not be able to pay a debt of from two to three hundred florins out of my income. I can do nothing but pray for my son! His faithful father, SCHILLER.’ ”[1]

      “Can do nothing but pray and scold,” exclaimed Schiller, emphatically. “There you see what an unworthy, trifling fellow I am. All the hopes which my family and friends entertained for me, yes, which I entertained for myself and my talents, are blighted, dissolved in smoke like burning straw. Nothing real is left but the burden of my debts, and my poverty. My good Oswald, you have had the weakness to believe in me, and to accept a draft on my future. To your own detriment, you must now perceive that this draft is worthless, and that my father was right in reproaching me for having had the temerity to attempt to make a German poet out of a Wurtemberg regimental surgeon.”

      “Do not speak so, Frederick Schiller,” exclaimed Streicher, indignantly. “Your words are blasphemous; and all Germany would be angry with you if it heard them!”

      “But all Germany