CHAPTER XIII. THE POET AND THE KING.
Gelbert had scarcely finished his frugal meal, and arranged his toilet a little, when Major Quintus arrived and asked the poet if he were still too unwell to accompany him to the king.
“I am still indisposed,” said Gellert, with a sad smile, “but my indisposition is of a kind that leaves me neither to day, to-morrow nor any day; it is therefore better for me to gratify the king’s commands at once. I am ready to accompany you, sir; let us depart.”
He took his three-cornered hat, which Conrad handed him with a delightful smirk, and followed the major to the splendid house where the king had taken his quarters for the winter.
“Allow me a favor, sir,” said Quintus, as they mounted the steps; “the king is prejudiced against German poets and philosophers, and it would be of the greatest advantage to the literary and political world of Germany for these prejudices to disappear, and for the great Frederick to give to Germany the sympathy and encouragement which until now he has lavished upon the French and Italians. Think of this, sir, and endeavor to win the king by your obliging and pleasing manner.”
“Oh, major!” sighed Gellert, “I do not understand the art of pleasing the great ones of this world. I cannot utter words of praise and flattery; my heart and manners are simple and not showy.”
“Exactly, this is beautiful and attractive,” said the major, smiling: “the king cannot endure pretension or conceited wisdom. Be simply yourself; imagine that you are in your own study, conversing frankly and freely with a highly-honored friend, to whom politeness and attention are due.”
The king, with his flute in hand, was walking up and down the room, when the door opened, and Major Quintus entered with Gellert.
Frederick immediately laid his flute aside, and advanced to meet the poet with a gracious smile. Gellert’s gentle and intellectual countenance was composed, and his eyes were not cast down or confused by the piercing glance of the king.
“Is this Professor Gellert?” said the king, with a slight salutation.
“Yes, your majesty,” said Gellert, bowing profoundly.
“The English ambassador has spoken well of you,” said the king; “he has read many of your works.”
“That proves him to be a thoughtful and benevolent gentleman, who hopes something from German writers,” said Gellert, significantly.
Frederick smiled, and perhaps to excite him still more, said quickly:
“Tell me, how does it happen, Gellert, that we have so few celebrated writers?”
“Your majesty sees before you now a German poet whom even the French have translated, and who call him the German La Fontaine.”
“That is great praise, great praise,” said the king, whose large eyes fastened themselves more attentively upon Gellert’s modest, expressive face. “You are then called the German La Fontaine? Have you ever read La Fontaine?”
“Yes, sire, but I did not imitate him,” said Gellert, ingenuously, “I am an original.”
The king nodded gayly; Gellert’s quick frankness pleased him.
“Good,” he said, “you are an excellent poet; but why do you stand alone?”
Gellert shrugged his shoulders slightly.
“Your majesty is prejudiced against the Germans.”
“No, I cannot admit that,” said the king, quickly.
“At least against German writers,” replied Gellert.
“Yes, that is true; I cannot deny that. Why have we no good writers in Germany?”
“We have them, sire,” said Gellert, with noble pride. “We boast a Maskow, a Kramer—who has set Bossuet aside.”
“How!” cried the king, astonished; “Bossuet? Ah, sir, how is it possible for a German to set Bossuet aside?”
“Kramer has done so, and with great success,” said Gellert, smiling. “One of your majesty’s most learned professors has said that Kramer has the eloquence of Bossuet, and more profound historical accuracy.”
The king appeared really astonished, and walked several times thoughtfully up and down his room.
“Was my learned professor capable of deciding that question?”
“The world believes so, sire.”
“Why does no one translate Tacitus?”
“Tacitus is difficult,” said Gellert, smiling; “there are some bad French translations of this author.”
“You are right,” said the king.
“Altogether,” continued Gellert, “there are a variety of reasons why the Germans have not become distinguished in letters. When art and science bloomed in Greece, the Romans were becoming renowned in war. Perhaps the Germans have sought their fame on the battle-field; perhaps they had no Augustus or Louis XIV. who favored and encouraged the historians and poets of Germany.”
This was a daring and broad allusion, but Frederick received it smilingly.
“You have had an Augustus, perhaps two, in Saxony,” he said.
“And we have made a good commencement in Saxony. We should have an Augustus for all of Germany.”
“What!” cried the king, quickly, and with sparkling eyes, “you desire an Augustus for Germany?”
“Not exactly,” said Gellert, “but I wish that every German sovereign would encourage genius and letters in his country. Genius needs encouragement; and when it does not find it in its own land, and from its native princes, it cannot retain the great and joyous power of creation.”
The king did not answer, but walked thoughtfully up and down; from time to time he glanced quickly and searchingly at Gellert, who was standing opposite to him.
“Have you ever been out of Saxony?” said the king, at last.
“Yes, sire, I was once in Berlin.”
“You should go again,” said the king—then added, as if he regretted having shown the German poet so much sympathy, “at all events, you should travel.”
“To do so, your majesty, I require health and money.”
“Are you sick?” asked the king, in a gentle, sympathizing voice. “What is your malady? Perhaps too much learning.”
Gellert smiled. “As your majesty thinks so, it may bear that interpretation. In my mouth it would have sounded too bold.”
“I have had this malady myself,” said the king, laughing; “I will cure you. You must take exercise—ride out every day.”
