“Herr Conrector Moritz wishes to pay his respects,” called out Trude again.
“We do not wish to receive him,” cried Frau von Werrig.
“He dare not presume to enter!” shrieked the general.
Marie cried, “Moritz! Oh! my beloved Moritz,” rushing with outstretched arms toward her lover, who just appeared at the door. “God has sent you to sustain me in this fearful hour.”
Old Trude peeped through the half-closed door, well satisfied to see her dear young lady folded in Moritz’s arms, and her head leaning upon his shoulder. “Yes,” she murmured, closing softly the door, “Marie is right, God himself sent her lover in this hour, and I would not let her wicked, hard-hearted parents send him away.”
Quick as thought she turned the key, fastening the door, and betook herself to the farthest room, carefully closing every door between them. “Now we will see for once whether they will show him the door, and pitch him out. No, they will be obliged to listen to him. Old Trude wishes it, for it will make her dear Marie happy. It is all the same to me if the old German tries to scratch my eyes out for it; I will take good care to keep out of his way. I must go and listen once.”
She put her ear to the keyhole, and then her eye, to see how the quarrellers looked.
At first the general and his wife were quite alarmed, and almost speechless as they witnessed the joyful meeting of the lovers. The father sprang up suddenly, with clinched fist, but instead of bitter invectives only a fearful shriek of pain was heard, as he sank groaning and whimpering into his armchair. The gout had again seized its victim. Anger had excited the general’s blood, and had also brought on the pain in his leg again. His wife took no notice of his cries and groans, for it was quite as agreeable to her to be the only speaker, and have her moaning husband a kind of assenting chorus. “Leave each other!” she commanded, as she approached the lovers, flourishing her long shrivelled arms about. “Leave each other, and leave my house!”
Laying her hand on Marie’s arm, which was thrown around her lover’s neck, she endeavored to tear her away, and draw her daughter toward herself. But Marie clung only the more firmly, and Moritz pressed her more fervently to his heart. They heeded not and heard not the outburst of anger which the mother gave way to. They read in each other’s eyes the bliss, the joy of meeting again, and the assurance of constant, imperishable love.
“You are pale and thin, my beloved!”
“Sorrow for you is consuming me, Marie, but, thank Heaven, you are unchanged, and beautiful as ever!”
“Hope and love have consoled and strengthened me, Philip.”
“Enough! I forbid you to speak another word to each other,” and with the power which rage lends, the mother tore Marie away. “Herr Moritz, will you tell me by what right you force yourself into our house, and surprise us like a street-thief in our peaceful dwelling? But no! you need not tell me, I will not listen to you. Those who permit themselves to enter our room unasked and unwelcomed—I will have nothing to say to them. Leave! there is the door! Out with you, off the threshold!”
With calm demeanor, Moritz now approached Fran von Werrig, demanding her pardon, saying: “You see, madame, that I am not so unwelcome here, therefore you will be obliged to let me remain.”
“Yes, that she will,” sneered Trude, outside the door. “It will be difficult for her to send him off so long as I am unwilling.”
“No, I will not permit it. We have nothing to do with each other. Out of my sight!—Away!”
“Away!” cried the general. “Oh, the gout, the maddening pains! I cannot throw the bold fellow out of the house! I must lie here, and writhe like a worm! I cannot be master of my house. Oh, oh! what pain!”
“Stay, Philip,” whispered Marie, as she again leaned toward Moritz. “They wish to sell me and force me to a hated marriage. Do not yield! save me!”
“You are mine, Marie; you have sworn to me eternal constancy, and no one can compel you to marry if you do not wish to.”
“We are her parents; we can, and we will compel her,” triumphantly cried Frau von Werrig. “The king has given his consent, and if it is necessary we will drag her to the altar by force!”
“Do it, mother, and I will say no before all the world.”
“We will take care that no one hears you but the priest, and he will not listen, as he knows that the king has commanded you to say yes!”
“But God will hear her, Frau von Werrig, and He will take vengeance on the cruel, heartless mother.”
“I will await this vengeance,” she sneered. “It does not concern you, and you need not trouble yourself about it. Leave the house!”
“I came here to speak with you, and I will not go away until you have listened to me.”
“Then I will leave, for I will not hear you, and I command you to follow me, Marie!”
She seized Marie with irresistible force, and drew her toward the side door, which was fast. Then hurried toward the entrance, dragging her daughter after her, but shook it in vain; that door was fastened also.
“Oh! I could kiss myself,” murmured Trude, as she patted her old, wrinkled cheeks. “I was as cunning and wise as Solomon. There, shriek for Trude, order her to open it. Trude is not there, and she has no ears for you!”
“This is a plot—a shameful plot!” cried Frau von Werrig, stamping her feet. “That good-for-nothing creature, Trude, is in it. She has locked the doors, and the schoolmaster paid her for it.”
Trude shook her fist at her mistress behind the door. “Wait! that good-for-nothing creature will punish you! You shall have something to be angry about with me every day.”
