"You do me injustice," said the Duke. "A long story from you is too good to be lost. Sit down, and favour me."
A patron's wishes are not to be neglected; and somewhat unwillingly the poet at last sat down, and told the story of his Ballad and of St. Nicholas's Day, as it has been told here. The fountain of tears is drier in middle age than in childhood, but he was not unmoved as he concluded.
"Every circumstance of that evening," he said, "is as fresh in my remembrance now as it was then, and will be till I die. It is a joy, a triumph, and a satisfaction that will never fade. The words that roused me from despair, that promised knowledge to my ignorance and fame to my humble condition, have power now to make my heart beat, and to bring hopeful tears into eyes that should have dried with age—
"God willing, he will be a credit to the town."
"God willing, he will be a credit to his country."
"He shall have a liberal education, and will be a great man."
"It is as good as a poem," said the delighted Duke. "I shall tell the company to-night that I am the most fortunate man in Germany. I have heard your unpublished poem. By the bye, Poet, is that ballad published?"
"No, and never will be. It shall never know less kindly criticism than it received then."
"And are you really in earnest? Was this indeed the happiest triumph your talents have ever earned?"
"It was," said Friedrich. "The first blast on the trumpet of Fame is the sweetest. Afterwards, we find it out of tune."