Goethe looked at it with the air of a critic. "It is true," said he, perfectly serious, "there are not many such profiles, but I am not of your opinion that the gods fashioned it. Those sharp features look as if the joiner had cut them out of oak, and they lead me to infer a very disagreeable character. I naturally do not know who the picture represents, but I must tell you, master, that this man could never please me, although I could swear it is a speaking likeness. This sharp, bowed nose has something impudent, self-sufficient in it. The brow is indeed high, which betokens thought, but the retreating lines prove that the thoughts only commence, and then lose themselves in a maze. The mouth, with its pouting lips, has an insupportable expression of stupid good-nature and sentimentality; and the well-defined, protruding chin might belong to the robber-captain Cartouche. The great wide-open eyes, with their affected passionate glances, prove what a puffed-up dandy the man must be, who perhaps imagines all the women in love with his face. No, no, I am still of the opinion that the original could never please me, and if the physiognomist Lavater should see it, he would say: 'That is the portrait of a puffed-up, quaint, powerful genius, who imagines himself something important, and who is nothing! The likeness of a bombastic fellow, with an empty head behind the pretentious brow, and meaningless phrases on the thick lips.'"

"If Lavater says so, he is a fool and an ass," cried Chodowiecki, furiously, "and he can hide himself in the remotest corner of the earth. Lichtenberg of Gottingen is quite right when he says that this empty-headed Lavater has made himself ridiculous throughout Germany with his wonderful physiognomy of dogs' tails and his profiles of unknown pigtails. If Lavater is really so narrow-minded as not to be able to distinguish a crow from an eagle, it is his own affair; but he shall never presume to look at this portrait, and you, too, are not worthy, you scorner, that I should get angry with you. The likeness is so beautiful that Jupiter himself would be satisfied to have it imputed to him. It is so like, that you need not pretend you do not know that it represents Wolfgang Goethe. As you insult it, and regard it with scorn and contempt, I will destroy it."

"For mercy's sake do not tear it," cried Goethe, springing toward Chodowiecki, and holding him fast with a firm grasp. "My dear good man, do not tear it; it would be like splitting my own head."

"Ah, ah!" shouted Chodowiecki, "you acknowledge the likeness?"

"I do acknowledge it, with joy."

"And will you admit that it is the head of a noble, talented poet, a favorite of the Muses? Say yes, or I will tear it, and you will have terrible pains in your head your life long!"

"Yes, yes! all that you wish. I am capable of saying the most flattering things of myself to save this beautiful design. Give it to me, you curious fellow!"

"No," said Chodowiecki, earnestly, "I will not give it to you. Such a portrait is not made to be put in a dusty portfolio, or framed for the boudoir of your lady-love. All Germany, all the world should enjoy it, and centuries later the German women will still see Wolfgang Goethe as he looked in his twenty-ninth year, and hang an engraving on the wall in their parlor, and sighing and palpitating acknowledge—'There never was but one such godlike youth, and there never will be another. I wish that I had known him; I wish he had loved me!' So will they speak centuries later, for I will perpetuate this drawing in a steel engraving of my most beautiful artistic work." [Footnote: This engraving from the artist Chodowiecki still exists, and the author of this work possesses a beautiful copy, which Ottille von Goethe sent her. It is a bust in profile, the most beautiful of his youth.]

"You are a splendid fellow, and I must embrace you, and rejoice to be immortalized by you, for this portrait pleases me exceedingly. I might well be proud that this head with the rare profile is a counterpart of my own. Now we are good friends. Before I say farewell, let me see the work at which I just disturbed you upon entering."

Goethe was about to raise the cloth, when Chodowiecki waved him back. "Do not look at it," said he, quickly; "I dislike to appear as a mechanic before you, as I wish that you should honor only the artist. We poor toilers are badly off, as the old proverb is ever proving true with us, 'Art goes for bread.' We must be mechanics the chief part of our lives, in order to have a few hours free, in which we are allowed to be artists. I have to illustrate the most miserable works with my engravings, to buy the time to pursue works of art."

"That is the interest, friend, which you pay the world for the great capital which the gods confided to you. Believe me, the artist Chodowiecki would have but a morsel to eat if the mechanic Chodowiecki did not serve him a tempting meal, paying the bill. Do not be vexed about it; man must have a trade to support him, as art is never remunerated. [Footnote: Goethe's words—See G. H. Lewes's "Goethe's Life and Writings," vol. 1., p. 459.] I hope the mechanic will be well paid, that the artist may create beautiful and rare works for us. This is my farewell visit to-day, friend. If you will hear a welcome from me very soon, come to Weimar, and see how one honors the artists there, and how well appreciated Chodowiecki is."

Goethe embraced and kissed the artist, who regarded him, his face radiant with joy, and would not be prevented from accompanying him to the house door, as if he were a prince or a king. "Now to Madame Karschin," said Goethe to himself, as he hastened through the streets in that direction. "The good woman has welcomed me with so many pretty verses that I must make my acknowledgments, in spite of my decision to keep the Berlin authors at a distance."

From Wilhelm Street, where Chodowiecki lived, to the tilt-yard, was not far, and Goethe soon reached the old, antiquated house where the poetess lived. After many questionings and inquiries at the lower stories and more splendid apartments of the house, he found the abode of the poetess, and climbed up the steep stairs to the slanting attic-room. The dim light of a small window permitted Goethe to read upon a gray piece of paper, pasted upon the door, 'Anna Louisa Karsch, German poetess.' He knocked modestly at the door at first, then louder, and as the voices within never ceased for a moment their animated conversation, he opened it, and entered the obscure room.

"I will do it, sir," said the little woman sitting in the window-niche near a table to a young man standing near her. "I will do it, though I must tell you album writing is very common. But you must promise me to return here, and let me see what Herr Rammler writes, and tell me what he says about me. These are my conditions."

"Frau Karschin, I promise you, upon the word of honor of a German youth, who can never lower himself to break his word."

"Very well! then I will write."

There was perfect silence. The youth watched the little, dry hand which guided the pen, with a devotional mien, and Goethe with eager curiosity, who, unobserved, stood like a suppliant at the door of the obscure little room, the shabby furniture of which betrayed the narrow circumstances of the German poetess. It harmonized with the occupant, a little, bony, meagre figure, wearing a tight-fitting blue-flowered chintz dress. Upon the gray hair, which, parted in the middle, encircled the low forehead, was a cap, which had lost its whiteness and was, therefore, more in harmony with the ruff about her yellow, thin neck. Her sharp, angular features were redeemed by large, dark eyes, flashing with marvellous brilliancy from under the thick, gray eyebrows, and with quick, penetrating glances she sometimes turned them to the ceiling thoughtfully as she wrote. "There, sir, is my poem," said she, laying down the pen. "Listen:

'Govern your will; If it hinders duty, It fetters virtue; Then envy beguiles Into fault-finding.'"

"Oh, how beautiful, cried the young man, enraptured. "I thank you a thousand times for those glorious words, and they shall henceforth be the guiding star of my existence."

"Go to Professor Rammler, and: then return and show me what he writes, for I am convinced—. Oh, Heavens! there is a stranger," she cried, as she discovered Goethe, who had remained standing by the door.

"Yes, a stranger," said Goethe, smiling, and approaching, as the happy possessor of the album withdrew—"a stranger would not leave Berlin without visiting the German poetess."

"And without verses in your album; is it not so? I have become the fashion, and if I could only live by immortalizing myself in your albums, I should be free from care. Now I have divined it—you wish an autograph?"

"No! only a good word, and a friendly shake of the hand, for I possess a poem and a letter which the good Frau Karschin sent me at Weimar some six months since, written by herself."

"Is it Goethe?" she cried, clasping her hands in astonishment. "The poet Johann Wolfgang Goethe, the renowned author of the work which—"

"Cost you many tears," broke in Goethe, laughing. "I beg you spare me these phrases, which follow me upon my journey as the Furies Orestes. I know that 'Werther' has become the favorite of the reading public; he has opened all the tear-ducts and made all lovers of moonlight as soft as a swaddling-cloth. I could punish myself for having written 'Werther.'"

Frau Karschin laughed aloud. "That is glorious! You please me! You are a famous poet and a genius, for only geniuses can revise and ridicule themselves. Welcome, Germany's greatest poet, welcome to the attic of the poetess! There is the good word which you would have, and here is the hand. Did you think it worth while to visit poor Karschin? I am rejoiced at it, for I see that they accused you unjustly of arrogance and pride!"

"Do they accuse me of it?" asked Goethe, smiling. "Can the Berlin poets and authors never forgive me that I live at a court, and am honored with the favor of a prince?"

"They would willingly forgive you if they had the power to push you one side, and take your place. They are angry with you, because they envy you and are not accustomed to be esteemed. Our prince and ruler, as great a hero and king as he otherwise is, cares little for German poetry, and for all he would care, the Berlin authors might starve, one and all; he would trouble himself no more about them than the flies dancing in the sunlight."

"The great king is still the same, then? He will never know anything of German literature?"

"No! he declares that it is the language of barbarians and bear-catchers; scolds about us, and despises us, and yet knows as little of us as the man in the moon. He adores his Voltaire. Old Fritz knows the French poet by heart, but Lessing he knows nothing of. He abuses 'Goetz von Berlichingen,' and 'Werther's Sorrows.'"

"Oh! I know it all—I know the king's adjutant-general, von Siedlitz. I often dine with him, and read aloud my poems to him, when he relates to me what the king says to enrage me. You must know when I am angry I speak in verse. I accustomed myself to it during my unhappy marriage with the tailor Karsch. When he scolded, I answered in verse, and tried to turn my thoughts to other things, and to make the most difficult rhymes. As he was always scolding and quarrelling, I always spoke in rhyme."

"And in this way you led a very poetical marriage?" smiled Goethe.

"Yes, indeed, poetical," she said, and her large brilliant eyes were dimmed. "If it is true that tears are the baptism of poets, then I was baptized daily for twelve years, and ought to be an extraordinary poetess."

