in love for ever and ever. But here is the difficulty! I have never found a woman who could or would love me. My heart longs for this sweet interchange of thought; and new sources of happiness and enthusiasm would be opened to me if this ardently-wished-for woman would but appear! It seems the poor, ugly, and awkward Frederick Schiller is not worthy of such happiness, and must be contented with having had a modest view of love in the distance, like Moses of the promised land, without ever having entered its holy temple.”
With a sigh, Schiller threw himself in the chair before the table and covered his quivering face with his hands. But he soon let them fall, and shook his head with an energetic movement.
“Away with sensitiveness!” said he, almost angrily, “I must accustom myself to be happy on earth without happiness. And if I have no sweetheart, I have friends who love me, and the friendship of a noble soul can well console me for the denied love of a perhaps fickle heart. For he who can call but one soul on earth his friend is blessed, and sits at the round-table of the gods. My poor Posa, I will learn from you, and will infuse into you my own feelings. You had but one friend on earth, and the love you could give to no woman you bestowed upon humanity, upon your people. I also will open my heart to humanity, and one woman I will love above all others, and her name shall be Germania! I will serve her, and belong to her, and love her as long as I live. Hear my vow, ye Muses and gods! Germania is my love. I will be her poet and her servant; on bended knees I will worship her; I will raise her to the skies, and never falter in my devotion, for to her belong the holiest impulses of heart and soul alike. And now, Frederick Schiller, be resolute, be strong and joyful. You are Germania’s lover and her son. Determine to do what is good and great, throughout your lifetime, to her honor and renown! Take up the pen, Frederick Schiller! The pen is the sword with which you must fight and conquer!”
He took the pen and held it aloft; his eyes sparkled with enthusiasm, and on his smiling lips a silent prayer trembled.
The deep silence was again unbroken, save by the rustling of the pen as it glided over the paper. The Muses gathered round the poet and smiled on his labors.
CHAPTER IV.
JOY AND SORROW.
How long he had sat there and written he knew not, he only knew that these had been happy moments of action and creation; that his heart had been full of bliss and his soul overflowing with enthusiasm, and that this high thought had found expression in words. He felt that, like a god, he was creating human beings who lived, moved, and suffered before him. But alas! he was doomed to descend from the serene heights of poetry to the dusty earth; the cares of life were about to recall him from the bright sphere of poetical visions.
His door was violently thrown open, and Oswald Schwelm rushed in, pale and breathless.
“Help me, for God’s sake, Schiller! Hide me! I have recognized him! He has just turned into this street, followed by two constables.”
“Who? Of whom do you speak? Who pursues you?” exclaimed Schiller, bounding from his seat.
“The hard-hearted creditor from Stuttgart. Some one has advised him that I have come to Mannheim, and he has followed me with his warrant, determined to arrest me here. Of this I felt assured when I saw him accompanied by the two constables: but, hoping that I had not been perceived, I ran hastily to your room, and now, Schiller, I implore you to rescue me from my pursuers, from my unmerciful creditor; to preserve my freedom and protect me from arrest.”
“That I will do,” said Schiller, with an air of determination and defiance: and he stood erect and held up his hand as if threatening the invisible enemy. “You shall suffer no more on my account; you shall not be robbed of your freedom.”
“Be still, my friend! I think I hear steps and whispering voices outside the door. Hide me! for God’s sake, hide me, or—”
Too late! too late! The door is opened and the cruel creditor enters, accompanied by two constables.
Schiller uttered a cry of rage, sprang like a chafed lion at the intruder, caught hold of him, shook him, and pressed him back to the door.
“What brings you here, sir? How can you justify this intrusion? how dare you cross this threshold without my permission?”
To the stormy questions addressed to him by Schiller, with a threatening look and knitted brow, the man replied by a mute gesture toward the two constables, who, with a grave official air, were walking toward Oswald Schwelm, who had retired to the farthest corner of the room.
“Mr. Oswald Schwelm, we arrest you in the name of the Superior Court of Mannheim, by virtue of this warrant, made out by the judicial authorities in Stuttgart; and transferred, at the request of Mr. Richard, to the jurisdiction of the authorities in Mannheim. By virtue of the laws of this city we command you to follow us without offering any resistance whatsoever.”
“You have heard it, Mr. Schiller,” said the printer Richard, emphatically. “I have a perfect right to enter this room to arrest my debtor.”
“No, bloodsucker!” cried Schiller, stamping the floor with his foot. “No, you have not the right. You are a barbarian, for you desire to deprive a man of his liberty of whom you know that he owes you nothing!”
“He made himself responsible for the payment of a sum of three hundred florins; the sum is due, and Mr. Schwelm must either pay or go to prison.”
“God help me!” cried Schiller, trembling with anger, and deathly pale with agitation. “Give me patience that I may not crush this monster in my righteous indignation. I will be calm and humble, I will beg and implore, for something high and noble is at stake, the liberty of a man! Be tranquil, friend Schwelm; this man shall not carry out his base intention, he shall not arrest you here in my room. This room is my house, my castle, and no one shall violate its sanctity. Out with you, you cruel creditor, ye minions of the law! You can stand before my door and await your prey like blood-hounds, but you shall not lay hands on this noble game until it leaves this sanctuary and crosses this threshold. Out with you, I say! If you love life, leave quickly. Do you not see that I am filled with the holy wrath of outraged humanity? Do you not feel that my hands will destroy you if you do not go, and go instantly?”
He threw up his arms, and clinched his fists; and, his eyes flaming, and his angry countenance beautiful with inward agitation, he was about to rush upon the men who had taken hold of Oswald Schwelm, and now looked on in confusion and terror. But Oswald Schwelm had, in the mean while, liberated himself from their grasp, and now seized Schiller’s arm and held him back, gently entreating him to let the law take its course and leave him to his fate. He then turned to the officers and begged them to forget Mr. Schiller’s offensive words, uttered in anger; he admitted that they were perfectly in the right, and he was ready to yield to stern necessity and accompany them.
As Oswald Schwelm approached the door, Schiller thrust him back, exclaiming in loud and threatening tones: “I will permit no one to pass this threshold. If you will not leave without him, you shall all remain here; and my room, the room of a German poet, shall be the prison of the noble German man, who is guilty of nothing but—”
“But not having paid the money he owes me,” interposed Mr. Richard, “the money which he should have paid a year ago. Since then he has been continually putting me off with empty promises and evasions. I am tired of all this, will put up with it no longer, and am determined to resort to extreme measures. Officers of the law, do your duty, arrest this man, and pay no attention to the boastful words of Mr. Schiller. He is a poet, and poets are not so particular in their words. One must just let them talk on without heeding what they say! Forward now, forward!”
“No, no, Oswald,” cried Schiller, trembling with anger. “Come to me, Oswald, hold fast to me. They shall never tear you from my side. No, never!—no, never!”
“What is going on here, who uttered that cry?” asked