“And did he not fulfil his promise?”
“No, had it been given to the least of the French writers he would have kept it, but to a German poet it was not worth while. What is a native poet to the great German king? A phantom that he knows not, and believes not. As great as he is, the king showed himself very small to me. I sang him as a poetess and he bestowed a pittance upon me as one would to a beggar in tatters by the wayside.”
“Is it really true, upon your supplication—”
“Sent me two thalers! Yes, that is indeed true, and I see by your smile that you know it, and know also that I returned it to him. I had rather die with hunger than take a beggar’s penny. But let me relate to you what happened two weeks since. I had borne patiently the affair of the two thalers, and forgotten it. I am more comfortable now; the booksellers pay me for my songs and poems very well, and a number of patrons and friends, at whose head is the Prince of Prussia, give me a small pension, from which I can at least live—though poorly. One of my patrons sent me a strip of land on the Spree not far from the Hercules Bridge, where I would gladly build me a little house, at last to have a sure abiding-place where I could retire—that would be a refuge against all the troubles and sorrows of life. As I thought it over, the old confidence and imperishable love for the great king rose again within me, and as I esteemed him I always hoped for the fulfilment of his promise. I applied to him again, and begged him to do for me what he had granted to so many cobblers and tailors, as the king gives building-money to help those who will build. All the houses of the Gensdarmen-markt are built by royal aid, and sometimes the king designs the facades, as he did for the butcher Kuhn’s great house; and sent him a design to ornament the frieze of ninety-nine, sheeps’ heads, only ninety-nine, for he said the butcher himself was the one hundredth. The butcher remonstrated, but he was obliged to keep them, if he would have the building-money.”
“Really,” cried Goethe, laughing, “the king is an ingenious and extraordinary man in every thing, and no one is like him.”
“No one is like him, and no one would have treated me as he did. I addressed to him a poem, begging him with true inspiration and emotion to let a German poetess find favor in his sight—and that he would be for me a Maecenas, if I were not a Horace. My heart bled with sorrow, that I must so beg and pray, and my tears wet the paper upon which I indited my begging, rhyming petition. How much money do you think the great king sent me for my house? Think of the smallest sum.”
“If it was small, yet for building-money he would send you at least two hundred thalers.”
The poetess burst into a scornful laugh. “He sent me three thalers! The great Frederick sent me three thalers to build a house!”
“What did you do? Did you take them?”
“Yes,” she answered, proudly, “and I will leave them as a legacy to my daughter, as an historical souvenir for succeeding generations, who will relate the benevolence of the German king for the German poetess. I sent the king a receipt—I will read it to you.