“I swear to you that I do not know who locked the doors,” replied Moritz, calmly. “But whoever did it, I thank them from the depths of my soul, for it forces you to listen to me, and may love give my words the power to soften your heart. General and Frau von Werrig, I conjure you to have compassion upon us. Is it possible that you are deaf to the cry of grief of your own child?”
Suddenly assuming a contemptuous calm, Frau von Werrig sank back upon the divan with great dignity. “As I am obliged to listen to you, through a shameful deception, let it be so. Try to make ears in my heart, which you say is deaf. Let me listen to your wonderful eloquence!”
“Oh, Philip!” said Marie, clasping his arms, “you see it will all be in vain.”
“Let me hope to succeed in awakening a spark of loving mercy, as Moses caused the fountain to gush from the rock.—A year since you turned me insultingly from your door, Frau von Werrig, and you forbade me with scorn and contempt to ever cross your threshold. In the rebellious pride of my heart I swore never to do it again, never to speak to those who had so injured me. The holy, pure love which binds me to this dear girl has released me from my oath. We have tried to live separated from each other a long year, an inconsolable, unhappy year! We hoped to renounce each other, although we could not forget. Marie, as an obedient daughter, obeyed your commands, and returned the ring, which I gave her in a moment of affection and holy trust. I released her from the oath of constancy, and made her free! But it is in vain! During this year I have striven with sorrow as a man, helpless in a desert, who writhes in the folds of the poisonous serpent. I should have gone mad if a consoling word from a great and noble mind had not roused me from my desolation, and if love had not shed a ray of light into my benighted soul. I listened no longer to sickening pride and humbled sense of honor. Love commanded me to come here, and I came to ask you, Marie, in the presence of your parents, if you will be my wife; if you will accept my poor, insignificant name, and be contented by my side to lead a quiet, modest existence. I can only earn sufficient to assure us a peaceful life. I have no splendor, no treasures to offer you, but only my love, my heart, my life, my whole thought and being. Will you accept it, Marie?”
“I do accept it, Moritz, as the greatest happiness of my life. I desire only your love, and I can return only my love to you! Here is my hand, Philip, it belongs to you alone! Let us kneel in humility before my parents, and implore their blessing.—Oh, my father and mother, have pity upon us! See this dear man, to whom my whole heart belongs. I desire only to live and toil with him. There are no riches, no treasures, to compare with his love!”
“General and Frau von Werrig, grant me the wife of my heart!” cried Philip Moritz, deeply moved. “It is true, I am not worthy of her, I have no name, no position, to offer her, but I swear to strive to gain it for her. I will win by my talents and knowledge a distinguished name, and perhaps one day you will concede to my fame that I am a noble man, though not a nobleman. Will you separate two hearts which belong to each other? Take me for your son-in-law, and I swear to be devoted and faithful, to love and honor you for your daughter’s sake. I can say no more—words cannot express all that I feel. Love causes me to kneel before you, love makes me humble as a child. I implore you to give me your daughter in marriage.”
“I also implore you,” cried Marie, sinking down beside Moritz, “give to me this man, whom I love and honor, for my husband.”
It was a beautiful and impressive scene—these two young beings pleading for happiness; their eyes flashing with the inspiration of feeling, conscious that they were one in affection, and ready to combat the whole world for each other. But Frau von Werrig was immovable, and the general was too much occupied with his gouty, throbbing leg even to cast a look upon the beautiful group of youth, love, manly determination, and tender resignation.
Outside the door, Trude knelt imploringly, with folded hands, while the tears ran down her old cheeks in big drops. “O God, I well know that they have no pity; have mercy Thou, and cause my dear Marie to be happy! Suffer not that that hard-hearted woman should sell her, and marry her to that bad man my Marie despises. I well know that I am a poor creature, and not worthy that Thou shouldst listen to me, O Lord! But I love that young girl as if she were my own child, and I would give my heart’s blood for her. Oh, my God! I implore Thee to let my Marie be happy!” Then she continued, as she rose from her knees. “Now, I have spoken, and I commit every thing to God, and He will do what is best. She has been obliged to listen to him, and if it cannot be otherwise, he must go.”
Carefully old Trude unlocked both doors, and then stopped to listen.
Trude was right, there was no mercy in Frau von Werrig’s heart. “Have you finished? Have you any thing more to say?” she asked, in her most unsympathizing manner.
“Nothing more with our lips, but our hearts still implore you.”
“I do not understand this language, sir, and you have not succeeded in giving me hearing, or ears to hear with. In this useless strife I will say a last word, which I hope will be for life. You shall never be the husband of my daughter! You can never be united.”
Marie and Moritz sprang from their knees, laying their hands in each other’s, and looked what words could not have better expressed—“We are inseparable, nothing can disunite us but death!”
