“I acknowledge it out of friendship, your tragedy was spoiled in the reading. You are a poet, but not an orator. In the heat of delivery, my friend forgets that Don Carlos did not speak Suabian German, and that King Philip ‘halt nit aus Stuckart ist.’[11] And now, that I have told you, give me your hand, Schiller, and swear that you will forget my laughter!”
“No, I will forget nothing that you say or do, Charlotte; for all that you do is good, and beautiful, and amiable! I kiss the loved hand that struck me, and would like to demand as an atonement a kiss from the cruel lips which laughed at me.”
“No jesting, Schiller; let us be grave, and discuss the future of your ‘Don Carlos.’ Something great, something extraordinary, must be done for this great and extraordinary work! It must shoot like a blazing meteor over the earth, and engrave its name in characters of flame on huts and palaces alike. The poet who makes kings and princes speak so beautifully, must himself speak with kings and princes—must obtain a princely patron. And I have already formed a plan to effect this. Schiller, you must become acquainted with the Duke Charles August of Weimar, or rather he must become acquainted with you, and be your patron. Do you desire this?”
“And if I do,” sighed Schiller, shrugging his shoulders, “he will not! He, the genial duke, who has his great and celebrated Goethe, and his Wieland, and Herder, he will not trouble himself much about the poor young Schiller. At the best, he will anathematize the author of ‘The Robbers,’ like all the other noblemen and rulers, and be entirely satisfied if his mad poetry is shipwrecked on the rock of public indifference.”
“You do the noble Duke Charles and yourself wrong,” cried Charlotte, with vivacity. “Charles August of Weimar is no ordinary prince, and you are no ordinary poet. You should know each other, because you are both extraordinary men. May I make you acquainted with each other? The Duke Charles August is coming to Darmstadt to visit his relations. Are you willing to go there and be introduced to him?”
“Yes; I will gladly do so,” exclaimed Schiller, with eagerness. “The poet needs a princely protector! Who knows whether Tasso would ever have written his ‘Jerusalem Delivered,’ if the Duke of Este had not been his friend—if he had not found an asylum at the court of this prince? If you can, Charlotte, and if you consider me worthy of the honor procure me this introduction, and the patronage of the Duke Charles August. May he, who lets the sun of his friendship shine upon Goethe, send down one little ray of his grace to warm my cold and solitary chamber! I will crave but little, if the Duke would only interest himself in the interdicted ‘Robbers.’ This alone would be of great service to me.”
“He will, I hope, do more for you, Schiller. I know the Duke, and also the Landgravine of Hesse! I will give you letters to both of them, and Mr. von Dalberg, toward whom the Duke is graciously inclined, will also do so. Oh, it will succeed, it must succeed! We will draw you forcibly out of the shade and into the light! Not only the German people, but also the German princes, shall love and honor the poet Frederick Schiller; and my hand shall lead him to the throne of a prince.”
“And let me kiss this fair hand,” said Schiller, passionately. “Believe me, Charlotte, all your words have fallen like stars into my heart, and illumined it with celestial splendor!”
“May these stars never grow pale!” sighed Charlotte. “May we never be encompassed with the dark night! But now, my friend, go!”
“You send me away, Charlotte?”