“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.”