“I desire you not to interrupt me,” commanded Frau von Werrig; “I have listened to you, and now you shall listen to me. I promise you to speak with more brevity than you have. I will not trouble you with useless phrases and tedious lamentations. I will speak to the point. Marie is the daughter of General Werrig von Leuthen, whose name would become extinct if the grace and favor of the king had not prevented it, by permitting the husband whom we have chosen for our daughter to take our name, and therewith become our son. You may think, in your arrogance of commoner, and the pride you take in having won the love of the daughter of General von Leuthen, that you could be this husband and son-in-law. But two things fail you: first, the necessary fortune; and, secondly, the king’s consent, and that of her father. If you were rich, it might be possible that we should be touched by the tender amorousness of our daughter, and conquer our aversion to you for her sake. You are of low birth, and take a subordinate position in society. It would be extremely laughable for the schoolmaster Moritz to change suddenly into a Herr von Werrig Leuthen. Our son-in-law must be a rich man, in order to be able to give his new title consideration; and, fortunately, the wooer of my daughter’s hand possesses this qualification, and therefore we have given our consent. The king has approved our choice, and permits the rich banker Ludwig Ebenstreit to become our son-in-law, and take our name. The king has in this communication, which lies upon the table, and which Marie has heard read, given his assurance to ennoble Ebenstreit upon two conditions: first, that the banker should give up his business, and live upon his income; and, secondly, that the marriage should not take place until the papers of nobility are made out and published, so that the daughter of General von Werrig should not make a misalliance. You know all now, and you will at last understand that there is but one thing for you to do—conquer your foolish presumption, and beg to be excused for your unheard-of boldness in forcing yourself into our house, and then withdraw quickly. If my ear does not deceive me, your accomplice has opened the doors. I think I heard rightly, if my heart has no ears, my head possesses better. We have finished. I would again enjoin upon you the duty of begging for pardon, and then I close this unrefreshing scene with the same words with which it opened—there is the door—go out!”
“Yes, there is the door—go out of it! I want to be quiet—go! My daughter is the betrothed of the rich banker Herr Ebenstreit; she will be his wife as soon as the papers are made out and published.—Go!” cried the general.
The young couple still stood there, hand in hand, looking at the general, until now their eyes met, beaming with tenderest affection for each other. “Is it true, Marie? Speak, my beloved, is it true, will you be the wife of this rich man whom your parents have chosen for you?”
“No, Philip,” she calmly and firmly replied. “No, I will not, for I do not love him, I love only you; and here, in the presence of God and my parents, I swear to you that I will be constant to death! They can prevent my becoming your wife, but they cannot force me to wed another. I swear, then, that if I cannot be yours, I will never marry!”
“I receive your oath, and God has heard it also!” said Moritz, solemnly.
“I have also heard it, and I tell you,” said Frau von Werrig, “that this romantic heroine will become a perjurer, for I will find means to make her break her silly oath.”
“We will, perhaps, find means to delay the marriage,” said Moritz proudly, “or, much more, prevent the marriage ceremony.”
“I am very curious to know the means,” said Frau von Werrig. “From this hour Marie is the betrothed of Herr Ebenstreit, and the wedding will take place so soon—”
“So soon as the title of nobility is published. That is it, is the clause to be filled; and therefore I tell you, beloved, wait and hope! This woman is without pity and without mercy; but God is in heaven, and Frederick the Great on the earth. Wait and hope. Be firm in hope, and constant in love. Do not lose courage, and let them force you to compliance by threats and anger. I have only you to confide in and to love in the world, and you are my hope, my goal, and the happiness of my life. If you forsake me, I lose my good angel, and am a lost, miserable man, whom it would be better to hurl into the deepest abyss than let him suffer the torments of hated existence. The knowledge of your love gives me strength and courage; it will inspire me to fight like a hero, to win the dear, beloved wife, to whom I would yield my life in order to receive it anew from her purified and sanctified. The knowledge that I had lost you, would ruin me.”
Laying both hands upon his shoulder, Marie looked at him with eyes beaming with affection, renewing her vow that she would never love or marry another. “We will be courageous in hope, and brave in constancy. Listen to me, my beloved; listen, my mother—I betrothed myself to this dear man! You can prevent my becoming his wife now, but in four years I am of age, and then I shall be my own mistress. Then, my dear Philip, I will be your wife. Let us wait and hope!”
“Yes, Marie, we will wait and hope.—Farewell! Do not forget that there is a great God in heaven, and a great king upon earth.—Farewell!”
He pressed the hand clasped in his own passionately to his tips, and felt from the pressure of her delicate fingers a renewed vow of constancy. Buoyed with this hope in the sad hour of parting, they were happy and joyful. Marie accompanied him to the door—still hand in hand.
“Presume not to go a step farther,” commanded her mother, and Marie, obedient to her wishes, remained near the door, bowed to Moritz, and never ceased to regard him, with love beaming in her eyes, until the door closed. Outside stood old Trude, to tell him that she would be at the baker’s at seven o’clock every morning, and wait for his commissions, “and may be I shall have something to bring you,” she said. “So do come!”
“I will, my good Trude; you are the only person who is friendly to us. Watch over my angel, console her with your affection, and when they are too hard upon her, come to me.”
