Goethe and Schiller. L. Muhlbach

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      Too late! too late! The door is opened and the cruel creditor enters, accompanied by two constables.

      Schiller uttered a cry of rage, sprang like a chafed lion at the intruder, caught hold of him, shook him, and pressed him back to the door.

      “What brings you here, sir? How can you justify this intrusion? how dare you cross this threshold without my permission?”

      To the stormy questions addressed to him by Schiller, with a threatening look and knitted brow, the man replied by a mute gesture toward the two constables, who, with a grave official air, were walking toward Oswald Schwelm, who had retired to the farthest corner of the room.

      “Mr. Oswald Schwelm, we arrest you in the name of the Superior Court of Mannheim, by virtue of this warrant, made out by the judicial authorities in Stuttgart; and transferred, at the request of Mr. Richard, to the jurisdiction of the authorities in Mannheim. By virtue of the laws of this city we command you to follow us without offering any resistance whatsoever.”

      “You have heard it, Mr. Schiller,” said the printer Richard, emphatically. “I have a perfect right to enter this room to arrest my debtor.”

      “No, bloodsucker!” cried Schiller, stamping the floor with his foot. “No, you have not the right. You are a barbarian, for you desire to deprive a man of his liberty of whom you know that he owes you nothing!”

      “He made himself responsible for the payment of a sum of three hundred florins; the sum is due, and Mr. Schwelm must either pay or go to prison.”

      “God help me!” cried Schiller, trembling with anger, and deathly pale with agitation. “Give me patience that I may not crush this monster in my righteous indignation. I will be calm and humble, I will beg and implore, for something high and noble is at stake, the liberty of a man! Be tranquil, friend Schwelm; this man shall not carry out his base intention, he shall not arrest you here in my room. This room is my house, my castle, and no one shall violate its sanctity. Out with you, you cruel creditor, ye minions of the law! You can stand before my door and await your prey like blood-hounds, but you shall not lay hands on this noble game until it leaves this sanctuary and crosses this threshold. Out with you, I say! If you love life, leave quickly. Do you not see that I am filled with the holy wrath of outraged humanity? Do you not feel that my hands will destroy you if you do not go, and go instantly?”

      He threw up his arms, and clinched his fists; and, his eyes flaming, and his angry countenance beautiful with inward agitation, he was about to rush upon the men who had taken hold of Oswald Schwelm, and now looked on in confusion and terror. But Oswald Schwelm had, in the mean while, liberated himself from their grasp, and now seized Schiller’s arm and held him back, gently entreating him to let the law take its course and leave him to his fate. He then turned to the officers and begged them to forget Mr. Schiller’s offensive words, uttered in anger; he admitted that they were perfectly in the right, and he was ready to yield to stern necessity and accompany them.

      As Oswald Schwelm approached the door, Schiller thrust him back, exclaiming in loud and threatening tones: “I will permit no one to pass this threshold. If you will not leave without him, you shall all remain here; and my room, the room of a German poet, shall be the prison of the noble German man, who is guilty of nothing but—”

      “But not having paid the money he owes me,” interposed Mr. Richard, “the money which he should have paid a year ago. Since then he has been continually putting me off with empty promises and evasions. I am tired of all this, will put up with it no longer, and am determined to resort to extreme measures. Officers of the law, do your duty, arrest this man, and pay no attention to the boastful words of Mr. Schiller. He is a poet, and poets are not so particular in their words. One must just let them talk on without heeding what they say! Forward now, forward!”

      “No, no, Oswald,” cried Schiller, trembling with anger. “Come to me, Oswald, hold fast to me. They shall never tear you from my side. No, never!—no, never!”

      “What is going on here, who uttered that cry?” asked a loud, manly voice, and the broad, well-conditioned body of a man who was plainly dressed, and whose face wore an expression of good-nature and kindliness, appeared in the doorway.

      “Herr Hölzel,” exclaimed Schiller, with relief. “My landlord, God sends you to our aid!”

      “What’s the matter? What can I do?” asked Hölzel. “I came down from the floor above, and in passing your door I heard a noise and disturbance, and my Mr. Schiller cry out. ‘Well,’ thinks I, ‘I must go in and see what’s going on.’ ”

      “And I will reply—I will tell you what is going on, my dear Hölzel,” said Schiller, with flashing eyes. “We have here an unmerciful creditor and rude minions of the law, who dare to enter my room in pursuit of a friend who has fled to me from Stuttgart for help; to me who am the miserable cause of all his misfortunes. Good Oswald Schwelm pledged himself to make good the payment of three hundred florins to the printer who printed my first work, ‘The Robbers.’ At that time we anticipated brilliant success; we dreamed that ‘The Robbers’ was a golden seed from which a rich harvest would be gathered. We have erred, and my poor friend here is now called upon to pay for his error with his freedom.”

      “But he shall not,” said Mr. Hölzel, with vivacity, as he laid his broad hand on Schiller’s shoulder. “I will not suffer it; your good friend shall have made no miscalculations. Now, Mr. Schiller, you know very well how fond I am of ‘The Robbers,’ and that I see the piece whenever it is given here in Mannheim, and cry my eyes out over Iffland, when he does Charles Moor so beautifully; and I so much admire those fine fellows the robbers, and Spiegelberg, who loves his captain dearly enough to die for him a thousand times. I will show you, Schiller, that I have learned something from the noble Spiegelberg, and that the high-minded robber captain is my model. I am not rich, certainly, and cannot do as he did when his money gave out, and take it forcibly from the rich on the public highways, but I can scrape together funds enough to help a good man out of trouble, and do a service to the author of ‘The Robbers!’ ”

      “What do you say, my friend? What is it you will do?” asked Schiller, joyfully.

      “With your permission, I will lend Mr. Schwelm, with whose family in Stuttgart I am well acquainted, and who, I know, will repay me, the sum of three hundred florins for two years, at the usual rate of interest—that is, if he will accept it.”

      “I will accept it with pleasure,” said Oswald Schwelm, heartily grasping Hölzel’s proffered hand. “Yes, I accept the money with joy, and I give you my word of honor that I will return it at the expiration of that time.”

      “I believe you,” said Hölzel, cordially, “for he who promoted the publication of ‘The Robbers’ by giving his money for that purpose, is surely too good and too noble to defraud his fellow-man. Come down into my office with me. Business should be done in an orderly manner,” said he, as he laughingly surveyed the room, in which nothing was in its proper place, but every thing thrown around in the greatest disorder. “Things are not exactly orderly here; and I don’t believe there would be room enough on that table to count out the three hundred florins.”

      “Very true,” said Schiller, smiling. “But you must also consider, Hölzel, that the table has never had occasion to prepare itself for the reception of three hundred florins.”

      “I, unfortunately, know very well that the managers of the theatres do not pay the poet as they should,” said Hölzel, contemptuously. “They pay him but a paltry sum for his magnificent works. СКАЧАТЬ