“I have been accustomed to such warfare since my earliest youth,” said Schiller, smiling. “Fate has not given me a bed of roses, and Care has as yet been the only friend who stood faithfully at my side.”
“You forget the Muses,” cried the duke, with vivacity. “It seems to me that you have no right to complain of a want of attention on the part of these ladies!”
“True, your highness,” responded Schiller earnestly; “they have at times been graciously inclined, and I am indebted to them for some of the most delightful hours of my life.”
“Nor has the favor of earthly goddesses and Muses been wanting to the inspired poet’s happiness,” said the duke, and he laughed loudly when he saw Schiller blush and cast his eyes down.
“Oh, I see,” he cried gayly, “you have earthly Muses also, your ideal has become reality! Could there be any connection between this and the songs of praise which Madame von Kalb wrote me concerning you?”
“Your highness, I really do not understand your meaning.”
“Or rather, will not understand it! But we will not examine the affair any closer. Madame von Kalb has certainly made it my duty to interest myself for her poet, and I thank her for having made me acquainted with you. And now I should like to give a proof of my gratitude, and it would afford me pleasure to have you tell me in what manner I can be useful to you.”
“Your kind and gracious words have already been of great benefit to me,” said Schiller, heartily; “your goodness has shed a ray of sunshine into my sometimes cold and cheerless heart.”
“Your heart is never cold, Schiller, for the fire of poetry burns there. But in your little chamber it may sometimes be cold and cheerless. That I can well believe, for when the gods rain down blessings upon the poet they generally forget but one thing, but that is the one thing needful, money! The gods generally lay but one sort of capital in the cradle of mortal man, either a capital in mind or one of more material value; and truly he must be a great favorite to whom they give both.”
“Yes, a very great favorite,” murmured Schiller, in a low voice; and he read in the prince’s countenance that he was thinking of his favorite, Wolfgang Goethe, who had arisen like a meteor before Schiller’s gaze at the time he visited the Charles School in Stuttgart, in company with the duke, to witness the distribution of prizes to the scholars of this institution. While the scholar, Frederick Schiller, was receiving a prize which had been awarded him, the gaze of Goethe’s large eyes was fixed upon him, but only with the composed expression of a great man who wished him well and condescended to evince sympathy. This look had sunk deep into Schiller’s heart, and he thought of it now as he stood before the duke in the palace of Darmstadt—the duke, who could be a friend to Goethe, but to him only a patron and an almsgiver.
“I desire to be of service to you if I can,” said the duke, who, for some time, had been silently regarding Schiller, whose eyes were cast down thoughtfully. “Have you any wish, my dear Mr. Schiller, that I can perhaps gratify? I am certainly not a mighty prince, and unfortunately not a rich one, but if I can help you in any way, I will gladly do so.”
Schiller raised his head quickly, and his eye met the inquiring look of the duke with a proud gaze. Not for all the world would he have told the prince of his distress and want, would he have stood on the floor of that palace as an humble beggar, soliciting alms for the journey through life!
“Your highness, I repeat it, your friendly reception and your sympathy have already been a great assistance to me.”
The duke’s countenance brightened, and he breathed freer, as if a burden had fallen from his soul. “And this assistance shall never be wanting, of that you may be assured. Every one shall learn that Charles August, of Weimar, is happy to know the German poet, Frederick Schiller, and that he counts him among those who are dear to him. A German duke was your tyrant; a German prince drove you out into the world, therefore it is just and right that another German duke should show you friendship, and endeavor to make your path in life a little smoother. I will be ready to do so at all times, and to testify to my high opinion of yourself and your talents before the whole world, your tyrannical prince included. And a proof of it shall be given you before you leave Darmstadt! For the present, farewell, and if you should come to Weimar at any time, do not forget to pay your good friend, Charles August, a visit! You will not leave until to-morrow morning, I suppose?”
“No, your highness, not until to-morrow morning.”
“Well, then, my dear Mr. Schiller, you will hear from me this evening.”
Schiller returned to his hotel in a thoughtful mood. What could the duke’s words mean? What token of esteem would Charles August give him? Perhaps even an appointment. Ah, and if ever so unimportant a one, it would still be an alleviation of relief. Perhaps the duke only intended to offer him the use of one of his unoccupied castles, in order that he might finish his “Don Carlos” in peaceful seclusion. Well, that also would be a blessing, a benefit! The homeless one would then have a resting-place from which he could not be driven, where he would not be assailed by the cares and vexations of life. The hours dragged on sluggishly in the bare, uncomfortable little room at the hotel, and the poet tormented himself with suppositions and questions, while he listened attentively to hear the footstep of the expected messenger of the duke.
At last, after hours of waiting, a knock was heard at the door, and a ducal lackey handed Schiller a large sealed document. It seemed to regard him with a right official and solemn look with its great seal of state bearing the inscription, “Ducal private cabinet,” and the poet’s feelings were of the same nature when he opened it after the lackey’s departure. What could it be that the duke offered him, an appointment or a retreat?
An expression of astonishment and surprise was depicted on Schiller’s countenance as he read the document; his brow darkened, and he let the paper fall to the table. The duke offered him neither an appointment nor a retreat. He gave him a title, the title of a ducal counsellor. The secretary of the cabinet made known the generous determination of his master, and informed him that the document appointing him to this office would be made out in official form and forwarded to him on the duke’s return to Weimar. Frederick Schiller should, however, be enabled to wear the title so graciously conferred, and call himself “ducal counsellor” from that hour.
While reading it for the second time, the poet laughed derisively. This was the solution of the riddle. He who had scarcely known how to counsel himself, was now the counsellor of a prince who would probably never desire his counsel. He who was tormented with cares, who had no home, had nothing he could call his own besides his manuscripts—he was now the possessor of a title.
How strange the contrast! The tragedy which waged war against princely prerogatives, etiquette, and ceremony, in favor of humanity, equality before the law, and nobility of soul—this tragedy was to bear, as its first fruit, the favor of a prince.
It was strange—it looked almost like irony, and yet!—He thought of Charlotte von Kalb—she would rejoice to see him thus honored by a German prince. He thought of his old parents, to whom it would undoubtedly be a great satisfaction to know that the former regimental-surgeon of the Duke of Wurtemberg had become so distinguished. It would prove to them that their Fritz, of whom the severe father had often despaired, had nevertheless attained honor and respectability in the eyes of the world.
Well, then, let it be so! A little appointment would certainly have been better, and some hunting-castle as a retreat would probably have furthered the