“I surely will, but listen—they are already quarrelling with my good angel. I will go in, to serve as a lightning-rod for dear Marie. I often do it, and it pleases me when the lightning strikes, and dashes my hard old head to the ground, but does not hurt me at all—Farewell, Herr Moritz, the lightning-rod must go in.”
Trude entered suddenly and noiselessly the sitting-room, and interrupted the angry reproaches which Frau von Werrig hurled against Marie in a furious stream of words. The countess’s rage turned against Trude, who stared as if to challenge her. “What do you want? How dare you enter uncalled?”
“I thought you were calling deaf old Trude, or why did you scream so?” replied Trude, tartly.
“Perhaps it was the general. Ah! there lies the poor, dear old man, groaning and crying, and nobody has any pity for him.”
“Ah! Trude, it is good luck that you are here,” whined the general. “No one troubles himself about me. Quick, bring warm covering for my leg, the pain is fearful!”
“Poor, dear father, I will take care of you, I will nurse you,” said Marie, hastening to him. Her mother pushed her back violently. “Not a step farther; you have no right to go near him, you are his murderess. On your head will fall the guilt, if these dreadful scenes should cause his death.”
“No, no, the general will not die quite yet,” said Trude busying herself about his arm-chair. “But, Fraulein, you have got something else to do than stay here. They have already sent for the flowers twice, and the French lady is waiting up-stairs to parlez-vous.”
Marie looked her friendly thanks, and quietly and quickly left the room.
“Now, bold woman, I have a last word to say to you. Who locked the door when that creature came?” “I, madame,” answered Trude, who was just bringing a great cushion from the back-room to cover the general’s feet.
“You acknowledge that you locked the door intentionally?”
“Now, my dear, good Frau von Werrig, one does not lock a door by mistake. I did not want Herr Moritz to run away with fright, before you had given him your mind, and set his head straight. He would certainly have escaped, and only heard the half of your beautiful talk, for he had no idea what a miserable fellow he is. So I locked both doors, and he was obliged to listen to you, and has gone away contrite and repentant. There, there, my poor, dear general, is your foot high enough? Shall I not bring the foot-warmer?”
“You shall not bring any thing, nor do any thing more. You are a hypocrite, who connives with Moritz. Leave my house this very hour! You are dismissed my service. Go pack up your things and be off!” cried Frau von Werrig.
“Oh, do not go, Trude, for mercy’s sake, for then I have no one to help me,” cried the general.
“I cannot do otherwise, she has given me my dismissal.” Trude approached Frau von Werrig respectfully, saying, “So I must pack up and go away at once?”
“Immediately, you deceitful creature!”
“Immediately! but Frau von Werrig will be so good as to give me my wages.”
“Yes,” she answered in a slower and more subdued voice. “That shall be done presently.”
“It will not be so very difficult to reckon them, I have been here twenty years; just as many years as Marie is old, for I came as child’s nurse, and have helped her learn to talk and walk, and played mother to the dear child a bit. Then I obtained my wages, for they were good times; but the pension-time came, and we had no cook or servant but me. ‘The rats run away if the ship springs a leak,’ but the old mole Trude stayed. Mankind is in the world to work, I said, and why should not I be the cook and waiting-maid too, that my little Marie should not want any thing? So I became maid-of-all-work and have stayed here ever since. Then, you told me you would double my wages, and give me twenty thalers a year, and four thalers at Christmas. Is it not so, Frau von Werrig?”
“I believe that was the agreement.”
“I am quite certain about it,” cried the general, who began to understand the drift of Trude. “Yes, Trude was to have twenty thalers a year, and we are owing her many years’ wages. You know, wife, I have always kept an account-book for the debts, and only a few days ago—Oh! oh! the pain! Trude, help me cover up the foot warmer!—we reckoned it up a few days ago, and we owe Trude one hundred and thirty thalers.”
“One hundred and thirty thalers,” repeated Trude, clapping her hands, astonished. “Is it true? oh, that is splendid. I shall be rich, and get a husband yet. I pray you give it to me, Frau von Werrig, right away.”
“Not so quickly,” said she, proudly. “We will reckon together how much you have saved—because—”
“Oh!” interrupted Trude, “how good you are to make me keep so much; you are my savings bank, where I can deposit my money.”
“Because,” she continued, with emphasis, without noticing the interruption, “our future son-in-law will pay your wages, the rich banker, Herr Ebenstreit. Yes, the wealthy lover of our daughter. At the moment I have not so much cash in the house.”
“Your grace will allow me to stay until Herr Ebenstreit is married, and, in your name, pays me my wages?”
“Yes, Trude, I will allow you to stay,” she replied, very graciously. “You will be cunning, Trude, if you try to persuade Marie to accept the rich suitor, for when she does I will give you two hundred thalers.”
“I will do all I can to get it. Can I remain here until Marie is married?”
“Yes, you have my permission for that.”
