Old Fritz and the New Era Part 14

BOOK II. ROSICRUCIANS AND POWERFUL GENIUSES

CHAPTER X. GOETHE IN BERLIN.

"I wish I only knew whether it were a man, or whether the G.o.d Apollo has really appeared to me in human form," sighed Conrector Moritz, as he paced his room--a strange, gloomy apartment, quite in keeping with the singular occupant--gray walls, with Greek apothegms inscribed upon them in large letters--dirty windows, pasted over with strips of paper; high, open book-shelves, containing several hundred books, some neatly arranged, others thrown together in confusion. In the midst of a chaos of books and papers stood a colossal bust of the Apollo-Belvedere upon a table near the window, the whiteness and beauty of which were in singular contrast, to the dust and disorder which surrounded it.

At the back of the room was an open wardrobe, filled with gay-colored garments. A beautiful carpet of brilliant colors covered the middle of the dirty floor, and upon this paced to and fro the strange occupant of this strange room, Philip Charles Moritz, conrector of the college attached to the Gray Monastery. There was no trace of the bearing and demeanor which distinguished him at the parade at Potsdam yesterday--no trace of the young elegant, dressed in the latest fas.h.i.+on. To-day he wore a white garment, of no particular style, tied at the neck with a red ribbon (full sleeves, b.u.t.toned at the wrist with lace-cuffs); and, falling from the shoulders in scanty folds to just below the knees, it displayed his bare legs, and his feet shod with red sandals.

His hair was unpowdered, and not tied in a cue, according to the fas.h.i.+on, but hung in its natural brown color, flowing quite loosely, merely confined by a red ribbon wound in among his curls, and hanging down in short bows at each temple like the frontlet of the old Romans.

Thus, in this singular costume, belonging half to old Adam, and half to the old Romans, Philip Moritz walked back and forth upon the carpet, ruminating upon the beaming beauty of the stranger whose acquaintance he had so recently made, and whom he could not banish from his thoughts.

"What wicked demon induced me to go to Potsdam yesterday?" said he to himself. "I who hate mankind, and believe that they are all of vulgar, ordinary material, yield to the longing for society, and am driven again into the world."

A loud knocking at the door interrupted this soliloquy, and the door opened at the commanding "Come in!"

"It is he, it is Apollo," cried Moritz, joyfully. "Come in, sir, come in--I have awaited you with the most ardent desire."

Moritz rushed to the young gentleman, who had just closed the door, and whose beautiful, proud face lighted up with a smile at the singular apparition before him. "Pardon me, I disturb you, sir; you were about to make your toilet. Permit me to return after you have dressed."

"You are mistaken," cried Moritz, eagerly. "You find me in my usual home-dress--I like my ease and freedom, and I am of opinion that mankind will never be happy and contented until they return to their natural state, wearing no more clothing, but glorying in the beauty which bountiful Nature has bestowed upon her most loved and chosen subjects."

"Sir," cried the other, laughing, "then benevolent Nature should adapt her climate accordingly, and relieve her dear creatures from the inclination to take cold."

"You may be right," said Moritz, earnestly, "but we will not quarrel about it. Will you not keep your promise to reveal to me your name?"

"Tell me your own once more. Tell me if this youth, whom I see before me in this ideal dress, is the same modest young man whom I met at the parade yesterday, and who presented himself as Philip Moritz?

Then please to inform me whether you are the Philip Moritz who wrote a spirited and cordial letter to Johann Wolfgang Goethe some years since about the tragedy of 'Stella,' the representation of which had been forbidden at that time?"

"Yes, I am the same Philip Moritz, who wrote to the poet Goethe to prove to him, with the most heart-felt sympathy, that we are not all such stupid fellows in Berlin as Nicolai, who p.r.o.nounced the tragedy 'Stella'

immoral; that it is only, as Goethe himself called it, 'a play for lovers.'"

"And will you not be kind enough to tell me what response the poet made to your amiable letter?"

"Proud and amiable at the same time, most gracefully he answered me, but not with words. He sent me his tragedy 'Stella' bound in rose-colored satin. [Footnote: "Goethe in Berlin,"--Sketches from his life at the anniversary of his one hundredth birthday.] See there! it is before the bust of Apollo on my writing-table, where it has lain for three years!"

