It was the postman, who brought the poet a rosy, perfumed letter from Weimar.
With eager hands, Schiller opened and unfolded the missive. His countenance beamed with joy as he recognized Madame von Kalb’s handwriting. “Good and noble woman, you have not forgotten me! Do you still think of me lovingly?”
No, she had not forgotten him; she still loved him, and begged him, with tender and eloquent entreaties, to come to her.
“Schiller, the world is a solitude without you; you are the thought of my inmost thoughts, the soul of my soul! Frederick, separation from you has disclosed the holy mystery of your heart and of mine. It is this: We are the two halves that were one in heaven, and our mission on earth is to strive to come together, in order that our eternal indivisibility and unity of spirit may be restored. Schiller, when we are once more united, hand in hand, and are gazing in each other’s eyes, we shall feel as if we had left the earth and were once more in heaven. Frederick, come to your Charlotte!”
“Yes, I am coming to my Charlotte, I am coming!” cried Schiller, in a loud voice, as he pressed the letter to his lips. “You have saved me, you have made me myself again, Charlotte! I am no longer lonely, no longer unloved. Your heart calls me, your spirit longs for me. I feel as though my soul’s wings, destined to bear me aloft above the misery of earth, were growing stronger. They will bear me to you, Charlotte—to you, the dearest friend of my life! You shall console, you shall restore me, your friendship shall be the balsam for the wounds of my heart. Eternal Fate, I thank thee for having permitted me to hear this call of friendship in this my hour of trial. I thank thee that there is still one soul that I can call mine; I praise thee that I am not compelled to stand aside in shame and tears, like an unloved, friendless beggar, while the happy are feasting at the richly-laden table of life. One soul I can at least call my own, and I will keep her holy, and love and thank her all the days of my life. Away with tears! away with this sorrowing over a dream of happiness! Farewell, Marie! Be forgiven. I will think of you without anger, and rejoice when you become a happy countess! Farewell, Marie![32] A greeting to you, Charlotte! I am coming to you! I am coming!”
He walked slowly to and fro; the cloud of sorrow that had rested on his brow gradually lifted, and his countenance grew clearer and clearer. The man had conquered—the poet was once more himself.
“I will go to Körner! I must see my friend!” He took down his hat, and walked out into the street. His mind had freed itself of its fetters, his step was elastic, and he bore himself proudly, his blue eyes turned heavenward, and a joyous smile rested on his thin and delicate lips.
Thus he entered Körner’s dwelling, and found his friend on the point of starting to Loschwitz, to see what had become of the poet. Schiller extended both hands and greeted him with a loving glance.
“Here I am again, my friend. The prodigal son returns from his wanderings, and begs to be permitted to take up his abode in your heart once more. Will you receive him, friend Körner?”
“I will not only receive him, but will kill the fatted calf in honor of his return. I will give a festival, to which all our friends shall be invited, in order that they may rejoice with me, and exclaim, ‘The wanderer has returned! Blessed be the hour of his return!’”