“I thank you, Frau von Werrig. Now, general, I will bring you some warm coverings right away.”
“Now tell me, Wolf,” asked Duke Charles Augustus, stretching himself comfortably on the sofa, puffing clouds of smoke from his pipe—“are you not weary of dawdling about in this infamously superb pile of stones, called Berlin? Shall we any longer elegantly scrape to the right and to the left, with abominable sweet speeches and mere flattering phraseology, in this monster of dust and stone, of sand and sun, parades and gaiters? Have you not enough of blustering generals, of affected women? and of running about the streets like one possessed to see here a miserable church, or there a magnificent palace? Are you not weary of crawling about as one of the many, while at home you stride about as the only one of the many? And weary also of seeing your friend and pupil Carl August put off with fair promises and hollow speeches like an insignificant, miserable mortal, without being able to answer with thundering invectives. Ah! breath fails me. I feel as if I could load a pistol with myself, and with a loud report shoot over to dear Weimar. Wolf, do talk, I beg you, I am tired out; answer me.”
“I reply, I shoot, my dear Carl,” cried Goethe, laughing. “I was out of breath myself from that long speech. Was it original with my dear prince, or did he memorize it from Klinger’s great ‘Sturm-und-Drang’ tragedy? It reminded me of it.”
“Do you mean to accuse me of plagiarism, wicked fellow? I grant that you are right, my cunning Wolf, it was a lapsus. I did think of Klinger, and I sympathized with his youthful hero Wild, who declared that, among the sweetest pleasures, he would like to be stretched over a drum, or exist in a pistol-barrel, the hand ready to blow him into the air.”
Goethe shoved aside the breakfast-table, straightened his delicate form, with his noble head proudly erect, and one foot in advance, extended his right arm, giving one loud hurrah! “Now, for once, a tumult and noise, that thought may turn about like a weathercock. This savage noise has already wrought its own benefit. I begin to feel a little better. Rage and expand, mad heart, quicken yourself in hurly-burly-burly-burly!” [Footnote: From Klinger’s tragedy “Sturm und Drang.”]
“Bravo! bravo!” laughed the duke. “Is that Klinger, or who is it that refreshes himself in hurly-burly?”
“It is I who am every thing,” replied Goethe, striding and swaggering up and down. “I was an assistant, in order to be something—lived upon the Alps, tended the goats, lay under the vault of heaven day and night, refreshed by the cool pastures, and burned with the inward fire. No peace, no rest anywhere. See, I swell with power and health! I cannot waste myself away. I would take part in the campaign here; then can my soul expand, and if they do me the service to shoot me down, well and good!” [Footnote: From Klinger’s tragedy “Sturm und Drang.”]
“Bravo! Wild, bravo!” cried the duke. “Hei! that thundered and rolled, and struck fire! It does me good to hear such vigorous words from an able rare genius in the midst of this miserable, starched elegance. The powerful Germans are healthy fellows. Something of the Promethean fire blazes forth in them. They were forced to come, those jolly, uproarious boys, after the affected cue period; they were the full, luxurious plants, and my Wolfgang, the favorite of my heart, my poet and teacher, is the divine blossom of this plant. Let them prevail, these ‘Sturmer und Dranger,’ for they are the fathers and brothers of my Wolfgang. Do me the sole pleasure not to refine yourself too much, but let this divine fire burst forth in volcanic flames, and leave the thundering crater uncovered. Sometimes when I see you so simpering, so modest and ceremonious, I ask myself, with anxiety, if it is the same Wolfgang Goethe, who used to drink ‘Smollis’ with me at merry bacchanals out of death-skulls?—the same with whom I used to practise whip-cracking upon the market-place hours long, to the terror of the good citizens?—the same who used to dance so nimbly the two-steps, and was inexhaustible in mad pranks. Now tell me, Herr Wolfgang, are you yourself, or are you another?”
“I am myself, and not myself,” answered Goethe, smiling. “There still remains a good portion of folly in me, and it must sometimes thunder and flash, but I hope the atmosphere of my soul will become clearer, and over the crater a more lovely garden will spread out, in which beautiful, fragrant flowers will bloom, useful and profitable for my friends and myself. Sometimes I long for this as for the promised land; then again it foams and thunders in me like fermenting must, which, defying all covers and hoops, would froth up to heaven in an immense source of mad excitement!”
“Let it froth and foam, and spring the covers, and burst the old casks,” cried the duke; “I delight in it, and every infernal noise you make, the prouder I am to recognize that from this foaming must will clear itself a marvellous wine, a delicious beverage for gods and men, with which the world will yet refresh itself, when we are long gone to the kingdom of shades—to the something or nothing. You know, Wolf, I love you, and I am proud that I have you! It is true that I possess only a little duchy, but it is large enough to lead an agreeable and comfortable existence—large enough for a little earthly duke, and the great king of intellects, Johann Wolfgang Goethe. Let us return to our dear home, for I acknowledge to you I sigh for Weimar. I long for the dear little place, where every one knows me and greets me, and even for my dogs and horses.”