"That you are, indeed," said Goethe, "who would dispute it? You have given evidence of great poetical talent, and I read your heroic poem upon the Great Frederick with real delight."

"Do you know what he did?" she asked, bitterly. "I turned to him, begging for assistance; for who should a poet turn to, but his God and his king? Moreover, he had promised it to me personally."

"You have spoken with him, then, yourself?" asked Goethe.

"Yes, eight years ago; General von Siedlitz procured me an audience. The king was very gracious, and among other things, asked me about my life; and as I explained to him my poverty and want, he most kindly promised to help me." [Footnote: This interview which Frau Karschin had with the king is found in "Anecdotes and Traits of Character of Frederick the Great." vol. ii., p. 72.]

"And did he not fulfil his promise?"

"No, had it been given to the least of the French writers he would have kept it, but to a German poet it was not worth while. What is a native poet to the great German king? A phantom that he knows not, and believes not. As great as he is, the king showed himself very small to me. I sang him as a poetess and he bestowed a pittance upon me as one would to a beggar in tatters by the wayside."

"Is it really true, upon your supplication—"

"Sent me two thalers! Yes, that is indeed true, and I see by your smile that you know it, and know also that I returned it to him. I had rather die with hunger than take a beggar's penny. But let me relate to you what happened two weeks since. I had borne patiently the affair of the two thalers, and forgotten it. I am more comfortable now; the booksellers pay me for my songs and poems very well, and a number of patrons and friends, at whose head is the Prince of Prussia, give me a small pension, from which I can at least live—though poorly. One of my patrons sent me a strip of land on the Spree not far from the Hercules Bridge, where I would gladly build me a little house, at last to have a sure abiding-place where I could retire—that would be a refuge against all the troubles and sorrows of life. As I thought it over, the old confidence and imperishable love for the great king rose again within me, and as I esteemed him I always hoped for the fulfilment of his promise. I applied to him again, and begged him to do for me what he had granted to so many cobblers and tailors, as the king gives building-money to help those who will build. All the houses of the Gensdarmen-markt are built by royal aid, and sometimes the king designs the facades, as he did for the butcher Kuhn's great house; and sent him a design to ornament the frieze of ninety-nine, sheeps' heads, only ninety-nine, for he said the butcher himself was the one hundredth. The butcher remonstrated, but he was obliged to keep them, if he would have the building-money."

"Really," cried Goethe, laughing, "the king is an ingenious and extraordinary man in every thing, and no one is like him."

"No one is like him, and no one would have treated me as he did. I addressed to him a poem, begging him with true inspiration and emotion to let a German poetess find favor in his sight—and that he would be for me a Maecenas, if I were not a Horace. My heart bled with sorrow, that I must so beg and pray, and my tears wet the paper upon which I indited my begging, rhyming petition. How much money do you think the great king sent me for my house? Think of the smallest sum."

"If it was small, yet for building-money he would send you at least two hundred thalers."

The poetess burst into a scornful laugh. "He sent me three thalers! The great Frederick sent me three thalers to build a house!"

"What did you do? Did you take them?"

"Yes," she answered, proudly, "and I will leave them as a legacy to my daughter, as an historical souvenir for succeeding generations, who will relate the benevolence of the German king for the German poetess. I sent the king a receipt—I will read it to you.

"'His majesty commanded, Instead of building-money, To send me three thalers. The order was exactly, Promptly fulfilled. I am indebted for thanks, But for three thalers can No joiner in Berlin My coffin make. Otherwise to-morrow I would order Such a house without horror Where worms feast, And, feasting, quarrel Over the lean, care-worn Old woman's remains That the king let sigh away.'" [Footnote: See "Life and Poems of Louisa Karschin," edited by her daughter.]

"Why do you not laugh?" said Frau Karschin, raising her flashing eyes to Goethe, who sat looking down earnestly and quietly before her.

"I cannot," he gently answered. "Your poem makes me sad; it recalls the keen sorrow of a poet's existence, the oft-repeated struggle between Ideality and Reality. The blessed of the gods must humble themselves; though they may raise their heads to heaven, their feet must still rest upon earth; and to find their way upon it, and walk humbly therein, they must again lower their inspired heads."

"Oh, that makes me feel better," cried Karschin, with tears in her eyes; "that is balsam for my wounds. You are a great poet, Goethe, I feel it to be so. You are a great man, for your heart is good and filled with pity. How unjustly they call you cold and proud! Only be a little more yielding, and call upon the Berlin poets and writers. You can imagine that the news of your arrival ran like wild-fire through the town. Nicolai, Rammler, Engel, Mendelssohn, and all the other distinguished gentlemen have stayed at home like badgers in their kennels, watching for you, so as not to miss your visit. At last they became desperate, and scolded furiously over your arrogance and pride in thinking yourself better than they. Why have you not called upon them?"

There was a loud knocking at the door, and the young man with his album entered, almost breathless. "Here I am," said he, "I came directly from Professor Rammler here, as I promised you."

"You saw him, then? Has he written something for you?"

"Yes, I saw him, and he granted my request."

"And abused me, did he not, with his nose turned up? You must know, Goethe, that Professor Rammler despises my poems, because I am not so learned in Greek and Roman mythology as he is. Now tell me, my young friend, what did he say about me?"

"I promised you, upon my word of honor, to tell you every thing, but I hope you will release me from the promise." sighed the young man.

"No, that I will not. Much more, upon the strength of your word of honor, I desire it. You promised, word for word, to relate it to me."

"If it must be, then, let it be. I went at once to Professor Rammler's. He asked me immediately if I had not been here."

"Just as I asked you," laughed Karschin.

"I affirmed it, saying that you showed me his house. Upon which he asked, 'Did she say any thing against me? She is accustomed to do it before strangers, like all old women.' He then turned over my album, and as he saw the lines you wrote he reddened, and striking the book—'I see it, she knew she had said something about me. She tells every stranger that I think she is censorious. What she has written is aimed at me.' Upon that he wrote some lines opposite yours, shut the book, and handed it to me. I have not even had the time to read them."

"Read them now, quickly."

"'He who slanders and listens to slander, let him be punished. She may be hung by the tongue, and he by the ears.'" [Footnote: This scene took place literally, and may be found in "Celebrated German Authors," vol. II., p. 340.]

"That is shameful—that is mean!" said Frau Karschin, while Goethe re-read the cutting epigram. "That is just like Rammler; his tongue is like a two-edged sword for every one but himself, and he fans his own glories, and does not know that he is a fool. Frederick the Great himself called him so. One of his generals called his attention to him, upon which Frederick turned his horse, riding directly up to him, asking, 'Is this the distinguished Rammler?' 'Yes, your majesty, I am he,' the little professor proudly bowed. 'You are a fool!' called out Frederick, very loud, and rode away, as all around the 'Great Rammler' laughed and sneered. There are many such stories. Shall I tell you how Lessing teased him?"

"No, dear woman, tell me nothing more. I perceive your Berlin writers and poets are a malicious, contentious set of people. I may well fear you, and shall be glad to escape unharmed. Think kindly of me, and have pity upon me; if the others are too severe, raise your dear hand and hold back the scourge that it may not fall upon poor Wolfgang Goethe. Adieu, dear Frau Karschin."

Goethe bowed, and hastened down into the street. "With the authors and poets of Berlin I wish nothing more to do, but with the philosophers I may be more fortunate, and with them find the wisdom and forbearance which fail the poets."

Goethe bent his steps to Spandauer Street, in which the merchant and philosopher Moses Mendelssohn lived; hastened up the stairs, and knocked, which was answered by an old servant, to whom Goethe announced himself. The servant disappeared, and the poet stood in the little, narrow corridor, smilingly looking to the study-door, and waiting for the "gates of wisdom" to open and let the worldling enter the temple of philosophy.

The crooked little man, the great philosopher, Moses, son of Mendelssohn, stood behind the door, turning over in his mind whether he would receive Goethe or not. "Why should I? The proud secretary of legation has already been in Berlin eight days, and wishes to prove to me that he cares little for Berlin philosophers. My noble friend, the great Lessing, cannot abide 'Gotz von Berlichingen;' and Nicolai, Rammler, and Engel are the bitter opponents, the very antipodes of the rare genius and secretary of legation from Weimar. If he wishes to see me, why did he come so late, so—"

"Herr Goethe is waiting—shall he enter?" asked the servant.

The philosopher raised his head. "No," cried he, loudly. "No! tell him you were mistaken. I am not at home."

The old servant looked quite frightened at his master—the first time he had heard an untruth from him. "What shall I say, sir?"

"Say no," cried Moses, very excited and ill-humored. "Say that I am not at home—that I am out."

With a determined, defiant manner the philosopher seated himself to work upon his new book, "Jerusalem," saying to himself, "I am right to send him away; he waited too long, is too late." [Footnote: From Ludwig Tieck I learned this anecdote, and he assured me that Moses Mendelssohn told it to him.—See "Goethe in Berlin, Leaves of Memory," p. 6.—The Authoress.]



CHAPTER XVIII. FAREWELL TO BERLIN.

"What is the matter, my dear Wolf?" cried the duke, as Goethe returned from his visits. "What mean those shadows upon your brow? Have the cursed beaux-esprits in Berlin annoyed and tortured you?"

"No, duke, I—" and suddenly stopping, he burst into a loud ringing laugh, and sprang about the room, bounding up and down, shouting, "Hurrah! hurrah! Long live the philosophers, vivat the philosophers!"

"They shall live—live—live,'' shouted the duke!

