“‘His majesty commanded, Instead of building-money, To send me three thalers. The order was exactly, Promptly fulfilled. I am indebted for thanks, But for three thalers can No joiner in Berlin My coffin make. Otherwise to-morrow I would order Such a house without horror Where worms feast, And, feasting, quarrel Over the lean, care-worn Old woman’s remains That the king let sigh away.’” [Footnote: See “Life and Poems of Louisa Karschin,” edited by her daughter.]
“Why do you not laugh?” said Frau Karschin, raising her flashing eyes to Goethe, who sat looking down earnestly and quietly before her.
“I cannot,” he gently answered. “Your poem makes me sad; it recalls the keen sorrow of a poet’s existence, the oft-repeated struggle between Ideality and Reality. The blessed of the gods must humble themselves; though they may raise their heads to heaven, their feet must still rest upon earth; and to find their way upon it, and walk humbly therein, they must again lower their inspired heads.”
“Oh, that makes me feel better,” cried Karschin, with tears in her eyes; “that is balsam for my wounds. You are a great poet, Goethe, I feel it to be so. You are a great man, for your heart is good and filled with pity. How unjustly they call you cold and proud! Only be a little more yielding, and call upon the Berlin poets and writers. You can imagine that the news of your arrival ran like wild-fire through the town. Nicolai, Rammler, Engel, Mendelssohn, and all the other distinguished gentlemen have stayed at home like badgers in their kennels, watching for you, so as not to miss your visit. At last they became desperate, and scolded furiously over your arrogance and pride in thinking yourself better than they. Why have you not called upon them?”
There was a loud knocking at the door, and the young man with his album entered, almost breathless. “Here I am,” said he, “I came directly from Professor Rammler here, as I promised you.”
“You saw him, then? Has he written something for you?”
“Yes, I saw him, and he granted my request.”
“And abused me, did he not, with his nose turned up? You must know, Goethe, that Professor Rammler despises my poems, because I am not so learned in Greek and Roman mythology as he is. Now tell me, my young friend, what did he say about me?”
“I promised you, upon my word of honor, to tell you every thing, but I hope you will release me from the promise.” sighed the young man.
“No, that I will not. Much more, upon the strength of your word of honor, I desire it. You promised, word for word, to relate it to me.”