“And I,” said Goethe, “I really mourn for my Tusculum, which I owe to the generous, kind duke; for the balcony of my little cottage, where, canopied by the blue, starry vault of heaven, I dream away the lonely May nights.”
“Is there nothing else you sigh for but the summer-house at Weimar?”
“No!” cried Goethe, and an indescribable expression of rapture and delight was manifest in his whole manner.
“No, why should I deny it, how could I? It would be treason to the Highest and most Glorious. No, I long for my muse, my mistress, my—”
“Beloved!” interrupted the duke. “I pray you not to be so prudish, so reserved. Have the courage to snap your fingers at this infamously deceitful moral code, and proud and distinguished as you are, elevate yourself above what these miserable earthworms call morality. For the eagle there is a different law than for the pigeon. If the eagle soars aloft through the ether to his eyry, bearing a lamb in his powerful claws, has he not a right to it—the right of superiority and power by God’s grace? Has he not as much right to the lamb as the pigeon to the pea which she finds in the dust? If the pigeon by chance sees the eagle with his lamb, she cries, ‘Zeter! mordio!’ with the pea in her own bill, as if she were in a position to judge the eagle.”
“A beautiful picture,” cried Goethe, joyfully—“a picture that would inspire me to indite a poem.”
“Write one, and call it for a souvenir ‘The Eagle and the Dove.’ Make it a reality, my eagle youth, bear off the white lamb to your eyry, and let the world, with its affected morality, say what it likes. How can you bear to see the one you love at the side of another man? Tell me, confess to me, is not the beautiful Charlotte von Stein your beloved?”
“Not in the sense you mean, duke, not in the vulgar sense of the word. I love her, I adore her, with a pure and holy sentiment. I would not that Charlotte should have cause to blush before her children on my account. She would be desecrated to me if I, in my inmost soul, could imagine the blush of shame upon her cheek, or that her eye could brighten at other than great, beautiful, and noble acts. I adore her, and to me she is the ideal of the purest and sweetest womanhood. I rejoice that she is as she is, like clear mountain crystal—transparent and so brightly pure, that one could mirror himself therein. She stands above all other women, and to her belong all my thoughts, and would, even if I were wedded to another. To me she is the most beautiful of the beautiful, the purest of the pure, the most graceful of the graceful, and all my thoughts are in perfect harmony with hers. Now, duke, if it is agreeable to you, knowing my feelings, to call Charlotte von Stein my beloved, she is so in the most elevated sense of the word.”
“Ah! you poets, you poets,” sighed the duke, smiling.
“A streak of madness in you all, though I will grant that it is divine.”
“Say rather that Whit-Sunday comes to us every day, and the divine Spirit descends daily upon us poets, and causes us to speak in unknown tongues.”
“I will say that you are the god Apollo descended from heaven, and with gods one may not dare to dispute. They act differently in their sphere than we mortals upon earth. I will be contented if our ways cross from time to time, and we can once in a while walk on together a good piece the way of life in friendship and harmony. If it would please my Wolf, I propose to turn toward beloved Weimar, the dear place, half village, half city. For my part I am finished here, my business with General von Mollendorf is accomplished. As I told you previously, I have had made known to the king my refusal to allow recruiting in my duchy. I could not consent for the present. In short, I have spoken as my secretary Wolfgang Goethe has recorded.[Footnote: This memorial upon recruiting is found. “Correspondence of the Grand Duke Carl August and Goethe,” part, i., p. 4.] General Mollendorf has waived his demand for the present—and to-day we have had the concluding conference, and if it is agreeable to my secretary, we might set off this afternoon and pass a day at Dessau, and then on to Weimar.”
“Oh, gladly will I do it; it seems as if a star from heaven had twinkled to me to follow it, for at Weimar is centred all my happiness! I prefer a lowly cabin there to all the splendor and palaces of a city.”
“Then you agree with me, that this magnificently vile Berlin does not enchain you in her magic net?”
“No, she holds me not, though it has been pleasant to take a peep into it (like a child into a curiosity-box). I have seen ‘Old Fritz.’ His character, his gold, and his silver, his marbles, his apes and parrots, and even his town curtains please me. It is pleasant to be at the seat of war at the very moment that it threatens to break forth. It has gratified me to witness the splendor of the royal city, the life, order, and abundance, that would be nothing if thousands of men were not ready to be sacrificed; the medley of men, carriages, horses, artillery, and all the arrangements. All are mere pins in the great clock-work, only puppets whose motion is received from the great cylinder, Fredericus Rex, who indicates to each one the melody they must play, according to one of the thousand pins in the rotary beam.“[Footnote: Goethe’s own words.—See Goethe’s “Correspondence with Frau von Stein,” part i., p. 168. Riemer, “Communications about Goethe,” part ii., p. 60.]
“You are right to compare the great man to the chief cylinder in the machine of state,” nodded the duke “He rules and sets all in motion, and cares not whether the rabble are suited or not. It has enraged me sometimes to hear the fellows curse him, and yet I acted as if I heard them not. Let us return to Weimar—mankind seems better there, Wolf.”