"Vivat the philosophers! hurrah! To the May-sports upon the Blockberg they ride upon a little ass with golden horns—with Pharisaical mien, praying with their eyes, 'I thank Thee, O Lord, that I am a philosopher, that I am not as the world's children, vain, proud, and arrogant.' Hey, good Carl Augustus, today a great revelation has been made known to me by a philosopher. Wisdom flowed from his mouth. All the spiders in their gray, self-woven nets, whispered and sang in his corridor, 'We weave at the fountain of life, we spin the web of time.' The little mice crept out from the corners, whispering, Hallelujah! Here lives the great philosopher Moses, who has devoured wisdom, and is unknowing of earthly vanities. Oh! the mice and the spiders waltz together upon the threshold of the great philosopher. Hey, ha! a waltz we will dance!"

Goethe caught the duke with both arms around the waist, and tore around in a giddy whirl, both laughing, both shrieking. Wolfshund, the duke's dog, asleep in the corner, sprang up howling and barking at their wild bounds and goat-like springs, and joined the dancers. As Goethe felt the ribbon which confined his cue give way, he shook wildly his curly, powdered hair and it fell in mad confusion. Both he and the duke now sank exhausted to the floor, panting and laughing.

"Heaven be praised, Wolf," said the duke, "the must has once more fermented, and sprung a few of the hoops of dignity?"

"Yes," answered Goethe, who suddenly assumed a grave, serious mien, "the must has fermented, and I trust a fine wine will clear itself from it."

"Can you not set off, Wolf?" asked the duke, springing up. "Have you had sufficient of the Berliners?"

"I have done with them," replied Goethe, "not only with the Berliners, but it may be with all the rest of humanity. I feel, my duke, that the bloom of confidence, candor, and self-sacrificing love fades daily; only for you, and the friend whom I love, is there still attraction and flagrancy. Oh! you dear ones, be charitable, and do not consent that they fade for you. Let the goodness which I read in your eyes, my dear Carl, and the sunny rays of friendship strengthen the poor little blossom, that it does not entirely fade and wither away!" With passionate earnestness he threw his arms around the duke, pressing him to his bosom.

"Oh! Wolf, my dear Wolf, you have a child's heart and a poet's soul. Are you faint-hearted and dispirited? Do you not know that you are the sun which brings forth the flowers for us, and shines for us all? Let no clouds overshadow you, Wolf! Let your fresh, youthful vigor, and divine brilliancy, penetrate them. In the thick, sandy atmosphere of Berlin I confess the sun itself loses its force and brightness! Come! let us be off. Our steeds stamp with impatience." The duke drew his friend from the room and joyfully they sprang down the stairs to the carriage, the great dog following, howling and barking after them. "Forward, then, forward! Blow, postilion, blow! A gay little air! Let it peal through the streets, a farewell song! Blow, postilion, blow! and I will moisten your throat at the gates with the thin, white stuff, which you have the boldness to call beer." The postilion laughed for joy, and the German song resounded in quivering tones—"Three riders rode out of the gate." He blew so long and loudly, that the dog set up a mournful howl, and amid the peals of the postilion, and the distressed cry of Wolfshund, they drove through the long, hot streets of Berlin, through the Leipsic Gate, and the suburbs with their small, low houses. The wagon-wheels sank to the spokes in the loose, yellow sand of the hill they soon mounted, and, arriving at the top of which, the postilion stopped to let his horses take breath, and turned to remind his aristocratic passengers that this was their last view of the city.

"And will be seen no more," repeated the duke. "Come, let us take a farewell look at Berlin, Wolf!" and away they sprang without waiting for the footman to descend, and waded through the sand to a rising in the fallow fields. There they stood, arm in arm, and viewed the town with its towers and chimneys, houses, barracks, and palaces stretched at their feet. A thick, gray, cloud of vapor and smoke hovered over it, and veiled the horizon in dust and fog. "Farewell, Berlin, you city of arrogance and conceit!" cried the duke, joyfully. "I shake your dust from my feet, and strew the sand of your fields over every souvenir of you in memory," and suiting the action to his words, he tossed a handful of it in the air.

"Farewell, Muses and Graces of sand and dust!" cried Goethe, as his fiery eye flashed far out over the fog-enveloped roofs. "Farewell, Berlin, void of nature and without verdure! the abode of poetic art, but not of poesy. You Babylon of wisdom and philosophy, I have seen you with your painted cheeks and coquettish smile, your voluptuous form and seductive charms. You shall never ensnare me with your deceitful beauty, and suck the marrow from my bones, or the consciousness of pure humanity from my soul. Beautiful may you be to enslaved intellects, but to the free, they turn their backs to you and thrice strew ashes on your head. Farewell, Berlin, may I never see you again!" [Goethe, in fact, never visited Berlin again, though he was often invited there, particularly when the new theatre was opened, with a poetic prologue written by himself. They inaugurated the festivity with Goethe's "Iphigenia," the first representation, and Prince Radzwill urgently invited the poet, through Count Bruhl, to visit Berlin at this time, and reside in his palace. But Goethe refused; he was seventy-two years old (1826), and excused himself on account of his age.] Goethe stooped and threw a handful of sand in the air.

The postilion, tired of standing in the burning sun, blew loudly the air of the soldier's song: "Now, adieu, Louisa, wipe your face, every ball does not hit." Mournfully the melody sounded in the stillness, like accusing spirits who wept the insult of the prince and the poet.

"Now, on to our dear Weimar, Wolf!" The carriage rolled down the sandy hill, and Berlin disappeared to the travellers, lost in dreamy thought. Slowly they advanced, in spite of relays and fresh horses at every station. Night spread out her starry mantle over the world, and the sleepers who rested from the burdens and cares of the day. Goethe alone was wakeful and vigilant. With his beautiful eyes, as brilliant as fallen stars, uplifted to heaven, to God, his manly bosom heaving with noble thoughts and glorious aspirations, he reviewed the past, and recalled with joy that he had accomplished much and well. He peered into the future, and promised himself to do more and better. "Yes, I will," whispered he softly, pointing to the stars; "so high as possible shall the pyramid of my being rise. To that I will constantly bend my thoughts, never forgetting it, for I dare not tarry; with the years already on my head, fate may arrest my steps, and the tower of Babylon remain unfinished. At least they must acknowledge the edifice was boldly designed, and if I live, God willing, it shall rise."



BOOK III. STORM AND PRESSURE

CHAPTER XIX

THE KING AND THE AUSTRIAN DIPLOMAT.

Frederick commenced the campaign against the house of Hapsburg with all the energy and bold courage of former days. The diplomats had once more been permitted to seek the arts of negotiation, and, these having failed, the king advanced rapidly, and entered Bohemia with his advance-guard. The imperial army, informed of the approach of the enemy, retired hurriedly to their intrenchments at Koeniggratz, beyond the Elbe, without a decisive battle. In the skirmishes at the outposts the Prussians had been victorious. On the opposite shore of the Elbe, at Welsdorf, the king took up his headquarters. Why did he not pursue his bold run of victory? Why did he not surprise the imperial army, which he knew was scattered, and not in a position to resist the strength of the Prussian forces? Moreover, the second column of the Prussian army, under the command of Prince Henry, had also entered Bohemia, and fortified a camp near Rimburg, having united with the Saxon allies, which caused the imperialists under Field-Marshal Loudon to seek protection beyond the Iser, near Muenchengratz and Yung-bunzlau. Why did the king then stop in the midst of his victorious career? He had advanced to the field with his fresh, youthful fire, a shining example to all. He was always mounted, shunning no danger, but taking part in the hardships and fatigue incident to the changing life of war; even showing himself personally active at the discovery of foraging-parties. Why did he suddenly hesitate and lie inactive in camp? Why did he not summon his generals and staff-officers to his quarters, instead of his Minister von Herzberg? Every one asked himself the question, and every one answered it differently.—Some said, "Because the Empress of Russia had raised objections to this war of German brothers;" others, that "the King of the French had offered to settle the quarrel as intermediator." A third said, the "empress-queen, Maria Theresa, was terrified at the rapid advance of the Prussians, and had immediately commenced negotiations for peace."

While the wise politicians of Germany and all Europe read and pondered, Frederick tarried quietly in his peasant-house, in which he had taken up his quarters, and which had been arranged very comfortably with carpets, camp-stools, and curtains. He sat in his cabinet upon the high, leather-covered arm-chair, which had been brought for him from the neighboring parsonage. Alkmene lay upon his knee, and Diana at his feet. His countenance was pale, and betrayed fatigue, but his eye beamed with undimmed brilliancy, and around his mouth played an ironical smile. "Well, so matters stand; therefore, I have summoned you to Welsdorf," said Frederick to his minister, Von Herzberg. "The empress-queen is, above all things, a most tender mother. She is fearfully anxious, now that the dear young Emperor Joseph has left for the army, and will be exposed to the dangers of war. My good friends in Vienna inform me that my entrance into Bohemia created a sensation at the brilliant capital, and had so much alarmed the empress-queen, that she was seriously thinking of negotiating for peace. As I learned this from a reliable source, I halted and encamped, that the empress should know where to find me, and sent to summon you immediately. I had not been here three days, when the empress's ambassador, Baron von Thugut, appeared to make offers, and consult about an armistice of two weeks. I made known my conditions, and promised the empress, through her negotiator, that I would so calculate my movements that her majesty would have nothing to fear for her blood and her cherished emperor. [Footnote: The king's words.—See "Prussia, Frederick the Great," vol. iv., p. 102.] Voila, mon cher ministre, you know all now. If the Austrian diplomat comes a second time, you can negotiate with him."

"Is your majesty also inclined to peace?" asked Herzberg.

The king shrugged his shoulders. "When it can be arranged with honor, yes," said he. "I will acknowledge, Herzberg, to you, the campaign is hard for me. The old fellow of sixty-eight feels the burden of life, and would gladly rest quietly, and enjoy the last few years as philosopher and writer instead of soldier."

"Your majesty has yet many years to live, God willing," cried Herzberg. "It would be a great misfortune to Prussia if she could not yet owe to her great king a long and happy reign."

