Körner gave this festival. The lost one, who had of late withdrawn himself from his friends in the violence of his love, had now returned, and this was a fitting occasion for joy and festivity. He called his friends together; he had for each a kind word and a tender greeting. Göschen was richly rewarded when Schiller gave him the manuscript of his Don Carlos, that was now to be given to the world, and to entwine the halo of immortality around the poet’s brow, and to enkindle and fan the flame of enthusiasm in thousands and thousands of hearts!
Six days after Schiller’s “return,” the festival which Körner had promised took place. Körner and his beautiful young wife, Theresa Huber, Göschen, and the artist Sophie Albrecht, were present; a few friends in Leipsic had also joyfully availed themselves of Körner’s invitation, and had come to Dresden to see the poet once more.
There he sat at the festive board, his arm thrown around Körner’s neck; in his right hand he held the goblet filled with sparkling Rhine wine. His eyes beamed and his countenance shone with enthusiasm. His glance was directed upward, and, perhaps, he saw the heavens open and the countenance of the blessed, for a soft and joyous smile played about his lips.
“Look at this favorite of the muses,” cried Körner. “One might suppose they held him in their embrace, and were whispering words of inspiration into his poet’s heart.”
“Perhaps they are whispering a song of joy in my ear, my friend, in order that I may repeat it to you, the favorite of the gods! But before I do so, I will narrate a history—a history that will touch your hearts and open your purses, unless you are cold-hearted egotists, and then you deserve to share the fate of King Midas, whose very food and wine were turned into gold because he was a hard-hearted miser. I condemn you to this punishment if you have the courage to listen to my story without being moved to tears and generosity!”
With deep pathos and eloquence Schiller recounted to his listening friends his midnight adventure, his conversation with the poor youth who had attempted to take his own life. So graphic was his representation of the unfortunate youth’s distress and vain struggles, that the hearts of his hearers were deeply touched, and no eye remained dry.
When he had concluded his narrative and told his friends of the promise he had made to poor Theophilus, Schiller arose from his seat, took the plate which lay before him, and walked around the table, halting at each seat and extending his plate like a beggar, with soft words of entreaty. When the ready hands opened and dollars and gold-pieces rang out on the plate, Schiller inclined his head and smiled, thanking the givers with looks of tenderness.
Now he had returned to his seat and was counting the money. “Seventeen gold-pieces and thirty dollars. I thank you, my friends! You have saved a human life; you have redeemed a soul from purgatory! To-morrow night I will take this love-offering to the poor youth; the blessing of a good man will then rest on your closed eyelids, and you will be rewarded with sweet dreams and a happy awakening. Now, my dear friends, you shall receive from the poet’s lips the thanks that are glowing in my heart. Now, you shall hear the exulting song to joy which Körner supposed the Muses were whispering in my ear. Raise your glasses and listen; when I incline my head repeat the words last spoken.”
Schiller arose, drew a small, folded sheet of paper from his pocket, opened it, glanced over it hastily, and then let it fall on the table. He did not require it; his song resounded in his mind and brain; it was written on the tablets of his heart, and his lips now uttered it exultantly:
“Joy, thou brightest heaven-lit spark,