He commenced in a clear, distinct voice. The verses flowed from his lips gracefully, and in a cultivated style. The company listened with devoted attention, and Father Gleim, the protector of all the young poets, sat delighted, nodding consent, with a pleasant smile. It must all be charming—it had come into existence under his fostering care. What beautiful verses to listen to! “Die Zephyre lauschen, Die Balche rauschen, Die Sonus Verbreitet ihr Licht mit Wonne!”
And how charmingly the young man read them! Suddenly Father Gleim startled, and the smile died upon his lips. What was it? What was the young man reading? Verse which were not in the collection, and which were more remarkable than he had ever heard from his young poets. “Those are not in the Annual,” cried Gleim, quite forgetting decorum,—“that—”
One glance from the fine black eyes of the young man so confounded Father Gleim, that he ceased in the midst of a sentence, and, staring in breathless astonishment, listened. Glorious thoughts were expressed therein, and the poets of the Muse Almanach might have thanked God if the like had occurred to them. Love was not the burden of the song; neither hearts, griefs, nor bliss, but satire, lashing right and left with graceful dexterity, and dealing a harmless thrust to every one. All were forced to laugh; the happy faces animated and inspired every thing. The brilliant satirical verses rushed like rockets from the lips of the reader—a real illumination of wit and humor, of good-natured jokes and biting sarcasm, and it delighted the old man that every one had received hits and thrusts but himself; he had been spared until now! Every one regarded him, smiling and amused, as the reader exalted the merits of the Maecenas, and praised him highly for the interest he took in the poet’s heart, soul, and purse, and shouted victory when one excelled. But suddenly the good father also changed, and, instead of the patron on the right throne, there was a turkey-cock on the round nest, which zealously sought to hatch out the many eggs that he had to take care of for others besides his own; he sat brooding untiringly, and shed many a tear of joy over the fine number of eggs, yet it happened that a poetical viper had put but under him one of chalk, which he cared for with the others.
Herr Gleim could no longer contain himself, and, striking the table, he cried, “That is either Goethe or the devil!” The entire company burst into uncontrollable laughter, and the old man shouted the second time, though inwardly angry, “It is either Goethe or the devil!”
“Both, dear Father Gleim,” said Wieland, who was drying his tears from laughter, “it is Goethe, and he has the devil in him to-day. He is like a wild colt, which kicks out behind and before, and it would be well not to approach him too near.” [Footnote: Wieland’s own words.—See Lewes’ “Life of Goethe,” vol. i., p. 432.]
Goethe alone retained his composure, and continued reading in a louder voice, which hushed all conversation. He lashed with bitter sarcasm “him who assumed to be a god—a wise man—and who counted for nothing better than a pretentious, saucy fellow, who made himself the scorn of the poets by his sweet, Werther-like sighs, and other worthless lamentations, heeding neither God nor the devil!”
And so he stormed and thundered, ridiculed and slandered his own flesh and blood, until Goechhausen, red with anger, rose and snatched the book from his hand, and closed his lips with her hand, crying: “If you do not cease, Goethe, I will write to your beloved mother, Frau Aja, that a satirist, a calumniator has had the impudence to defame and slur her beloved son in a most sinful and shameful manner! I will write to her, indeed, if you do not stop!”
Goethe rose, and bowing offered his hand to Father Gleim in such a friendly, affectionate manner, that the old man, quite delighted, thanked him heartily for the pleasure and surprise which he had afforded him.
The duke, however, seated himself by the little lady of honor. “Thusnelda, you are an incomparable creature, and quite calculated to be the ancestress of all the Germans. I declare myself your cavalier for the evening, and will devote myself to you as your most humble servant, and will not quit your side for a moment.”
“Very beautiful it will be, my dear duke, a most charming idyl; in true Watteau style, I will be the sweet shepherdess, and lead your highness by a little ribbon. But where is my present—my surprise?”