Part 24 (1/2)
Goethe was about to raise the cloth, when Chodowiecki waved him back.
”Do not look at it,” said he, quickly; ”I dislike to appear as a mechanic before you, as I wish that you should honor only the artist. We poor toilers are badly off, as the old proverb is ever proving true with us, 'Art goes for bread.' We must be mechanics the chief part of our lives, in order to have a few hours free, in which we are allowed to be artists. I have to ill.u.s.trate the most miserable works with my engravings, to buy the time to pursue works of art.”
”That is the interest, friend, which you pay the world for the great capital which the G.o.ds confided to you. Believe me, the artist Chodowiecki would have but a morsel to eat if the mechanic Chodowiecki did not serve him a tempting meal, paying the bill. Do not be vexed about it; man must have a trade to support him, as art is never remunerated. [Footnote: Goethe's words--See G. H. Lewes's ”Goethe's Life and Writings,” vol. 1., p. 459.] I hope the mechanic will be well paid, that the artist may create beautiful and rare works for us. This is my farewell visit to-day, friend. If you will hear a welcome from me very soon, come to Weimar, and see how one honors the artists there, and how well appreciated Chodowiecki is.”
Goethe embraced and kissed the artist, who regarded him, his face radiant with joy, and would not be prevented from accompanying him to the house door, as if he were a prince or a king. ”Now to Madame Karschin,” said Goethe to himself, as he hastened through the streets in that direction. ”The good woman has welcomed me with so many pretty verses that I must make my acknowledgments, in spite of my decision to keep the Berlin authors at a distance.”
From Wilhelm Street, where Chodowiecki lived, to the tilt-yard, was not far, and Goethe soon reached the old, antiquated house where the poetess lived. After many questionings and inquiries at the lower stories and more splendid apartments of the house, he found the abode of the poetess, and climbed up the steep stairs to the slanting attic-room. The dim light of a small window permitted Goethe to read upon a gray piece of paper, pasted upon the door, 'Anna Louisa Karsch, German poetess.'
He knocked modestly at the door at first, then louder, and as the voices within never ceased for a moment their animated conversation, he opened it, and entered the obscure room.
”I will do it, sir,” said the little woman sitting in the window-niche near a table to a young man standing near her. ”I will do it, though I must tell you alb.u.m writing is very common. But you must promise me to return here, and let me see what Herr Rammler writes, and tell me what he says about me. These are my conditions.”
”Frau Karschin, I promise you, upon the word of honor of a German youth, who can never lower himself to break his word.”
”Very well! then I will write.”
There was perfect silence. The youth watched the little, dry hand which guided the pen, with a devotional mien, and Goethe with eager curiosity, who, un.o.bserved, stood like a suppliant at the door of the obscure little room, the shabby furniture of which betrayed the narrow circ.u.mstances of the German poetess. It harmonized with the occupant, a little, bony, meagre figure, wearing a tight-fitting blue-flowered chintz dress. Upon the gray hair, which, parted in the middle, encircled the low forehead, was a cap, which had lost its whiteness and was, therefore, more in harmony with the ruff about her yellow, thin neck.
Her sharp, angular features were redeemed by large, dark eyes, flas.h.i.+ng with marvellous brilliancy from under the thick, gray eyebrows, and with quick, penetrating glances she sometimes turned them to the ceiling thoughtfully as she wrote. ”There, sir, is my poem,” said she, laying down the pen. ”Listen:
'Govern your will; If it hinders duty, It fetters virtue; Then envy beguiles Into fault-finding.'”
”Oh, how beautiful, cried the young man, enraptured. ”I thank you a thousand times for those glorious words, and they shall henceforth be the guiding star of my existence.”
”Go to Professor Rammler, and: then return and show me what he writes, for I am convinced--. Oh, Heavens! there is a stranger,” she cried, as she discovered Goethe, who had remained standing by the door.
”Yes, a stranger,” said Goethe, smiling, and approaching, as the happy possessor of the alb.u.m withdrew--”a stranger would not leave Berlin without visiting the German poetess.”
”And without verses in your alb.u.m; is it not so? I have become the fas.h.i.+on, and if I could only live by immortalizing myself in your alb.u.ms, I should be free from care. Now I have divined it--you wish an autograph?”
”No! only a good word, and a friendly shake of the hand, for I possess a poem and a letter which the good Frau Karschin sent me at Weimar some six months since, written by herself.”
”Is it Goethe?” she cried, clasping her hands in astonishment. ”The poet Johann Wolfgang Goethe, the renowned author of the work which--”
”Cost you many tears,” broke in Goethe, laughing. ”I beg you spare me these phrases, which follow me upon my journey as the Furies Orestes.
I know that 'Werther' has become the favorite of the reading public; he has opened all the tear-ducts and made all lovers of moonlight as soft as a swaddling-cloth. I could punish myself for having written 'Werther.'”
Frau Karschin laughed aloud. ”That is glorious! You please me! You are a famous poet and a genius, for only geniuses can revise and ridicule themselves. Welcome, Germany's greatest poet, welcome to the attic of the poetess! There is the good word which you would have, and here is the hand. Did you think it worth while to visit poor Karschin? I am rejoiced at it, for I see that they accused you unjustly of arrogance and pride!”
”Do they accuse me of it?” asked Goethe, smiling. ”Can the Berlin poets and authors never forgive me that I live at a court, and am honored with the favor of a prince?”
”They would willingly forgive you if they had the power to push you one side, and take your place. They are angry with you, because they envy you and are not accustomed to be esteemed. Our prince and ruler, as great a hero and king as he otherwise is, cares little for German poetry, and for all he would care, the Berlin authors might starve, one and all; he would trouble himself no more about them than the flies dancing in the sunlight.”
”The great king is still the same, then? He will never know anything of German literature?”
”No! he declares that it is the language of barbarians and bear-catchers; scolds about us, and despises us, and yet knows as little of us as the man in the moon. He adores his Voltaire. Old Fritz knows the French poet by heart, but Lessing he knows nothing of. He abuses 'Goetz von Berlichingen,' and 'Werther's Sorrows.'”
”Oh! I know it all--I know the king's adjutant-general, von Siedlitz. I often dine with him, and read aloud my poems to him, when he relates to me what the king says to enrage me. You must know when I am angry I speak in verse. I accustomed myself to it during my unhappy marriage with the tailor Karsch. When he scolded, I answered in verse, and tried to turn my thoughts to other things, and to make the most difficult rhymes. As he was always scolding and quarrelling, I always spoke in rhyme.”
”And in this way you led a very poetical marriage?” smiled Goethe.