"Hem!" replied the king, "there are in Prussia very many who think otherwise, and wish me to the devil. But I have no intention of seeking monsieur so soon, for there are sufficient devilish deeds to endure in this earthly vale of sorrow to prepare for one a very decent purgatory, and give him hereafter well-founded hopes of heaven. Therefore I count upon remaining here below a while, and to knead with you this leaven of life that may yield to my subjects an eatable bread. You must help me, Herzberg, when I am the baker, to provide the flour for my people; you must be the associate to knead the bread. In order that the flour should not fail, and the bread give out, it may be necessary, if possible, to make peace."

"Will your majesty be so gracious as to inform me what steps I may take, and upon what conditions?"

"Take this paper," said the king, extending a written document to Herzberg. "I have therein expressed my wishes, and you can act accordingly. I am prepared for peace upon any terms which can be made with honor, and which do not frustrate the aim I have in view. You well know that this is the security of Germany against Austria's ambitious love of territorial aggrandizement! I cannot and I will not suffer that the house of Habsburg should strive for unjust possession in Germany, and appropriate Bavaria to herself while a lawful heir exists. I well know that I play the role of Don Quixote, and am about to fight for the rights of Germany as the Chevalier de la Mancha fought for his Dulcinea del Toboso. Mais, que voulez-vous, it is necessary for my fame and repose that I enter the arena once more against Austria to prove to her that I exist. I take this step on account of the prestige I have gained in the German empire, and which I should lose if I had not faced Austria in this Bavarian contest. And besides, it is agreeable to me to accustom my successor to the thunder of cannon, and witness his bearing on the field of battle."

"He will certainly do honor to the heroic race of Hohenzollern," answered Herzberg, bowing.

A sudden flash from the king's fiery eyes met the calm pale face of Herzberg. "Mere words and flattery, which prove that you are not satisfied, Herzberg! Nay, nay, do not deny it; you do not like that I should tarry and treat, and set the pen in motion instead of the sword. You are a man of deeds, and if you had had your way, I should have already won a decisive battle, and be on the road to Vienna to besiege the empress in her citadel, and dictate an humiliating peace to her."

"Your majesty, I can assure you—"

"Well, well, do not quarrel!" interrupted the king; "do you suppose I cannot read your honest and obstinate face? Do you suppose I did not mean what I said? Acknowledge that I am right! confess it, I command you!"

"If your majesty commands it, then I will acknowledge it. Yes, I did wish that your majesty had not empowered Baron von Thugut to return for further negotiations. It would have been well if your majesty had marched victorious to Vienna, to let the proud Hapsburgers see for once that Frederick of Prussia does not stand behind them, but at their side; that he has created a new order of things; that the old, mouldy, rotten statutes of the imperial sovereignty have fallen in the dust before Frederick the Great; that Germany must be newly mapped out, in order to give room near the old man Austria for young Prussia. Yes, your majesty, I could have wished that you had even been less generous, less noble toward the supercilious, insolent enemy, and have accepted no conditions but those of 'equality for Prussia with Austria in the German empire!'"

"My dear sir, I am truly astonished at the vigor with which you express yourself; I am very glad to find you so enthusiastic," said Frederick, nodding to his minister; "but listen—I will confide to you that which I do not wish you to repeat: I am no longer, to my regret, what you so flatteringly call me, 'Frederick the Great,' but only 'Old Fritz.' Do you understand me? the latter is a deplorable, worn-out soldier, who no longer feels power or vigor. The lines of Boileau often recur to me on mounting my horse:

'Unfortunate one, leave thy steed growing old in peace, For fear, that, panting and suddenly out of breath, In falling, he may not leave his master upon the arena!'

It is the misery of life that man will grow old, and that the body, when worn and weary, will even subdue the spirit, and force her to fold her wings and suffer. I did not realize that it had gone so far with me, and I imagined that the winged soul could raise the old, decayed body. Therefore I risked, in spite of my lazy old age, to undertake this war, for I recognized it as a holy duty to enter into it, for the honor and justice of our country, and prove to the Emperor of Germany that he could not manage and rule at his will in the German empire. I long not for the honor of new laurels, but I should be satisfied, as father of my subjects, to gain a civil crown.

"There you have my creed. I have as sincerely confessed to you as my respectable cousin, the empress-queen, to her confessor; only I did not fall upon my knees to you, and you do not as the said confessor, betray me to the Holy Father at Rome."

"Your majesty well knows that every word which you have the grace to confide to me, is engraved upon my inmost soul, and that no power upon earth could force me to reveal it."

"I know that you are a true and zealous servant of your king and country," said Frederick. "Once more I say to you, other than an honorable peace I will not make; and if empress-queen does not accept the abandonment of Bavaria as the basis of peace, then I must conquer my aversion to war, and the sword must arrange what the pen has failed to do. And now, passons ladessus! Until Thugut arrives, let us speak of other things. I have been tolerably industrious, and have improved the leisure of camp-life as much as possible. I have written a panegyric upon Voltaire, and when it is revised and corrected you shall arrange an anniversary in memoriam, at the Berlin Academy, and read my eulogy."

"All Germany and all Europe will be surprised at the magnanimity of the royal mind which could occupy itself in the camp with the muse, and erect an imperishable monument to the man who witnessed such ingratitude and baseness to his benefactor and protector."

"Vous allez trop vite, mon cher; vraiment, trop vite," cried Frederick, ardently. "It is true Voltaire was a miserable fellow, but he was a great poet. He returned meanness and ingratitude to me for the many kindnesses I showed to him, for I treated him more like a friend than a king. Voltaire was my benefactor, in so far that I owed to him the most agreeable and elevating hours of my youth, In memory of these hours I have written this eulogy. It is not worthy of particular mention, and the Academie Francaise will doubtless severely criticise my knowledge of their language. But it is impossible to write well, one moment in camp and another on the march. If it is unworthy of him whom it was intended to celebrate, I have at least availed myself of the freedom of the pen, and will cause to be publicly read in Berlin what one dares not whisper in Paris." [Footnote: The king's own words.—"Posthumous Works," vol. xv., p. 109. This eulogy upon Voltaire, which the king wrote in camp, Herzberg read, in the November following, before the Academy.]

"I shall be most happy to be the instrument to make known this generous expression of your majesty's good-will," remarked Herzberg, bowing.

Frederick smiled, adding: "But with the other work which I have commenced, you are not quite satisfied. You are such an enthusiastic German, that you presume to assert that the intolerable German jargon is a beautiful and expressive language!"

"And I abide by this decision, your majesty," zealously cried Herzberg. "The German language is euphonious, and prolific in ideas, and it is well capable of rivalling in brevity and clearness those of the ancients."

"That you have already asserted, and I have contested it, and again I contest it to-day. Do not trouble me with your German language. It will only deserve notice when great poets, distinguished orators, and admirable historians, have given it their attention and corrected it, freeing it from such disgusting and effeminate phrases as now disfigure it, and cause one to use a mass of words to express a few ideas. At present it is only an accumulation of different dialects, which every division of the German empire thinks to speak the best, and of which twenty thousand can scarcely understand what the other twenty thousand are saying!" [Footnote: The king's own words.—See "Posthumous Works," vol. xv.]

"Sire," cried Herzberg, with vehemence, "should a German king thus speak of his native tongue, at the same time that he takes the field to vindicate the honor of Germany, and submits to all the miseries and hardships of war? Your majesty cannot be in earnest, to despise our beautiful language."

"I do not despise it; I only say that it must be reformed, and shorn of its excrescences. Until then we must use the French, which is to-day the language of the world, and in which one can render all the master-works of the Greeks and the Latins, with the same versatility, delicacy, and subtlety, as the original. You pretend that one can well read Tacitus in a German translation, but I do not think the language capable of rendering the Latin authors with the same brevity as the French."

"Sire, to my joy, I can give you proof to the contrary. A Berlin savant, Conrector Moritz, at my request, has translated a few chapters of the fourteenth book of the 'Annals of Tacitus,' word for word, most faithfully into German. He has written it in two columns, the translation at the side of the original. I have taken the liberty to bring this work with me and you will see how exactly, and with what brevity, Latin authors can be rendered into German, and that there are young learned men who have seized the spirit of our language and know how to use it with grace and skill."

"Indeed, give it to me," cried the king, zealously. "I am truly curious to admire the German linguist's work who has so boldly undertaken to translate Tacitus."

"Sire," said Herzberg, raising his eyes knowingly, with a mild, imploring expression to the king's face—"sire, I join a request with this translation."

"What is it? I am very curious about a petition from you, it is so seldom that you proffer one."

"Your majesty, my request concerns the translator of this very chapter of Tacitus. He is Conrector Moritz, attached to the Gray Cloister in Berlin—an unusually gifted young man, who has undoubtedly a brilliant future before him. He has already written many eminent works. The Director Gedicke recommended him to me as a most distinguished, scholarly person, and I have learned to know and appreciate the young man by this means."

"I see it," nodded the king. "You speak of him with great enthusiasm, and as what you so warmly recommend is generally able and well qualified, I begin to be interested in this Herr Moritz. When I return to Berlin—and Heaven grant that it may be soon!—I will at once empower you to present this luminary. Are you satisfied?"

"Sire, dare I ask still more? I would beg your majesty to grant this young man an audience at once."

"How, at once! Is this phoenix here, who so interests my Minister Herzberg? Where is he from, and what does he wish?"

"He is from Berlin; I met him making the journey on foot. He sat upon a stone, by the wayside, eating a piece of bread, with a glowing face, and so absorbed talking to himself in Latin that he heard not the creaking of my carriage through the sand. I recognized him immediately, and called him by name. He turned, perfectly unembarrassed and not at all ashamed to have been discovered in such an humble and poor position."

"That is to say, he is a good comedian," said the king. "He knew that you would drive past there, and placed himself expressly to call your attention to him."

"I beg pardon, sire; Conrector Moritz could not have known that I would take this journey. You will recollect that the courier arrived at midnight with your majesty's commands, and two hours later I was on the road, and have since travelled day and night. As I met the young man only five miles from this place, he must have set out many days before I thought of leaving Berlin."

