The unfortunate youth did not reply; when Schiller again knelt down at his side, he saw that he was again in a swoon.
“When he awakens, I will have returned,” murmured Schiller. He arose, and ran rapidly to the little inn that stood at the foot of Brühls’s Terrace. To his great joy, a light was still burning in the main room, and, when he entered, several guests were still sitting at the table enjoying their pipes and beer. Schiller stepped up to the counter, purchased a loaf of bread and a bottle of wine, and returned with all possible haste to the unfortunate youth, who had resumed consciousness, and was, at the moment of his arrival, painfully endeavoring to raise his head.
Schiller knelt down, and rested the poor youth’s head on his knees. “Be patient, my poor friend, I bring relief, I bring bread!”
How hastily did his trembling hands clutch the loaf, and how eagerly did they carry it to his mouth! How radiant was his countenance when he had taken a long draught from the bottle which Schiller held to his pale lips.
The poet turned away, he could not endure this painful sight. Sadly and reproachfully he looked upward.
“O God, Thou hast made Thy world so rich! There is enough to provide a bounteous repast for all! The trees are laden with fruits, and man may not pluck them; the bakeries are filled with the bread of life, and man may not take, although he is starving. He sinks down in the death agony while the rich usurer drives by in his splendid equipage, and looks down proudly and contemptuously upon the unhappy man whose only crime is that he is poor. O eternal, divine Justice, it is in vain that I seek thee behind the clouds. I look for thee in vain in the palaces of the rich, and in the huts of the poor!”
“Ah, how refreshing, how delightful was this bread and wine!” sighed the unfortunate youth. “You are my saviour, you have freed me from torment. I thank you! Let me kiss this merciful hand!—You will not permit me, you withdraw it? You despise me, the suicide, the coward? You have a right to do so!”
“No,” said Schiller, gently, “I do not despise, I pity you. I also have suffered, I also have felt the scorpion stings of poverty. No, I do not despise you. All men are brothers, and must aid one another. All cares are sisters, and must console one another. Speak my brother, tell me, how can I aid you? Unburden your bosom to my sister soul, and I will try to console you.”
“You are an angel-messenger from God,” sobbed the young man. “Your lips speak the first words of sympathy I have heard for long months. I could bathe your feet in tears of gratitude. Yes, my brother, you shall hear the sad history of my life, and then you will perhaps justify, perhaps pardon, the crime I was about to commit. Oh, my brother!”