“Ah, sire, this cure might easily produce a new disease for me,” said Gellert, terrified; “if the horse should be healthier than I, I could not ride it, and if it were as weak as myself, we would not be able to stir from the spot.”
“Then you must drive,” said the king, laughing.
“I have not the money, sire.”
“That is true,” said the king. “All German writers need money, and we have fallen upon evil times.”
“Yes, truly, sire, evil times; but it lies in your majesty’s hands to change all this, if you would give peace to Germany.”
“How can I?” cried the king, violently. “Have you not heard that there are three against me?”
“I care more for ancient than modern history,” said Gellert, who did not desire to follow the king upon the slippery field of politics.
“You, then, are accurately acquainted with the ancients?” said the king. “Which, then, do you think the greatest and most renowned of that epoch—Homer or Virgil?”
“Homer, I think, merits the preference, because he is original.”
“But Virgil is more polished and refined.”
Gellert shook his head violently. Now that the old writers were being discussed, the German sage overcame his timidity.
“We are entirely too widely separated from Virgil to be able to judge of his language and style. I trust to Quintilian, who gives Homer the preference.”
“But we must not be slaves to the judgment of the ancients,” said the king, aroused.
“I am not, sire; I only adopt their views when distance prevents my judging for myself.”
“You are certainly right in this,” said the king, kindly. “Altogether you appear to be a wise and reasonable man. I understand that you have greatly improved the German language.”
“Ah, yes, sire, but unfortunately it has been in vain.”
“Why is this?” said the king. “You all wish me to interest myself in German, but it is such a barbarous language, that I often have quires of writing sent me, of which I do not understand a word. Why is it not otherwise?”
“If your majesty cannot reform this, I certainly cannot,” said Gellert, smiling; “I can only advise, but you can command.”
“But your poems are not written in this stiff, pompous German. Do you not know one of your fables by heart?”
“I doubt it, sire, my memory is very treacherous.”
“Well, try and think of one. In the mean while I will walk backward and forward a little. Well, have you thought of one?”
“Yes, your majesty,” said Gellert, after a brief silence, “I believe I remember one.”
“Let us hear it,” said the king; and, seating himself upon the fauteuil, he gazed fixedly at Gellert, who, standing in the middle of the room, his clear glance turned toward the king, now began his recitation.
“THE PAINTER.”
“A painter, Athens his abode,
Who painted less for love of gain
Than crowns of laurel to obtain,
Mars’ portrait to a connoisseur once showed,
And his opinion of it sought.
The judge spoke freely what he thought,
Twas wholly not unto his taste, he said,
And that, to please a practised eye,
Far less of art should be displayed.
The painter failed not to reply,
And though the critic blamed with skill,
Was of the same opinion still.”
“Then in the room a coxcomb came,
To scan the work with praise or blame.
He with a glance its worth descried;
‘Ye gods! A masterpiece’ he cried.
‘Ah, what a foot! what skilled details,
E’en to the painting of the nails!
A living Mars is here revealed,
What skill—what art in light and shade—
Both in the helmet and the shield,
And in the armor are displayed!’”
“The painter blushed with humbled pride,
Looked at the judge with woful mien,
‘Too well am I convinced’ he cried,
‘Unjust to me thou hast not been.’
The coxcomb scarce had disappeared,
when he his god of battle smeared.”
“And the moral,” cried the king, with vivacity, as Gellert ceased
for a moment.
“Here is the moral, sire:”
“If what you write offends the critic’s rules,
It is an evil sign, no doubt;
But when ‘tis lauded to the skies by fools,
‘Tis time, indeed, to blot it out.”
“That is beautiful—very beautiful; you have something gallant in your person. I understand every thing you say. I received a translation of ‘Iphigenia’ by Gottsched, and Quintus read it to me. I had the French with me, and I did not understand a word. He also brought me a poem by Pietsh, but I threw it aside.”
“I threw it aside, also,” said Gellert, smiling.
The king smiled pleasantly. “Should I remain here, you must come often and bring your fables to read to me.”
Gellert’s brow clouded slightly. “I do not know whether I am a good reader,” he said, in some embarrassment. “I have such a sing-song, monotonous voice.”
“Yes, like the Silesians,” said the king, “but it sounds pleasantly. You must read your fables yourself. No one else can give the proper emphasis. You must visit me soon again.”
“Do not forget the king’s request,” said Quintus Icilius, as he escorted Gellert to the door. “Visit him soon, and be assured you shall never come in vain. I will take care that the king receives you always.”
Gellert looked up smilingly at the major. “My dear sir, in many respects I am quite an old-fashioned man; for example, I have read a great deal in the Old Scriptures for instruction. I have read, ‘Put not your trust in princes.’ These words seem wise to me, and you must allow me to interpret them literally, and act accordingly.”
Gellert withdrew, and hastened home. The major returned to the king, admiring, almost envying, Gellert’s modest, independent, and beautiful character.
“Quintus,” said the king, “I thank you sincerely for my new German acquaintance. The poet is better than the philosopher. Gellert is the wisest and cleverest poet of his time—a much worthier man than Gottsched, with all his pompous knowledge. Gellert’s fame will outlive his. He is perhaps the only German who will not be forgotten. He attempts but little, and succeeds well.”