"It is true," said the king, "it was a false suspicion. You invited him into your carriage, did you not?"

"I did very naturally, sire, as he told me he was going to beg an audience of your majesty. At first he refused decidedly, as he wished to travel on foot, like the pilgrims to the pope at Rome."

"An original, a truly original genius," cried the king.

"He is so indeed, and is so called by all his friends."

"Has he any friends?" asked the king, with an incredulous smile.

"Yes, sire, many warm and sympathizing friends, who are much attached to him, and, on account of his distinguished and brilliant qualities, are willing to indulge his peculiarities."

"Herzberg, you are charmed, and speak of this man as a young girl in love!"

"Sire, if I were a young girl, I should certainly fall in love with this Moritz, for he is handsome."

"Diable! I begin to fear this subject. You say he is handsome, learned, wise, and good, although he belongs to the airy, puffed-up Berliners. Did you let Herr Moritz wander on in his pilgrimage?"

"No, sire, I persuaded him at last to accept a seat in my carriage, by explaining to him that your majesty might soon leave Welsdorf, and he would run the risk of not arriving in season. Upon no condition would he get inside, but climbed up behind, for, said he, with a firm, decided manner, 'I go to the king as a beggar, not as a distinguished gentleman.'"

"Indeed it is an original," the king murmured to himself. "Do you know what the man wants?" he asked aloud.

"No, your majesty; he said that his business concerned the happiness of two human beings, and that he could only open his heart to his God and his king."

"Where is your protege?"

"He stands outside, and it is my humble request that your majesty will grant him an audience, and permit me to call him."

"It is granted, and—"

Just at that moment the door opened, and the footman announced that the private secretary of his highness Prince von Galitzin had arrived, and most respectfully begged an audience.

"It is he—it is the baron," said the king. "Tell your protege he must wait, and come again. Bid the Prince von Galitzin enter."

As the Minister von Herzberg withdrew, the Baron von Thugut appeared, the extraordinary and secret ambassador of the Empress Maria Theresa.

"Well, Herr Baron, you are already returned," said the king, as he scarcely nodded to the profoundly respectful bows of the ambassador. "I infer, therefore, that your instructions are not from the empress, but from the co-regent, the Emperor Joseph, who has betaken himself to the Austrian camp."

"Sire," answered Thugut, laconically, "I have driven day and night, and have received my instructions directly from the empress."

The king slowly shook his head, and an imperceptible smile played around his lips.

"Does the young emperor approve of these instructions?"

"Sire, his majesty, the emperor, is only the co-regent," answered Thugut, hastily. "It is not therefore necessary, that my sovereign should make her decisions dependent upon her son's concordance."

"The empress will negotiate for peace," said the king to himself, "but the emperor desires to win laurels in the war, and will try to cut off the negotiations of his mother by a coup de main. One must be on his guard!"

Just then the door opened and Herzberg returned.

"You perceive I expected you, Baron von Thugut," said the king, "and I ordered here my minister of state, Herr von Herzberg. This is the Baron von Thugut, my dear minister, the ambassador of the empress-queen, who carries in his pocket peace or war, as it may be."

"Sire, I must protest against being so important a personage, as peace and war alone depend upon your majesty. It alone depends upon the lofty King of Prussia whether he will give peace and tranquillity to Germany, or suffer the guilt of permitting the bloody scourge of civil war again to tear in pieces the unhappy German nation."

"That sounds very sentimental," cried the king, smiling. "The Baron von Thugut will appeal to my heart, when we have only to do with the head. Austria wishes to be the head of Germany, and as such would devour one German state after another, as a very palatable morsel. But if you will be the head, Monsieur le Baron, you cannot represent the stomach also, for, as I have been told, it only exists in those soft animals of the sea whose head is in their stomach, and which think and digest at the same time. Austria does not belong to this class, but has rather a very hard and impenetrable shell. We cannot let her devour as stomach what as the head she has chosen as booty. That the electorate of Bavaria is not to be devoured, is the necessary and fundamental preliminary upon which the temple of peace may be erected. If you, or rather the empress-queen, agree to it, the negotiations can be concluded by you two gentlemen. But if you think to erect a temple of peace upon any other basis, your propositions will be in vain. I have not taken the field to make conquests, but to protect the rights of a German prince, and not suffer others to appropriate a German state. I know, as you have said, that war is a bloody scourge for the nation; but, sir, we will not look at it in a sentimental light, and talk of civil war, when Austria herself compels us to take the field. Or, perhaps, you imagine to prove to my good Pomeranians, Markers, and my other German states, that the Croatians, Pandurians, Hungarians, Wallachians, Italians, and Polanders, are our German brothers, which imperial Austria opposes to us. I think this brotherhood may be traced to our common ancestor, Adam, and in this sense all wars are indeed civil wars. In any case war is a scourge for man, and I am convinced that the empress-queen would just as willingly spare her Croatians, Pandurians, Wallachians, and Galicians, as I all my German subjects collectively."

"Also your majesty's Polish subjects, as may be expected," added Baron von Thugut.

"My Polish subjects are the minimum portion, and are about in proportion to the German population as in imperial Austria the German is to the foreign. But enough of this; if I do not recognize this as a civil war, it is indeed a great misfortune. I would do every thing to avoid it—every thing compatible with the honor and glory of my house, as well as that of Germany in general. Therefore let us know the Views of the empress-queen!"

"Sire," answered Von Thugut, as he slowly untied and unfolded the documents, "I beg permission to read aloud to your majesty the acts relative to these points."

"No, baron," answered the king quickly, "the more minute details give to my minister; I wish only the contents in brief."

"At your majesty's command. The empress-queen declares herself ready to renounce the concluded treaty of inheritance to the succession of Bavaria at the death of Elector Charles Theodore; also to give up the district seized, if Prussia will promise to resign the succession of the Margraves of Anspach and Baireuth, and let them remain independent principalities, governed by self-dependent sovereigns."

"That means, that Austria, who will unjustly aggrandize herself by Bavaria, will deprive Prussia of a lawful inheritance!" cried the king, his eyes flashing anger. "I will not heed the after-cause, but I wish to satisfactorily understand the first part of the proposition, that Austria will cede her pretensions to Bavaria."

"Sire, upon conditions only which are sufficient for the honor, the wishes, and necessities of my lofty mistress."

"You hear, my dear Herzberg," said the king, smiling, and turning to his minister, "c'est tout comme chez nous. It will now be your task to find out these conditions, which too closely affect the honor of one or the other. For this purpose you will find the adjacent Cloister Braunau more convenient than my poor cabin. At the conferences of diplomats much time is consumed, while we military people have little time to spare. I shall move on with my army."

"How, then! will your majesty break up here?" cried Thugut, with evident surprise.

The king smiled. "Yes, I shall advance, as my remaining might be construed equal to a retreat. The arts of diplomacy may drag on until the imperialists have assembled all their foreign subjects to the so-called civil war. Then hasten the negotiations, Baron von Thugut, for every day of diplomatic peace is one day more of foraging war, and I know not that you count the Bohemians in the German brotherhood, to whom the calamity of war is ruinous. You have now to deal with the Baron von Thugut, my dear Herzberg, and I hope the baron will accept some diplomatic campaigns with you in Cloister Braunau."

"Sire, I accept, and if your majesty will dismiss me, I will go at once to the cloister," answered Baron von Thugut, whose manner had become graver and more serious since the king's announcement of the intended advance.

"You are at liberty to withdraw. The good and hospitable monks have already been apprised of your arrival by an express courier, and have doubtless a good supper and a soft bed awaiting you."

"Had your majesty the grace to be convinced of my return?" asked Thugut.

"I was convinced of the tender heart of the empress-queen, and that she would graciously try once more, in her Christian mercy, to convert such an old barbarian and heretic as I am. Go now to the cloister, and when I pass by in the morning, with my army, I will not fail to have them play a pious air for the edification of the diplomats—such as, 'My soul, like the young deer, cries unto Thee,' or, 'Oh, master, I am thy old dog,' or some such heavenly song to excite the diplomats to pious thoughts, and therewith I commend you to God's care, Baron von Thugut."

The king charged Herr von Herzberg to play the role of grand-chamberlain, and accompany the ambassador to his carriage, smiling, and slightly nodding a farewell.

The baron was on the point of leaving, when the king called to him.

"Had your majesty the grace to call me?" asked Thugut, hastily turning.

"Yes!" answered Frederick, smiling, and pointing to the string which had served to bind the baron's papers. "You have forgotten something, my lord, and I do not like to enrich myself with others' property." [Footnote: Historical. The king's words.—See Hormayr.]

Baron von Thugut took this last well-aimed stab of his royal opponent somewhat embarrassed, and hastened to pick up the string, and withdraw.



CHAPTER XX. THE KING AND THE LOVER.

The king smiled, glancing at the retreating figure of the baron, and approached the window to peep through the little green glass panes to see him as he passed by.

"A sly fox," said he, smiling, "but I will prove to him that we understand fox-hunting, and are not deceived by cunning feints."

"Will your majesty really break up to-day?" asked Von Herzberg, upon returning.

"Yes, my dear minister. That is to say, I do not wish to, but I must, in order to give the negotiations for peace a war-like character. The enemy asks for delay to finish their preparations for war—not peace. The negotiations for the latter emanate from the empress, but the conditions concerning Anspach come from the emperor. It is the Eris-apple, which he casts upon the table, by which his imperial mother and I would gladly smoke the pipe of peace. It is incumbent upon you, Herzberg, to negotiate for peace, while I pick up the apple and balance it a little upon the point of my sword. I shall leave early to-morrow, but I would speak with you before I set out. You must be weary with the journey, so rest awhile now, then dine with me, and afterward go to the conference."

"Sire, will you not receive my protege, Conrector Moritz?"

"Did you not say that he begged for a secret audience?"

"Yes, sire, he has for this purpose travelled the long distance from Berlin, and I assure your majesty, upon my word of honor, that I have not the least suspicion what his petition may be."