“At any rate, more regardful of us than they are here, duke. The greater the world the uglier the farce; no obscenities and fooleries of the buffoon are more disgusting than the characters of the great, mediocre and insignificant, all mingled together. I prayed this morning for courage to hold out to the end, and to hasten the consummation. I am grateful for the benefit of the journey—but I pray the gods not to conduct themselves toward us as their image-man, for I should swear to them eternal hatred.“[Footnote: Goethe’s own words.—See Goethe’s “Correspondence with Frau von Stein,” part i., p. 169.]
“Then you are ready to depart, Wolf?”
“Almost, dear Carl, or, if you will it, quite ready. A few visits I would make, that the people shall not be too severe upon me and cry out against my pride and arrogance.”
“Because they themselves are proud and supercilious, they are bold enough to suppose Wolfgang Goethe is like them. I hope you will not visit the very learned Herr Nicolai, the insipid prosaist, the puffed-up rationalist, who believes that his knowledge permits him to penetrate every thing, and who is a veritable ass.”
“No, I am not going to Nicolai, Rammler, or Engel, or, as they should be named, the wise authors of Berlin. I shall visit the artist Chodowiecki, good Karschin, occasional poetess, and the philosopher Mendelssohn. Then, if it pleases you, we will set out this afternoon, shaking the sand of Berlin from our feet.”
“I shall prepare whilst you make your visits. Will you take my carriage? You know there is one from the royal stables always at my service, which stands at the door.”
“Beware! they would shriek if I should drive to their doors in a royal carriage. They would accuse me of throwing aside the poet, and being only secretary of legation. I will go on foot; it amuses me to push my way through the crowd, and listen to the Berlin jargon.”
Taking leave of his ducal friend, Goethe betook himself the street, to commence his visits. Going first to Chodowiecki, the renowned delineator and engraver, whose fame had already spread throughout Germany. When Goethe entered, the artist was busy in his atelier, working upon the figures of the characters in the “Mimic,” the latest work of Professor Engel. “Master,” said he, smilingly, extending him his hand, “I have come to thank you for many beautiful, happy hours which I owe to you. You paint with the chisel and poetize with the brush. An artist by God’s grace.”
“If the poet Goethe says that, there must be something in it,” replied Chodowiecki, with a radiant face. “I have to thank you for the most beautiful and best hours of my life, and I am proud and delighted to have been able in the least to return the pleasure. The only blissful tears among many bitter ones that I have wept, were shed over the ‘Sorrows of Werther.’ ‘Gotz von Berlichingen’ so inspired me that he appeared to me in my dreams, and left me no peace until I rose in the night to draw Gotz, as he sat talking with brother Martin on the bench in the forest. Wait, I will show you the drawing; you must see it.”
Goethe examined it attentively, and expressed his pleasure at the correctness and dramatical conception of the design, and did not remark, or perhaps would not, that the artist was busily occupied with crayon and paper. “How wonderfully you have reproduced my ‘German Knight,’” cried Goethe, after a long observation of it. “The middle ages entire, proud and full of strength, are mirrored in this figure, and if I had not written ‘Gotz von Berlichingen,’ I would have been inspired to it, perhaps, from this drawing. Oh! you artists are to be envied. We need many thousand words to express what a few lines represent, and a stroke suffices to change a smiling face into a weeping one. How feeble is language, and how mighty the pencil! I wish I had the talent to be a painter!”
“And I,” cried Chodowiecki, “would throw all my pencils, brushes, and chisels to the devil, or sell him my soul, if I could cope with the genius and intellect of the poet, Wolfgang Goethe. What a man! What a profile the gods have given him! There! look—have you ever seen a man with such a face?” He handed Goethe the drawing, which proved to be a speaking profile-portrait of himself, dashed off with a few strokes full of genius.
Goethe looked at it with the air of a critic. “It is true,” said he, perfectly serious, “there are not many such profiles, but I am not of your opinion that the gods fashioned it. Those sharp features look as if the joiner had cut them out of oak, and they lead me to infer a very disagreeable character. I naturally do not know who the picture represents, but I must tell you, master, that this man could never please me, although I could swear it is a speaking likeness. This sharp, bowed nose has something impudent, self-sufficient in it. The brow is indeed high, which betokens thought, but the retreating lines prove that the thoughts only commence, and then lose themselves in a maze. The mouth, with its pouting lips, has an insupportable expression of stupid good-nature and sentimentality; and the well-defined, protruding chin might belong to the robber-captain Cartouche. The great wide-open eyes, with their affected passionate glances, prove what a puffed-up dandy the man must be, who perhaps imagines all the women in love with his face. No, no, I am still of the opinion that the original could never please me, and if the physiognomist Lavater should see it, he would say: ‘That is the portrait of a puffed-up, quaint, powerful genius, who imagines himself something important, and who is nothing! The likeness of a bombastic fellow, with an empty head behind the pretentious brow, and meaningless phrases on the thick lips.’”
