href="@public@vhost@g@gutenberg@html@files@46883@[email protected]#CHAPTER_IV_V" class="pginternal" tag="{http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml}a">V. Estrangement, 404 VI. The Two Poets, 421 VII. The First Meeting, 431 VIII. Wilhelmine Rietz, 443 IX. Husband and Wife, 450 X. The Attack, 460 XI. Youth Victorious, 470 XII. Schiller’s Marriage, 482

ILLUSTRATIONS.

GOETHE AND SCHILLER.

BOOK I.

CHAPTER I.

INTRODUCTION.

The honest and peaceful inhabitants of Mannheim, the capital of the Palatinate, had long since retired to rest; the streets were deserted, and the houses wrapped in darkness. Only high up in the little bow window of a corner house on the Palace Square still glimmered a faint light like the subdued gleam of a lamp in a sick-chamber.

But the watch, who had just proclaimed at the corner in stentorian tones the third hour of the morning, knew better; and, as he entered the square, he again looked up at the illuminated window, gravely shaking his head.

“Mr. Schiller has not yet gone to bed,” said he to himself; “writing all night again, I suppose. But I will not stand it! Did I not promise Mr. Streicher that I would always look up at his window, and, whenever I found the light burning after one o’clock, protest against it? Well, then, I’ll try it to-night, and keep my word, as an honest man should.”

And in stentorian tones the watchman cried out, “Mr. Schiller! Halloo! Mr. Schiller!”

For a moment the window was darkened by a shadow, and then opened, and a hoarse voice demanded, “Who called? who called my name?”

“I, Mr. Schiller. I, the watchman, Fabian,” roared the man in response.

“And what do you desire of me, worthy guardian of the worthy city of Mannheim?”

“I wish to beg of you, Mr. Schiller, to be so good as to put out your light and go to bed.”

“What brought you to this strange and ridiculous idea?” exclaimed the voice from above, laughing loudly. “What does the light behind my windows concern you, a watchman and a guardian of the streets?”

“Really it doesn’t concern me at all,” cried the watchman. “I know that very well, but I have promised the music-teacher of my daughter, Mr. Streicher, to pay attention to your window, and every time I see the light burning in your room after one o’clock, to call you, and beg you in the name of your dear friend to be kind enough to put out your light and go to bed.”

“A very ridiculous idea of Mr. Streicher,” said the voice of the invisible poet, laughingly, “and I am only surprised that you should do his bidding, and take this task upon yourself.”

“Don’t be surprised, sir, for I am not doing it gratis. Mr. Streicher told me that whenever I had called you, and begged you in his name to go to bed, I should have to pay only half-price for the next piano-lesson of my daughter; and I beg you, therefore, Mr. Schiller, to be good enough to tell Mr. Streicher to-morrow that I have done his bidding. And hereafter do as you please, sleep or wake. I have done my duty. Good-night, Mr. Schiller.”

“Good-night!”

The poet rapidly closed the window, and drew the folds of the old threadbare coat which served him as a dressing-gown closer around his shivering form.

“The good and true Streicher,” he murmured in a low voice, “is an honest soul, and means well, and does not know how he has injured me to-day! I was in the grandest flow of enthusiasm; all the discomforts and necessities of life had disappeared! I was no longer cold, there were no more tormenting creditors, no cares, and no pangs of love! I