his “Louise Müllerin,” and his “Fiesco;” and while so engaged love had taken root in their hearts, grown and blossomed, and for all this they were indebted to Frederick Schiller. They therefore implored him to come to Leipsic on the wedding-day. And then in touching, cordial words, they told him that they never spoke of him but as their dearest friend and benefactor. And further, they begged permission to send the accompanying package as a token of their gratitude in the ardent admiration which they entertained for him in common with every feeling heart and thinking head in Germany.
He laid the letter aside, and hastily opened the package, for he longed to see the persons who so ardently admired him.
And there they were, these dear persons, in beautiful miniatures, on each of which the name of the painter, Huber, was inscribed. How charming and beautiful were the two girlish faces which seemed to smile upon Schiller from the two medallions; how grave and thoughtful the head of the young man designated as Körner; how genial and bold the face of the painter Huber! But there was something else in the package besides the four portraits. There was a song neatly written on gilt-edged paper, a song from “The Robbers,” and Körner’s name was given as the composer. Moreover, the package contained a magnificent pocket-book, worked in gold and silk, and embroidered in pearls; in the inside he found a little note in which Dora and Minna had written that they had worked this pocket-book while their fiancés read his tragedies to them.
Schiller regarded these tokens of love and esteem with astonishment. It seemed to him that he was dreaming; that all this was an illusion, and could not be reality. How could he, who, but a few hours before had experienced such mortification and humiliation, he who had been ridiculed, scolded, and laughed at; how could he be the happy recipient of such appreciation and recognition? How was it possible that people with whom he was not even acquainted, who knew nothing of him, could send him a greeting, presents, and words of thanks? No, no, it was all a dream, an illusion! But there lay the letter, yes, there lay the eloquent witness of truth and reality! Schiller seized the letter with trembling hands, and continued reading.
“We must tell you, you great and noble poet, that we are indebted to you for the brightest and best hours of our life. What was good in us you made better, what was dark in us you made light; our inmost being has been elevated by your poems. Your sublime words are constantly on our lips when we are together. Accept our thanks, Frederick Schiller, accept the thanks of two German youths and two German maidens! Let them speak to you in the name of the German nation, in the name of the thousands of German maidens and youths who sing your songs with enthusiasm, and whose eyes fill with tears of devotion and delight when they see your tragedies!”
Tears of devotion and delight! Schiller’s eyes are now filled with such tears. He sinks down upon his knees almost unconsciously, and his soul rises in inspiration to God. He raises his arms and folds his hands as if in prayer, and the tearful eye seeks and finds heaven.
“I thank Thee, God, that Thou hast blessed me with such happiness. I thank you, my absent friends, to whom my heart longs to fly. I thank you for this hour! I thank you, because it is the happiest of my life. Your loving greeting sounds on my ear like a voice in the desert, cheering and consoling. And I, who was crushed in pain and despair, once more arise in renewed hope and happiness. O God! when I think that there are, perhaps, others in this world besides you, the two happy couples who love me, who would be glad to know me; that, perhaps, in a hundred years or more, when my dust is long since scattered to the winds, people will still bless my memory, and pay it a tribute of tears and admiration when my body is slumbering in the grave; then, my beloved unknown friends, then I am proud of my mission, and am reconciled to my God and my sometimes cruel fate. [9]
“Now I know that I am a poet,” he exclaimed, rising from his knees and walking to and fro with rapid strides. “It was not a dream, a vain illusion! I am a poet! These noble souls and loving hearts could not have been enkindled by my works if they had not been deeply imbued with the fire of poetry! I am a poet, although she laughed at and ridiculed me! She of all others; she who I thought would certainly understand me!”
Schiller opened the door to admit some one who knocked loudly. A liveried servant entered and handed him a little note.
These few words were written on the sheet of paper in almost illegible characters: “I conjure you to come to me, my friend! I have something of importance to communicate! Be magnanimous, and come at once! CHARLOTTE!”
She had appealed to his magnanimity at a favorable moment! She had irritated and mortified him greatly, but balm had been applied to the wound, and it no longer smarted.
“Go, Charles, and tell Madame von Kalb that I will come at once!”
Charles leaves the room, followed by Schiller, whose thoughts are not occupied with Charlotte on the way this time, but with the four friends in Leipsic, who love him and who did not laugh at his “Don Carlos.” These thoughts illumine his countenance with serenity and noble self-consciousness. He carries himself more proudly and his face is brighter and clearer than ever before, for the recognition of his fellow-man has fallen upon and elevated him like the blessing of God.
He enters Charlotte’s dwelling and passes through the hall to the door of her room.
Charlotte awaits him, standing at the open door, her eyes red with weeping, and yet a heavenly smile resting on her countenance. She beckons to him to enter; and when he had done so and closed the door, Charlotte falls on her knees before him; she, the beautiful, high-born lady, before the poor young poet—but yet the poet “by the grace of God.” “Oh, Schiller, dear Schiller, can you forgive me? I appeal to you, the genius, the noblest of German poets, for forgiveness!”
He stooped down to her in dismay. “For God’s sake, my lady, what are you doing? How can you so debase yourself? Stand up. I conjure you, stand up!”
“Schiller, not until you have forgiven my error; not until you swear that that horrible scene no longer excites your anger!”
“I swear to you, Charlotte, that I feel no trace of displeasure. Good angels have wafted from me all irritation and anger with the breath of love. And now arise, Charlotte! Let me assist you with my hand.”
She took hold of the large hand which he extended, with her two little hands, and raised herself up. “Oh, my dear Schiller, how I have suffered, and yet how much delight I have experienced since your departure! How fortunate it was that you had forgotten your manuscript in your displeasure! I read it once more, to strengthen my opinion as to its want of merit. But how completely had I been deceived, how sublime a poem is this tragedy, how melodious is the flow of words, how poetic is the heavenward flight of thought! Hail to you, my friend, hail to your future, for your latest poem, your ‘Don Carlos,’ is the most beautiful you have yet written!”
“Oh, Charlotte,” exclaimed Schiller, joyfully, “is it true, are you in earnest? But no, only your goodness of heart prompted you to utter these words. In your generosity you wish to soothe the pain your condemnation inflicted.”
“No, Schiller, I swear by all that is high and beautiful, by yourself, by your poetic genius, that your ‘Don Carlos’ will adorn your brow with a laurel-wreath of immortality. After the lapse of centuries this tragedy will be still praised and esteemed as a masterpiece; and the entire German nation will say with pride, ‘Frederick Schiller was our own! The poems which excited enthusiasm and delight throughout all Europe were written in the German language, and Frederick Schiller was a German poet!’ Oh, could my spirit wing its flight earthward to hear posterity proclaim these words, and to sing the song of rejoicing on the immortal grave of him whom my spirit recognized and revered while he still trod the earth in the flesh! Schiller, something seems to tell me that I am the Muse destined to consecrate the poet with the kiss of love and of pain. What can a woman give the man she honors above all others, and for whom she entertains the purest affection, what more noble gift can she bestow upon him than the kiss of consecration from her lips? Take it, Frederick Schiller, poet of ‘Don Carlos,’ take from my lips the kiss of consecration, the kiss of gratitude.”
“Oh, Charlotte, my Muse, my friend, and let me say the grand, the divine word, my beloved!