“If Lavater says so, he is a fool and an ass,” cried Chodowiecki, furiously, “and he can hide himself in the remotest corner of the earth. Lichtenberg of Gottingen is quite right when he says that this empty-headed Lavater has made himself ridiculous throughout Germany with his wonderful physiognomy of dogs’ tails and his profiles of unknown pigtails. If Lavater is really so narrow-minded as not to be able to distinguish a crow from an eagle, it is his own affair; but he shall never presume to look at this portrait, and you, too, are not worthy, you scorner, that I should get angry with you. The likeness is so beautiful that Jupiter himself would be satisfied to have it imputed to him. It is so like, that you need not pretend you do not know that it represents Wolfgang Goethe. As you insult it, and regard it with scorn and contempt, I will destroy it.”
“For mercy’s sake do not tear it,” cried Goethe, springing toward Chodowiecki, and holding him fast with a firm grasp. “My dear good man, do not tear it; it would be like splitting my own head.”
“Ah, ah!” shouted Chodowiecki, “you acknowledge the likeness?”
“I do acknowledge it, with joy.”
“And will you admit that it is the head of a noble, talented poet, a favorite of the Muses? Say yes, or I will tear it, and you will have terrible pains in your head your life long!”
“Yes, yes! all that you wish. I am capable of saying the most flattering things of myself to save this beautiful design. Give it to me, you curious fellow!”
“No,” said Chodowiecki, earnestly, “I will not give it to you. Such a portrait is not made to be put in a dusty portfolio, or framed for the boudoir of your lady-love. All Germany, all the world should enjoy it, and centuries later the German women will still see Wolfgang Goethe as he looked in his twenty-ninth year, and hang an engraving on the wall in their parlor, and sighing and palpitating acknowledge—‘There never was but one such godlike youth, and there never will be another. I wish that I had known him; I wish he had loved me!’ So will they speak centuries later, for I will perpetuate this drawing in a steel engraving of my most beautiful artistic work.” [Footnote: This engraving from the artist Chodowiecki still exists, and the author of this work possesses a beautiful copy, which Ottille von Goethe sent her. It is a bust in profile, the most beautiful of his youth.]
“You are a splendid fellow, and I must embrace you, and rejoice to be immortalized by you, for this portrait pleases me exceedingly. I might well be proud that this head with the rare profile is a counterpart of my own. Now we are good friends. Before I say farewell, let me see the work at which I just disturbed you upon entering.”
Goethe was about to raise the cloth, when Chodowiecki waved him back. “Do not look at it,” said he, quickly; “I dislike to appear as a mechanic before you, as I wish that you should honor only the artist. We poor toilers are badly off, as the old proverb is ever proving true with us, ‘Art goes for bread.’ We must be mechanics the chief part of our lives, in order to have a few hours free, in which we are allowed to be artists. I have to illustrate the most miserable works with my engravings, to buy the time to pursue works of art.”
“That is the interest, friend, which you pay the world for the great capital which the gods confided to you. Believe me, the artist Chodowiecki would have but a morsel to eat if the mechanic Chodowiecki did not serve him a tempting meal, paying the bill. Do not be vexed about it; man must have a trade to support him, as art is never remunerated. [Footnote: Goethe’s words—See G. H. Lewes’s “Goethe’s Life and Writings,” vol. 1., p. 459.] I hope the mechanic will be well paid, that the artist may create beautiful and rare works for us. This is my farewell visit to-day, friend. If you will hear a welcome from me very soon, come to Weimar, and see how one honors the artists there, and how well appreciated Chodowiecki is.”
Goethe embraced and kissed the artist, who regarded him, his face radiant with joy, and would not be prevented from accompanying him to the house door, as if he were a prince or a king. “Now to Madame Karschin,” said Goethe to himself, as he hastened through the streets in that direction. “The good woman has welcomed me with so many pretty verses that I must make my acknowledgments, in spite of my decision to keep the Berlin authors at a distance.”
From Wilhelm Street, where Chodowiecki lived, to the tilt-yard, was not far, and Goethe soon reached the old, antiquated house where the poetess lived. After many questionings and inquiries at the lower stories and more splendid apartments of the house, he found the abode of the poetess, and climbed up the steep stairs to the slanting attic-room. The dim light of a small window permitted Goethe to read upon a gray piece of paper, pasted upon the door, ‘Anna Louisa Karsch, German poetess.’ He knocked modestly at the door at first, then louder, and as the voices within never ceased for a moment their animated conversation, he opened it, and entered the obscure room.
“I will do it, sir,” said the little woman sitting in the window-niche near a table to a young man standing near her. “I will do it, though I must tell you album writing is very common. But you must promise me to return here, and let me see what Herr Rammler writes, and tell me what he says about me. These are my conditions.”
“Frau Karschin, I promise you, upon the word of honor of a German youth, who can never lower himself to break his word.”
“Very well! then I will write.”