| FACING PAGE | ||
| Schiller in his Attic | Frontispiece | |
| The Dead King | 116 | |
| Portrait of Schiller | 236 | |
| Portrait of Goethe | 315 | |
GOETHE AND SCHILLER.
BOOK I.
CHAPTER I.
INTRODUCTION.
The honest and peaceful inhabitants of Mannheim, the capital of the Palatinate, had long since retired to rest; the streets were deserted, and the houses wrapped in darkness. Only high up in the little bow window of a corner house on the Palace Square still glimmered a faint light like the subdued gleam of a lamp in a sick-chamber.
But the watch, who had just proclaimed at the corner in stentorian tones the third hour of the morning, knew better; and, as he entered the square, he again looked up at the illuminated window, gravely shaking his head.
“Mr. Schiller has not yet gone to bed,” said he to himself; “writing all night again, I suppose. But I will not stand it! Did I not promise Mr. Streicher that I would always look up at his window, and, whenever I found the light burning after one o’clock, protest against it? Well, then, I’ll try it to-night, and keep my word, as an honest man should.”
And in stentorian tones the watchman cried out, “Mr. Schiller! Halloo! Mr. Schiller!”
For a moment the window was darkened by a shadow, and then opened, and a hoarse voice demanded, “Who called? who called my name?”
“I, Mr. Schiller. I, the watchman, Fabian,” roared the man in response.
“And what do you desire of me, worthy guardian of the worthy city of Mannheim?”
“I wish to beg of you, Mr. Schiller, to be so good as to put out your light and go to bed.”
“What brought you to this strange and ridiculous idea?” exclaimed the voice from above, laughing loudly. “What does the light behind my windows concern you, a watchman and a guardian of the streets?”
“Really it doesn’t concern me at all,” cried the watchman. “I know that very well, but I have promised the music-teacher of my daughter, Mr. Streicher, to pay attention to your window, and every time I see the light burning in your room after one o’clock, to call you, and beg you in the name of your dear friend to be kind enough to put out your light and go to bed.”
“A very ridiculous idea of Mr. Streicher,” said the voice of the invisible poet, laughingly, “and I am only surprised that you should do his bidding, and take this task upon yourself.”
“Don’t be surprised, sir, for I am not doing it gratis. Mr. Streicher told me that whenever I had called you, and begged you in his name to go to bed, I should have to pay only half-price for the next piano-lesson of my daughter; and I beg you, therefore, Mr. Schiller, to be good enough to tell Mr. Streicher to-morrow that I have done his bidding. And hereafter do as you please, sleep or wake. I have done my duty. Good-night, Mr. Schiller.”
“Good-night!”
The poet rapidly closed the window, and drew the folds of the old threadbare coat which served him as a dressing-gown closer around his shivering form.
“The good and true Streicher,” he murmured in a low voice, “is an honest soul, and means well, and does not know how he has injured me to-day! I was in the grandest flow of enthusiasm; all the discomforts and necessities of life had disappeared! I was no longer cold, there were no more tormenting creditors, no cares, and no pangs of love! I was in thy heaven, Father Zeus! And the messenger of my friend comes and calls me back to the cold, inhospitable earth. The fire of my enthusiasm is extinguished, and now I am sensible that there is no fire in the stove!”
He raised his large blue eyes, and glanced through the dimly-lighted space toward the high black stove, within the open grate of which only a few glimmering coals were visible.
“No fire,” sighed Schiller, shrugging his shoulders, “and no wood to make one. Poor, feeble man! The fire of the soul does not suffice to warm thy shivering body, and the prose of life ever recalls thee from the Elysian fields of poetry. But it shall have no power over me. I will defy it! Forgive me, friend Streicher, but I cannot do your bidding! Your watchman calls to me to sleep, but Don Carlos calls to me to be wakeful! I cannot let the Spanish prince call in vain! Fortunately the coffee-pot is still standing in the stove. If it is yet warm, something can be done for the poor, shivering body.”
He rapidly went across the room to the stove, knelt down before the fire-place, drew the brown coffee-pot from its bed of ashes, raised it to his lips and refreshed himself with several long draughts, after which he carefully restored the vessel to its former place.
Truly a strange sight, this long, thin figure in the gray-yellow flannel gown, a pointed nightcap on his head, stooping before the stove and occupying himself with a coffee-pot! If the admirers of the tragic poet Schiller could have seen him in this position, they would never have believed that the young man in this miserable apparel—the long, lean, angular figure, with the bony, homely face and yellow hair, loosed from the confinement of the queue, and falling in dishevelled masses over his sunken cheeks—that this man was the author of the three tragedies which for the last few years had filled all Germany with astonishment, admiration, and terror. Like the column of fire, harbinger of a new era, they towered on the grave of the old, licking the heavens with tongues of flame.
About ten years before, Goethe’s “Sufferings of Young Werther” had flooded Germany with great enthusiasm. This wonderful book, half romance, half reality, had pierced the hearts of all like lightning—as if these hearts had been but tinder awaiting ignition and destruction at the touch of this eloquence, this passion of love, and revelling in destruction by such heavenly agents! In the impassioned and excited state of the public mind, Goethe’s “Werner” had been received by the youth of Germany—yes, of all Europe—as a revelation of the spirit of the universe, as a proclaiming angel. On bended knees and in ecstatic devotion they listened to the heavenly voice which aroused their hearts from sleep with the holy sirocco of passion, and awakened them out of the tameness of prose to the passion and vehemence of poetry; to the blissful pain of unsatisfied longing and heaven-achieving love.
And now, when the excited minds had hardly quieted down, when the dazzled eyes had hardly become accustomed to the heavenly effulgence shed
