Together, they visited the heroes of art and literature in Weimar, and, together, they drove out to Tiefurt, where the Duchess Amelia had taken up her summer residence.
The duchess gave the poet of “Don Carlos” and “Fiesco” a cordial welcome. “I was angry with you on account of your ‘Robbers,’ Mr. Councillor,” said she, “nor was ‘Louise Müllerin’ entirely to my taste. But ‘Fiesco,’ and, above all, ‘Don Carlos,’ have reconciled me to you. You are, in truth, a great poet, and I prophesy a brilliant future for you. Remain here with us in Weimar!”
“Yes, Mr. Schiller,” cried the little maid of honor Von Göckhausen, as she stepped forward, courtesied gracefully, and handed him a rose, “remain in Weimar. The muses have commanded me to give you their favorite, this rose, and to tell you, sub rosa, that Weimar is the abode of the gods, and that the nine maidens would be well contented to remain here.”
“Göckhausen, take care,” said the Duchess, laughing. “I will tell Goethe what a fickle, faithless little thing you are. While he was here, my Thusnelda’s roses bloomed for him only, and for Goethe only was she the messenger of the gods and muses. Now, the faithless creature is already receiving messages from the muses for Frederick Schiller! But she is not to be blamed; the poet of ‘Don Carlos’ deserves homage; and, when even the muses worship Goethe and Schiller, why should not Göckhausen do it also? Do you know Goethe?”
“No, not personally,” replied Schiller, softly; “but I admire him as a poet, and I shall be happy if I can some day admire and love him as a man also.”
“You should have come earlier,” sighed the duchess. “You should have made his acquaintance during the early days of his stay in Mannheim. Then, you would indeed have loved him. At that time, he was in the youthful vigor of his enthusiasm. It was a beautiful era when Goethe stood among us, like the genius of poetry, descended from heaven, enflaming our hearts with heavenly rapture. He is still a great poet, but he has now become a man of rank—a privy-councillor! Beware, my dear Councillor Schiller, lest our court atmosphere stiffen you, too, and rob your heart of its youthful freshness of enthusiasm. Goethe was a very god Apollo before he became a privy-councillor, and was entitled to a seat and voice in the state council. By all means avoid becoming a minister; the poet and the minister cannot be combined in one man. Of this, Goethe is an example.”
“No, he is not,” cried Göckhausen, eagerly; “Goethe can be all that it pleases him to be. He will never indeed cease to be a poet; he is one in his whole being. Poetic blood courses through his veins; the minister he can shake off at any time, and be himself again. This he proved some eighteen months ago, when he suddenly took leave of our court and all its glories, and fled from the state council, and all his dignities and honors, to Italy. He cast all this trumpery of ducal grace behind him, and fled to Italy, to be the poet by the grace of God only!”
“See, my Thusnelda has returned to her old enthusiasm!” cried the duchess, laughing. “That was all I desired; I only wished to arouse her indignation, and make her love for Goethe apparent.—Now, Mr. Schiller, you see what my Thusnelda’s real sentiments are, and how true she is to her distant favorite.”
“Much truer, probably, than he is to his former favorites,” said Göckhausen, smiling. “Men cannot be true; and I am satisfied that Werther, if he had not shot himself prematurely, would subsequently have consoled himself, although the adored Lotte was married, and could never be his. Laugh on, duchess! I am right, nevertheless. Is not Goethe himself an example of this? Did he not love Charlotte von Kästner? If he had shot himself at that time, he could not have consoled himself afterwards with Charlotte von Stein, to become desperate once more, and finally to take a pleasant and consolatory trip to Italy, instead of leaving the world. Truly, the Charlottes are very dangerous to poets; but I would, however, advise each and every one of them to beware of falling in love with a poet, for—how forgetful I am! I beg your pardon, Madame von Kalb!”