“Ah, Schiller, these are hard times,” sighed Oswald Schwelm. “Anxiety and want have driven me from Stuttgart, and I come to you as a right unwelcome guest. Only believe that I deplore it deeply myself, but I cannot help it, and it is not my fault. I would gladly sacrifice every thing for my friend Schiller, but I have nothing more; and painful necessity compels me to remind you of the old debt.”
“Do not judge him harshly, Schiller,” said Streicher, in a low voice. “Poor Schwelm’s difficulties are of a very urgent nature. You know very well that at a time when no printer could be found to put your ‘Robbers’ in press, Schwelm guaranteed to the publisher in Stuttgart the expense incurred in its publication, because he was convinced, as we all were, that the ‘Robbers’ would make you a celebrated poet, and not only insure you a harvest of honor and renown, but also of money. Now, unfortunately, the money has not yet been harvested, and poor Oswald Schwelm has had the additional misfortune of losing his capital by the failure of the commercial house in which it was deposited. Since then the publisher has dunned him in an outrageous manner, and has even obtained a warrant for his arrest; and, in order to escape, Schwelm fled from Stuttgart and came here!”
“Forgive me, friend Schwelm,” said Schiller, rushing forward and embracing the young merchant. “Ah, my dear friends, it seems that you have mistaken me and my future; it seems that the lofty plans formed in our youthful days are not to be realized.”
“They have already been realized in part,” said Schwelm, gently. “You are a renowned poet; all Germany admires and praises you! The ‘Robbers’ has been given on every stage, and—”
“And I have not even three hundred florins,” interrupted Schiller, sadly, “not even a paltry three hundred florins to meet the just demands of the friend who confided in and gave his bond for me, and who must now become involved in danger and difficulty on my account.”
“Then you have not succeeded in getting the money together?” said Streicher, mournfully. “I imparted to you two weeks ago the contents of the letter containing an anxious appeal for help, which Schwelm had written to me, and you promised to procure the money. Since then I disliked to speak of the matter again, because I knew you would surely leave no means untried to raise the amount.”
“And I have left no means untried,” exclaimed Schiller, with an angry gesture. “What can I do? No one is willing to lend or advance money on the pitiful capital of a poet’s talent! The few florins which I have received for the representation of the ‘Robbers’ and ‘Fiesco’ have hardly sufficed to purchase the bare necessities of life; and when I begged the manager, Mr. von Dalberg, to advance me on ‘Louisa Müllerin’ at least three hundred florins, as he had determined to put it on the stage, he refused me, and I had the mortification of being turned off by this nobleman like a miserable begging writer.”
“And your father,” said Andrew Schwelm, timidly. “Did you not say that you would apply to your father, Major Schiller?”
“I have done so,” replied Schiller, with a sigh. “I wrote urgently, representing my want and troubles, and begging him to have pity on his poor son, and to lend him a helping hand for this once. But it seems my words have not had power to touch his paternal heart, for until now I have in vain awaited a reply on every mail day. And it seems that the mail which comes from Stuttgart to-day has brought me no letter, for I believe the hour at which letters are delivered has long since passed. I must therefore patiently wait another three days for a reply, and the next mail will perhaps condemn me to another trial of patience. Oh, my friends, if you could see my heart, if you could estimate the pain this mortification causes me! For myself, I am ready to suffer want, to content myself with the bare necessities of life—yes, even to hunger and thirst, to attain the lofty ends to which I aspire. The path of a poet has ever been a thorny one, and poverty has always been the companion of poetry. This I am ready to bear. I do not crave riches; and even if the tempter should approach in this trying hour and offer me a million, but with the condition that I should forswear poetry, and write nothing more for the stage, I would reject the million with contempt, and a thousand times prefer to remain a poor poet than become a rich idler. But to see you, my friends, in trouble and suffering on my account, and powerless to relieve you, is truly bitter, and—”
“The letter-carrier,” exclaimed Streicher joyfully, as, after a timid knock, the door was softly opened, and a man in the uniform of the Thurn and Taxis post-office officials entered the room.