"Eh bien, say to your protege that I grant him the sought-for interview on your account, Herzberg. You are such a curious fellow—you are always petitioning for others instead of yourself, and the benefits which you ought to receive go to them. Let Moritz enter, and then try to sleep a little, that you may be wide awake to confer with Baron von Thugut."

Minister von Herzberg withdrew, and immediately the pale, earnest face of Conrector Philip Moritz appeared in the royal presence.

The king regarded him with a prolonged and searching glance, the noble, resolute face of whom was pallid with deep grief, but from whose eyes there beamed courageous energy. "Are you the translator of the chapters from Tacitus, which my Minister Herzberg handed me?" asked the king, after a pause.

"Yes, sire," gently answered Moritz.

"I am told that it is ably done," continued his majesty, still attentively observing him. "You will acknowledge that it is exceedingly difficult to render the concise style of Tacitus into the prolix, long-winded German?"

"Pardon me, sire," replied Moritz, whose youthful impetuosity could with difficulty be diverted from the real object of his pilgrimage. "Our language is by no means long-winded, and there is no difficulty in translating Latin authors into German, which equals any living tongue in beauty and sonorousness, and surpasses them all in depth of thought, power, and poesy."

"Diable!" cried the king, smiling; "you speak like an incarnate German philologist, who confounds the sound of words with profound thought. You will acknowledge that until now our language has not been much known."

"Sire," answered Moritz, "Martin Luther, in his translation of the Bible three hundred years since, employed hundreds of beautiful, expressive formations."

"He is not only a learned man," said the king to himself, "but he seems an honorable one; and now, as I have proved his scholarly attainments, I must indulge his impatience." The king's penetrating glance softened, and his features changed their severe expression. "The Minister von Herzberg informed me that he found you by the roadside, and that you would journey hither on foot."

"It is true, sire."

"Why did you travel in that manner?"

"Sire, I desired, as the poor, heavily-laden pilgrims of the middle ages, to make the pilgrimage to the Holy Father at Rome, who was the king of kings. Every step in advance seemed to them to lighten their burden and enhance their happiness. Your majesty is in our day what the pope was held to be in the middle ages, therefore I have wandered as a pilgrim to my king, who has the power to bind and to loose, and from whom I must not only implore personal happiness, but that also of a good and amiable young girl."

"Ah! it concerns a love-affair. As I now look at you, I can understand that. You are young and passionate, and the maidens have eyes. How can I help you in such an adventure?"

"Sire, by not granting a title to a certain person, or if it must be granted, annul the conditions attendant upon it."

"I do not understand you," answered the king, harshly. "Speak not in riddles. What do you mean?"

"General Werrig von Leuthen has addressed himself to you, sire, praying for the consent of your majesty to the marriage of his daughter with the banker Ebenstreit. Your majesty has consented, and added that Herr Ebenstreit shall take the name of his future father-in-law, and the marriage shall take place as soon as the title of nobility has been made out."

The king nodded. "For which the new-made nobleman has to pay a hundred louis d'ors to the Invalids at Berlin. But what is that to you? And what connection has Herr Ebenstreit's title to do with Conrector Moritz?"

Moritz's face brightened, and, deeply moved, he answered: "Sire, I love the daughter of General von Leuthen, and she returns my love. By not ennobling Ebenstreit, it lies in your power, most gracious majesty, to make two persons the most blessed of God's creatures, who desire nothing more than to wander hand in hand through life, loving and trusting each other."

"Is that all?" asked the king, with a searching glance.

Moritz quailed beneath it, and cast down his eyes. "No!" he replied. "As I now stand in the presence of your majesty, I am sensible of the boldness of my undertaking, and words fail me to express what is burning in my soul. Oh! sire, I only know that we love each other, and that this love is the first sunbeam which has fallen upon my gloomy and thorny path of life, and awakened in my lonely heart all the bloom of feeling. You smile, and your great spirit may well mock the poor human being who thinks of personal happiness, when for an idea merely thousands are killed upon the field of battle. My life, sire, has been a great combat, in which I have striven with all the demons escaped from Pandora's box. I have grown up amid privations and need. I have lived and suffered, until God recompensed my joyless, toiling, hungered existence by this reciprocated love, which is a beautiful ornament to my life, and is life itself, and to renounce it would be to renounce life. I am young, sire, and I long for the unknown paradise of earthly happiness, which I have never entered until now, and which I can only attain led by the hand of my beloved. I yearn just once, as other privileged men, to bask in the sunshine of happiness a long, beautiful summer day, and then at the golden sunset to sink upon my knees and cry, 'I thank Thee, O God, that in Thy goodness I have recognized Thy sublimity, and that Thou hast revealed thy glory to me.' All this appears of little importance to your majesty, for the heart of a king is not like that of other men, and the personal happiness of individuals appears a matter of little account to him who thinks and works for the good of an entire nation. But the fly, sire, which is sunning itself upon the plumes of the helmet of a victorious king, has its right to happiness, for God created it with the same care and love that He created the noblest of His creatures—man! and it would be cruel to kill it without necessity. Sire, I do not extol myself. I know that in your eyes I am no more than the fly upon your helmet, but I only implore you to grant me my life, for God has given it to me."

"You mean by this that I shall forbid General von Leuthen to marry his daughter to the rich man who seeks her, and to which marriage, understand me well, I have already given my consent."

"Sire, I only know that this union drives not only me to despair, but one of the noblest and best of God's creatures. Fraulein von Leuthen does not love the bridegroom forced upon her; she detests him, and she has good reason to, for the banker Ebenstreit is a cold-hearted, purse-proud man, enfeebled by a voluptuous, vicious life, and seeks nothing nobler and more elevated in the young girl to whom he has offered his hand, than the title and noble name which she can procure for him. Your majesty, I implore not for myself, but for the daughter of a man who once had the good fortune to save your life in battle! Have pity upon her, and do not sacrifice her to an inconsolably hopeless life by the side of an unloved and detested husband!"

The king slowly shook his head. "You forget that the general to whom I am indebted for this favor has begged my consent to this marriage, and that I have granted it."

"Sire, I conjure you to recall it! Upon my knees I implore you not to grant it! Do not make two people unhappy, who only beg of your majesty the permission to love and live with each other!" Moritz threw himself at the king's feet, praying with clasped hands, his face flushed with deep emotion, and his eyes dimmed with tears.

"Rise!" commanded Frederick, "rise, do not kneel to me as to a God. I am a feeble mortal, subject to the same ills which threaten you and the whole human race. Rise, and answer me one question—are you rich?"

"No," answered Moritz, proudly raising his head; "no, I am poor."

"Do you know that Fraulein von Leuthen is poor? Her father is worse off than Job, for he is in debt."

"If General von Leuthen's daughter were rich, or even moderately well off, I never would have presumed to address your majesty on the subject, for fear that you might misconstrue my intentions, and suppose that my love was inspired by self-interest. Fortunately, Marie possesses nothing but her noble, beautiful self. She leads a joyless existence under the severe discipline of her cold-hearted parents; and therefore I can truthfully say, that with me she will lose nothing, but gain what she has never known—a tranquil, happy life, protected by my love."

"How much salary do you receive as teacher?"

"Majesty, as conrector of the college attached to the Gray Monastery, three hundred and fifty dollars."

"Do you expect to live upon that yourself, and support a family besides?"

"Sire, I shall earn money in other ways, as I have already done. I shall write books. The publishers tell me that I am a favorite author, and they pay me well."

"If on the morrow you should fall ill, your income would vanish, and your family and you would starve together. No! no! you are an idealist, you dream how life should be, and not as it is in truth! I have listened to you, thinking that you would present some forcible argument upon which to found your pretensions, but I hear only the ravings of a lover, who believes the world turns upon the axis of his happiness. Let me tell you that love is an ephemera, which merrily sports in the sunlight a few short hours, and dies at sunset. Should a king forfeit his word for such a short-lived bliss? Should he reward a man to whom he is indebted by depriving him of a rich son-in-law, who is agreeable to him, and substituting a poor one, from whom he can never hope to receive a comfortable maintenance? You young people are all alike. You think only of yourselves, and it is a matter of little consequence to you if the aged pine away and die, provided you build up happiness on their graves! I ask you, who have talked so much about your own wishes, and those of your beloved, where is it written that man must be happy, that there is a necessity to make him so? Do you suppose that I have ever been happy—who have a long, active life in retrospection? Mankind have taken good care that I should not sip this nectar of the gods, and have taught me early to renounce it. Life is not consumed in pleasure, but in toil, and I believe its only happiness consists in the fact that at last, when weary and worn, we will sink into the grave—to an eternal rest! Every human being must work according to his abilities, and in the position which Fate has assigned to him. To maintain this position, his honor is at stake—the best and most sacred gift confided to man. You will not desert it—not despair in life because your dream of bliss is not realized."

"Sire," answered Moritz, with a cry of anguish, "it is no dream, but a reality!"

"Happiness is only ideal," said the king, slowly shaking his head. "What we sigh for to-day, we curse on the morrow as a misfortune. Let this serve as a lesson to you. Toil on—you are a scholar; woo Science for your bride. Her charms will never fade. In youth as in old age she will attract you by her beauty and constancy—that which you cannot hope for from women."

"Sire," asked Moritz, in deep dejection, "will you not grant the petition of my heart? Will you condemn this poor, innocent young girl who prays your majesty through me, to a long, joyless existence, to a daily-renewing sorrow?"

The king shrugged his shoulders. "I have already said that happiness is imaginary; I might have added unhappiness also. General von Leuthen's daughter will accustom herself to the misfortune of being a rich man's wife, and finally will drive with a smiling face in her four-in-hand gilded carriage!"

