reply. It seemed to be only the echo which responded from out the dark space, “Farewell!”
Schiller opened the door and rushed out into the still night, and through the lonely streets, unconscious that he was bareheaded, oblivious of having left his hat in Charlotte’s room. He rushed on, heedless of the raw night air and cutting wind.
At length he was aroused by the heavy drops of rain which were falling on his forehead. The cold rain awakened him from a last painful struggle with his passion, and cooled his head and heart at the same time.
“O God, I thank Thee for sending down the waters of heaven to cleanse my heart from passion and slavish love, and making me free again! And now I am free!—am once more myself! am free!”
Schiller entered Streicher’s apartment with a cheerful countenance, and greeted his friend heartily; but Andrew regarded his wet clothing and dripping hair with dismay.
“Where in the world do you come from, Fritz? You look as if you had been paying the Maid of the Rhine a visit, and had just escaped from her moist embrace!”
“You are, perhaps, right, Andrew! I have just taken leave of the fair maid who had bewitched me.”
“But what have you done with your hat, Fritz? Did you leave it with the maid as a souvenir?”
“You are, perhaps, right again, Andrew. I left my hat with the maid as a souvenir, and only succeeded in slipping my head out of the noose.”
“Be kind enough to speak sensibly,” said Streicher, “and tell me where your hat is.”
“I have told you already I left it with the Maid of the Rhine as a souvenir.”
“I wish you had not done so,” said Andrew, in grumbling tones. “You had better have left her a lock of your yellow hair; that would have been cheaper, for hair grows again, but hats must be bought. Well, fortunately I happened to buy a new hat to-day, and that you must take, of course.”
He handed Schiller a brand-new beaver hat, telling him to dry his disordered locks and try it on.
“Andrew,” said Schiller, after having tried the hat on, and found that it fitted him perfectly. “Andrew, you bought this hat for yourself to-day?”
“Yes, for myself, of course, but you, wild fellow, come running here bareheaded, and no resource is left but to put my beaver on your head.”
“Come here, Andrew,” said Schiller, smiling, and when he came up, Schiller placed the hat on the little bald head and pressed it down over his friend’s eyes, making Streicher a very ludicrous object.
Schiller, however, did not laugh, but slowly lifted the hat up, and looked lovingly into the abashed and mortified countenance of his friend. “Andrew, I would never have believed that you knew how to tell an untruth!”
“And you see I acquitted myself badly enough,” growled Streicher. “And bad enough it is that you should compel an honest man to tamper with the truth. Your hat had seen much service and well deserved a substitute, but if I had had the presumption to offer you a new one what a scene there would have been! So I thought I would exchange hats with you at the last moment, after you had entered the stage-coach. And I would have done so, had you not burst in upon me without a hat, and given me what I considered a fine opportunity to make you my trifling present.”
“It is no trifling present, Andrew, but a magnificent one. I accept your hat, and I thank you. I will wear it for the present instead of the laurel-wreath which the German nation is on the point of twining for my brow, but which will probably not be quite ready until my head has long since been laid under the sod; for the manufacture of laurel-wreaths progresses but slowly in Germany; and I sometimes think my life is progressing very rapidly, Andrew, and that I have but little time left to work for immortality. But we must not make ourselves sad by such reflections. I thank you for your present, my friend, and am contented that you should adorn my head with a hat. Yes, when I consider the matter, Andrew, a hat is a far better and more respectable covering for a German head than a laurel-wreath. In our bleak, northern climate, laurels are only good to season carps with, and a sensible German had far better wish for a good hat than a laurel-wreath. Yes, far better, and we will drink a toast to this sentiment, Andrew. You invited me to a bowl of punch; out with your punch, you good, jolly fellow! We will raise our glasses and drink to a future crowned with beaver hats! Your punch, Andrew!”
Andrew hurried to bring from the warm stove the little, covered bowl of punch, carefully prepared according to all the rules of the art.
The two friends seated themselves at the little table on which the steaming bowl had been placed, and filled their glasses.
“Raise your glass, Andrew; ‘Long live the beaver! destruction to the laurel!’ ”
“No, Fritz, I will not drink such a toast with you,” said Streicher, slowly setting his glass down. “It would be a sin and a crime for Frederick Schiller to drink so unworthy, so miserable a toast. You are in your desperate humor again to-day, Fritz, and would like to invoke the very lightning from heaven, and concoct with its aid a little tornado in your own heaven.”
“Yes, of course, you droll fellow!” cried Schiller, emptying his glass at one draught. “Lightning purifies the atmosphere and brings the sun out again. And you see my departure is a mighty tornado, with showers of rain, with thunder and lightning, intended, no doubt, to cleanse and purify my life, that it may afterward flow on through the sunshine, clear and limpid. Andrew, I go from here to seek happiness and peace.”
“And, above all, renown,” added Streicher, emptying his glass.
“No,” cried Schiller, vehemently, “no renown for me! Translated into good German, renown means thorns, hunger, want! I intend to have my portion of the viands with which the table of life is richly provided. And do you know what my purpose is?”
“No, but I should like to learn it.”
“I intend to become a jurist,” cried Schiller, emptying his second glass. “Yes, that is it. I will begin a new life and make a jurist of myself. My old life is ended, and when I enter the stage-coach to-night to go to Leipsic, it will not contain the poet Schiller, the author of ‘The Robbers,’ and other absurdities, but the student, Frederick Schiller, on his way to Leipsic to study jurisprudence at the university. Don’t shake your wise head and look so horrified, Andrew. I tell you I will become a jurist; I am tired of journeying on the thorny path of the poet, with bleeding feet and a hungry stomach. All my illusions are vanished. My vision of a golden meteor sparkling in the sun, proves to have been only a soap-bubble; and this bubble called renown has now bursted.”
“You are again talking wildly and romantically, like Charles Moor, in ‘The Robbers,’ ” cried Streicher; “and yet you are not in earnest!”
“But I am in earnest, my friend! The sad experience of my past life has made me wise and practical. I will not discard poetry altogether, but will indulge in it at times only, as one indulges in oysters and champagne on great and festive occasions. My ordinary life will be that of a jurist. I have given the matter much thought and consideration. Fortunately, I have a clear head and quick comprehension, I will, therefore, with a firm will and untiring diligence, study and learn as much in one year as others do in three. The university in Leipsic is rich in resources, and I will know how to avail myself of them. If an ordinary head, by ordinary application, can acquire in three years sufficient knowledge to enable a man