"Sire, I swear to you that you mistake this dear, noble-hearted young girl, you—"

"Enough!" interrupted the king. "I have given my consent to General von Leuthen, and I cannot recall it. Moreover, the marriage of the daughter of my general with you would be a misalliance—ridiculous. In the republic of intellect and science, you may have a very high position, but in my earthly kingdom you hold too modest a one to presume to raise your eyes to a noble young lady. I regret that I can offer you no other consolation than to listen to reason, and be resigned. As we cannot bring down the moon to earth, we must content ourselves with a lamp to light up our small earthly abode. If this ever should fail you, then come to me and I will assist you. I cannot, to be sure, give you the moon, for that belongs as little to me as the bride of the rich Herr Ebenstreit von Leuthen. One cannot give away that which one does not possess. Farewell! return to Berlin, and resign yourself bravely to your fate. Accustom yourself to the thought that in fourteen days Fraulein von Leuthen will become the wife of your wealthy rival. The wedding ceremony awaits only the papers of nobility, for which my order has already been forwarded to Berlin. I moreover propose to you not to return to the college at once, but travel for two weeks. I will be responsible for your absence, and provide you with the necessary means. Now tell me whether you accept my proposal?"

"Thanks to your majesty, I cannot," answered Moritz, with calm dignity. "There is but one balm which my king could grant me. Money is not a plaster to soothe and heal a wounded heart. Sire, I beg you to dismiss me, for I will return at once to Berlin."

"I hope that you have not the foolish idea to return on foot," said the king. "My courier will leave in an hour, and there are two places in the coupe, accept one of them."

"Sire," said Moritz, gloomily, "I—" suddenly the words died on his lips, and his eyes beamed with an unnatural fire, which paled under the observing glance of the king. "I thank you," said Moritz, gasping, "I will accept it."

The king nodded. "Au revoir, in Berlin! When I return after the campaign I will send for you. You will then have learned to forget your so-called misfortune, and smile at your pilgrimage!"

"I cannot think so, sire."

"I am convinced of it. Farewell."

Moritz answered the royal salutation with a mute bow, and withdrew with drooping head and sorrowful heart. The king continued to regard him with an expression of deep sadness. "Ah!" he sighed, "how enviable are those who can still believe in love's illusion, and who have not awakened from their dream of bliss by sad experience or age! How long since I have banished these dreams—how long I—"

The king ceased, his head sank back upon his chair, his large, fiery eyes, peering into the distance, as if he would re-people it with the memories of youth, with the delusions from which he had so long awakened. Those lovely, charming forms flitted before him one by one which had then captivated him: the beautiful Frau von Wrechem, his first love, and to whom he had vowed eternal constancy; another sweet, innocent face that suffered shame and degradation for him—"oh! Doris, Doris, dream of my youth, fly past!"—and now the face with the large eyes and energetic features, which turned so tenderly to him, that of his sister Frederika, who from affection to the crown prince had sacrificed herself to an unloved husband in order to reconcile the son with the father, and preserve for him the inheritance to the throne; still another calm and gentle face, with the expression of sorrowful resignation in the deep-blue eyes, that of his wife, who had so passionately loved him, and had faded away at his side unloved! All past—past. A new face arose, the pretty Leontine von Morien, the tourbillon of the princely court at Rheinsberg, who pined away in sighs. Now passed the sweetest and loveliest of all. The king's eyes, which stared into empty space, now beamed with glad recognition. The heart which had grown old and sobered beat with feverish rapidity, and the compressed lips whispered, sighing, "Barbarina!" She stood before him in her bewitching beauty, with the charming smile upon her ruby lips, and passionate love beaming from her flashing eyes. "Oh, Barbarina!" The king rose, a cold chill crept over him. He looked around so strangely in the desolate, darkened room, as if he could still see this form which greeted him with the sad smile and tearful glance. No one was there. He was quite alone. Only the feeble echo of far-distant days repeated the device of his youth—of his life: "Soffri e taci! Resignation alone has remained true to me. But no—there is still another friend, my flute. Come, you faithful companion of my life! You have witnessed my sorrows, and from you I have nothing to conceal!" He tenderly regarded it, for it was long since he had taken it from its case. The sorrows and cares of life, the suffering from the gout which raged in his teeth, and sad, sobering old age, had caused him to lay it aside, but with the habit of affection he carried it everywhere. Frederick felt himself grow young again with the souvenirs of former days, and essayed to recall the echo of tenderer feelings upon his flute. The music of his heart was hushed, the melodious tones of former days would not return. The king laid it aside with an impatient movement. "Nothing is lasting in life," he murmured. A flourish of trumpets, a peal of drums announced that the regiment was passing which would parade before the king. What are they playing, which rouses the lonely king with bright memories and shouts of victory? It is the march which his majesty composed after the brilliant victory of Hohenfriedberg. The king raised his eyes gratefully to heaven, repeating aloud: "There is something lasting in life. Love ceases and music dies away, but the good we have accomplished remains. The most glorious of earthly rewards is granted to those who have achieved great deeds—the mortal becomes immortal—the gods ceding to him that which is more elevating than love or happiness—fame. Ye trumpets of Hohenfriedberg, ye will still quiver when I am gone, and relate to succeeding generations about 'Old Fritz.' Such tales are well worthy to live and suffer for! I am coming, ye trumpets of fame." With youthful activity and beaming face the king went out to receive his generals, who saluted him with silent reverence, and his soldiers, who greeted their beloved commander and king with an exultant shout.



CHAPTER XXI. IN WEIMAR.

"There lies dear Weimar, encircled in its wreath of green. Do you not see it, Wolf? I will refresh my heart with its view; so halt, postilion, halt," cried the duke. "It is more beautiful to me than stately, proud Berlin. Though a poor, gray nest, I could press it to my heart, with all its untidy little houses, and tedious old pedants. Let us walk down the hill, Wolf."

"Most willingly," cried Goethe, stretching forth his arms to the little town, nestled in the peaceful valley, "be welcome, you lovely paradise, with your angels and serpents; we press on toward you with all our heart and soul, as to the seven-sealed book, filled with mysteries, and we would draw glorious revelations from your hidden contents."

"And grant, ye gods, that the inspired one may at last break the seal which a cruel friend has placed upon her lips, that he may not drink the kiss of love glowing beneath," said the duke, smiling. "Do you not see the gray roof yonder, with its background of tall trees, that—"

"The house where dwells my beloved, my dearest friend, my sister, and the mistress of my heart," interrupted Goethe. "She is all this, for she is my all in all. The fountains of bliss and love which here and there I have drawn from, refreshing my heart and occupying my mind, flow toward her, united in one broad, silvery stream, with heaven and earth mirrored therein, and revealing wonderful secrets in its rushing waves."

"Ah, Wolf!" cried the duke, "you are a happy, enviable creature, free and unfettered, sending your love where it pleases you. My dear Wolf, I advise you never to marry, for—"

Goethe hastily closed the duke's mouth with his hand. "Hush! not a word against the noble Duchess Louisa, my master and friend. She is an example of refined, womanly dignity; and you, Charles, are to be envied the love of so estimable a wife and sweet mother for your children."

"Indeed I am," cried the duke, enthusiastically. "I could not have found a more high-minded, lovely wife, or a more excellent, virtuous mother for my descendants. But you know, Wolf, that your Charles has still another heart, very susceptible and tender, which seeks for an affinity to call its own, and vent itself in the pleasures of youth, in glorious flirtations, melancholy signs, and blissful longings. You cannot expect me at twenty-two to play the grandfather, and have no eyes or heart for other captivating women, though I love my young wife most affectionately, and bless Fate that I am bound with silken cords to Hymen's cart—though I am forever bound, and you, Wolf, are happily free!"

"Because grim Fate refuses to unite me to my beloved. Oh, Charlotte, if you were free, how blessed would I be, enchained by you! Not to 'Hymen's cart,' as the fortunate mocker says, but to the chariot of Venus, drawn by doves, enthroned upon which you would bear me to heaven!"

"Do not blaspheme, Wolf," cried the duke; "rather kneel and thank the gods that you are not fettered and your wings clipped. They wish to preserve to you love's delusion, because you are a favorite, and deny you the object adored. Beware of the institution which the French actress, Sophie Arnould, has so wittily called the 'consecration of adultery.' You will agree with me that we have many such little sacraments in our dear Weimar, and I must laugh when I reflect for what purpose those amiable beauties have married, as not one of them love their husbands, but they all possess a friend besides."

"The human heart is a strange thing," said Goethe, as they descended the hill, arm in arm, "and above all a woman's heart! It is a sacred riddle, which God has given Himself to solve, and that only a God could unravel!"

At this instant a flash of lightning, followed by heavy-rolling thunder, was heard.

"Hear, Wolf—only hear!" laughed Charles—"God in heaven responds, and confirms your statement."

"Or punishes me for my bold speech," cried Goethe, as the hailstones rattled around him hitting his face with their sharp points. "Heaven is whipping me with rods."

"And our carriage has descended with a quick trot into the valley," said the duke. "I will call it." He sprang into the middle of the road, making a speaking-trumpet of his hands, and shouted in a full, powerful voice, "Oho, postilion! here, postilion!"

The continued rolling of the thunder, the whistling wind, and rattling hail, made all attempts inaudible. The two gentlemen sought shelter under the thick crowns of the oak-trees by the wayside, which formed an impenetrable roof to the flood of rain.

"I know nothing more sublime than a thunder-storm," said Goethe, looking up as if inspired; "when the thunder rolls in such awful majesty and wrath, it seems as if I heard Prometheus in angry dispute with the gods. In the dark clouds I see the Titan, enveloped in mist, overspreading the heavens, and raising his giant-arm to hurl his mighty wrath." At this instant a flash of lightning, followed by a deafening peal reverberated in one prolonged echo through the hills.

"Do you not hear him, Charles?" cried Goethe, delighted—"hear all the voices of earth united in the grumbling thunder of his wrath? See, there he stands, yonder in heaven—his form dark as midnight. I hear it—he calls—Overshadow the heavens, O Jupiter, With thy vaporous clouds! Cut off the oak and mountain-tops As a boy plucks the thistle. Leave me earth and my cabin Which thou hast not built, And my hearth-side, The glow of which thou enviest me! I know naught so miserable As you gods—you—"

Again the mighty peal silenced Goethe, who looked to heaven with defiance flashing from his eyes and his clinched hand upraised, as if he were Prometheus himself menacing the gods.

"Proceed, Wolf," cried the duke, as the echo died away. "How can you, yourself a god, be so excited with the anger of like beings? Proceed!"

The uplifted arm of the poet sank at his side, and the fiery glance was softened. "No human word is capable of expressing what Prometheus just spoke in thunder," said Goethe, musingly, "and I humbly feel how weak and insignificant we are, and how great we think ourselves, while our voice is like the humming beetle in comparison to this voice from the clouds."

"Be not desponding, Wolf, your own will ring throughout Europe; every ear will listen and every heart will comprehend, and centuries later it will delight with its freshness and beauty. The storm passes and dies away, but the poet lives in his heavenly melodies through all time. You must finish 'Prometheus' for me, Wolf. I cannot permit you to leave it as a fragment. I will have it in black and white, to refresh myself in its beauty bright. A spark of your divine talent is infused into my soul, and I begin to rhyme. Ah, Wolf, all that is elevated within me I owe to you, and I bless Fate for according you to me."

"And I also, dear Charles," said Goethe, feelingly. "For, fostered and protected by your noble mind and nature, my inmost thoughts develop and blossom. We give and receive daily from each other, and so mingle the roots of our being that, God willing, we will become two beautiful trees, like the oak which now arches over us. But see, the rain is fast ceasing, and the sun looks out by the clinched hand of Prometheus. We can now travel on to the loved spot."

"Oh, Wolf, are you in love? None but a lover could say the rain has ceased, when it pours down so that we should be drenched before we could arrive at Weimar. But hark! I hear a carriage in the distance; we may be favored with a shelter."

The duke stepped out from under the trees, and looked along the highway with his sharp hunter's eye. "A vehicle approaches, but no chance for us, as it appears to be a farm-wagon, crowded with men and women."

"Indeed it does," said Goethe, joining him; "a very merry company they are too, singing gayly. Now, grant the rain rain has ceased—"

"Charlotte von Stein is at Weimar," interrupted the duke. "Give me your arm, and we will walk on."

They advanced briskly arm in arm. A stranger meeting them would have supposed that they were brothers, so much alike were they in form, manners, and dress, for the duke as well as Goethe wore the Werther costume.

As they descended, the carriage came nearer and nearer. The duke's keen eye had not been deceived. It was a farm-wagon, filled with a frolicsome party, sitting on bags of straw for cushions. They were chatting and laughing absorbed in fun, and did not observe the two foot-passengers, who turned aside from them. A sudden cry of surprise hushed the conversation; a form rose, half man and half woman, enveloped in a man's coat of green baize, crowned with a neat little hat of a woman. "Oh, it is Charles!" cried the form, and at the same instant the duke sprang to the wagon. "Is it possible, my dear mother?"

"The Duchess Amelia!" cried Goethe, astonished.

"Yes," laughed the duchess, greeting them with an affectionate look. "The proverb proves itself—'Like mother, like son.' On the highway mother and son have met. You should have done the honors in a stately equipage."

"May I be permitted to ask where you come from?" asked the duke. "And the dress, of what order do you wear?"

"We walked to Ziefurt, and intended to walk back. Thusnelda is so delicate and weak, that she complained of her fairy feet paining her," answered the duchess, laughing.

"Ah, duchess, must I always be the butt?" cried the lady behind the duchess, crouching between the straw-sacks. "Must I permit you to follow in my footsteps, while I—"

"Hush, Goechhausen—hush, sweet Philomel," interrupted the duke, "or the Delphic riddle of this costume will be apparent."

"It is easily explained," said the duchess. "No other conveyance was to be had, and my good Wieland gave me his green overcoat to protect me from the pouring rain." [Footnote: True anecdote.—See Lewes' "Goethe's Life and Writings," vol. 1., p. 406.]

"And from to-day forth it will be a precious palladium," cried the little man with a mild, happy face on the straw by the duchess.

"And there is Knebel too," shouted the duke to the gentleman who just then pulled the wet hood of his cloak over his powdered hair.

"Our treasurer Bertuch, Count Werther, and Baron von Einsiedel also."

"Does not your highness ask after our bewitching countess?" asked Goechhausen, in her fine, sharp voice. "The countess is quite ill—is she not, Count Werther?"

"I believe so, they say so," answered the count, rather absent-minded. "I have not seen her for some days."

"What is the matter?" asked the duke, as Goethe was engaged in a lively conversation with the duchess. "Is the dear countess dangerously ill?"

"Oh, no," answered Goechhausen, "not very ill, only in love with genius, a malady which has attacked us all more or less since that mad fellow Wolfgang Goethe has raged in Weimar, and made it a place of torment to honorable people. Oh, Goethe—oh, Wolf! with what lamb-like innocence we wandered in comfortable sheep's clothing until you came and fleeced us, and infected us with your 'Sturm und Dranger' malady, and made us fall in love with your works!"

"Goechhausen, hold your malicious tongue, and do not hide your own joy beneath jest and mockery," cried the duchess. "Acknowledge that you are rejoiced to see your favorite, and that you will hasten to write to Madam Aja, 'Our dear duke has returned, and my angel, my idol, Wolfgang, also.' I assure you, Goethe, Thusnelda loves you, and was exceedingly melancholy during your absence. If asked the cause of her sadness, she wept like—"

"Like a crocodile," said the duke. "Oh, I know those tears of Fraulein Goechhausen; I could relate stories of her crocodile nature. Mother, how can you have such a monster in your society? Why not make the cornes, that the little devils may fly away?"

"Very good," cried the little, crooked lady. "I see your highness has not changed by this journey. Where have you been, dear duke? Oh, I remember; you flew over the Rhine, and have flown home again quite unchanged."

All laughed, the duke louder than any one. "Goechhausen, you are a glorious creature, and the Arminius is to be envied who appropriates this Thusnelda. Oh, I see the charming youth before me, who has the courage to make this German wife his own!"

"I will scratch his eyes out?" cried Goechhausen, "and then the Countess Werther can play Antigone, and lead him around as Oedipus. Why shut your eyes, Einsiedel? I do not scratch quite yet."

"I was not thinking of that," said the baron, astonished.

"You never think that every one knows; but did you not do it so soon as you understood the Countess Werther should lead blind Oedipus as Antigone?"

Before the count could answer, the court lady turned again to the duke. "What did your highness bring me? I hope you have not forgotten that you promised me a handsome present."

"No, I have not forgotten it; I have brought my Thusnelda a souvenir—such a gift!"

"What is it, your highness?"

"A surprise which, if Thusnelda is clever, she must think about all night.—But, Goethe, is it not time to leave the ladies?"

"Wait, I command you both," said the Duchess Amelia, extending her hand to her son, who pressed it to his lips most affectionately. "I have given out invitations for a soiree, for this evening. My daughter-in-law, the Duchess Louisa, has accepted, duke, and Frau von Stein also, Goethe. I hope to see you at Belvedere, gentlemen. The poet Gleim is in town, and will read his late 'Muse Almanach.' May I not expect both of you?"

They joyfully consented, gazing after the merry society as it drove away. "This is a good bite for the poisonous tongues of the honorable," cried the duke. "My mother in a farm-wagon, with Wieland's green overcoat on, and the reigning duke, with his Goethe, entering his capital on foot like a journeyman mechanic, after a long journey!"

"I wish we were there, my dearest friend," sighed Goethe.

"Oh, love makes you impatient! Come on, then. But listen, we must play Gochhausen a trick; I have promised her a surprise. Will you help me, Wolf?"

"With pleasure, duke."

"I have thought of something very droll, and your servant Philip must help us; he is a clever fellow, and can keep his own counsel."

"He is silent as the grave, duke."

"That is necessary for such a gentleman as the women all run after. Let us skip down the mountain, and then forward where our hearts incline us. This afternoon I will go for you and bring you to Belvedere, and then we can talk over the surprise." They ran down the declivity into the suburb, to the terror of the good people, who looked after them, saying that the young duke had returned with his mad protege. The "mad favorite" seemed more crazy than ever to-day, for after a brief farewell to the duke, he bounded through the streets across the English park, to the loved house, the roof of which he had so longingly greeted from the hillside. The door stood open, as is customary in small towns, and the servant in the vestibule came to meet him, and respectfully announced that her master had gone to his estate at Hochberg, but that Frau von Stein was most probably in the pavilion, in the garden, as she had gone thither with her guitar. "Is she alone?" asked Goethe. The servant answered in the affirmative, and through the court hastened the lover—not through the principal entrance, as he would surprise her, and read in her sweet face whether she thought of him. Softly he opened the little garden gate, and approached the pavilion by a side-alley. Do his feet touch the ground, or float over it? He knew not; he heard music, accompanied by a sweet, melodious voice. It was Charlotte's. Goethe's face beamed with delight and happiness. He gazed at her unseen, not alone with his eyes, but heart and soul went forth to her. She sat sideways to the door; upon a table lay her notes, and the guitar rested upon her arm. She sang, in a rich, sweet voice, Reinhardt's beautiful melody:

"I'd rather fight my way through sorrows Than bear so many joys in life; All this affinity of heart to heart, How strangely it causes us to suffer!"

She ceased, as if overpowered with her own thoughts, the guitar sank upon her lap, and her fingers glided over the chords, so that the tones died away imperceptibly. Her deep-blue eyes gazed pensively in the distance, and the sweet lips repeated softly, "How strangely it causes us to suffer!" Near the garden entrance, through which the odor of sweet flowers and the song of birds was wafted with every gentle zephyr, stood Goethe, looking at the woman whom he had so passionately loved for three years, so absorbingly, that to her were consecrated all his thoughts.