"What did he write to you at the same time?"

"Nothing--why should he? Was not the book sufficient answer?"

"Did he write nothing? Permit me to say to you that Goethe behaved like a brute and an a.s.s to you!"

"Sir," cried Moritz, angrily, "I forbid you to speak of my favorite in so unbecoming a manner in my room!"

"Sir," cried the other, "you dare not forbid me. I insist upon it that that man is sometimes a brute and an a.s.s! I can penitently acknowledge it to you, dear Moritz, for I am Johann Wolfgang Goethe himself!"

"You, you are Goethe!" shouted Moritz, as he seized him with both hands, drawing him toward the window, and gazing at him with the greatest enthusiasm and delight. "Yes, yes," he shouted, "you are either Apollo or Goethe! The G.o.ds are not so stupid as to return to this miserable world, so you must be Goethe. No other man would dare to sport such a G.o.dlike face as you do, you favorite of the G.o.ds!"

He then loosed his hold upon the smiling poet, and sprang to the writing-table. "Listen, Apollo," he cried, with wild joy. "Goethe is here, thy dear son is here! Hurrah! long live Goethe!"

He took the rose-colored little book, and shouting tossed it to the ceiling, and sprang about like a mad bacchant, and finally threw himself upon the carpet, rolling over and over like a frolicksome, good-natured child upon its nurse's lap.

Goethe laughed aloud. "What are you doing, dear Moritz? What does this mean?" he asked.

Moritz stopped a moment, looking up to Goethe with a face beaming with joy. "I cannot better express my happiness. Language is too feeble--too poor!"

"If that is the case, then I will join you," said Goethe, throwing himself upon the carpet, rolling and tumbling about. [Footnote: This scene which I relate, and which Teichman also mentions in his "Leaves of Memory of Goethe in Berlin," has been often related to me by Ludwig Tieck exactly in this manner. Teichman believes it was the poet Burman.

But I remember distinctly that Ludwig Tieck told me that it was the eccentric savant, Philip Moritz, with whom Goethe made the acquaintance in this original manner.--The Auth.o.r.ess.]

All at once Moritz jumped up without saying a word, rushed to the wardrobe, dressed himself in modest attire in a few moments, and presented himself to Goethe, who rose from the carpet quite astounded at the sudden metamorphosis. Then he seized his three-cornered hat to go out, when Goethe held him fast.

"You are not going into the street, sir! You forget that your hair is flying about as if unloosed by a divine madness."

"Sir, people are quite accustomed to see me in a strange costume, and the most of them think me crazy."

"You are aware that insane people believe that they only are sane, and that reasonable people are insane. You will grant me that it is much more like a crazy person to strew his hair with flour, and tie it up in that ridiculous cue, than to wear it as G.o.d made it, uncombed and unparted, as I do my beautiful hair, and for which they call me crazy!

But, for Heaven's sake, where are you going?" asked Goethe, struggling to retain him.

"I am going to trumpet through every street in Berlin that the author of 'Werther,' of 'Clavigo,' of 'Gotz von Berlichingen,' of 'Stella,' of the most beautiful poems, is in my humble apartment. I will call in all the little poets and savants of Berlin; I will drag Mammler, Nicolai, Engel, Spaulding, Ged.i.c.ke, Plumicke, Karschin, and Burman here. They shall all come to see Wolfgang Goethe, and adore him. The insignificant poets shall pay homage to thee, the true poet, the favorite of Apollo."

"My dear Moritz, if you leave me for that, I will run away, and you will trouble yourself in vain."

"Impossible; you will be my prisoner until I return. I shall lock you in, and you cannot escape by the window, as I fortunately live on the third story."

"But I shall not wait to be looked in," answered Goethe, slightly annoyed. "I came to see you, and if you run away I shall go also, and I advise you not to try to prevent me." His voice resounded through the apartment, growing louder as he spoke, his cheeks flushed, and his high, commanding brow contracted.

"Jupiter Tonans!" cried Moritz, regarding him, "you are truly Jupiter Tonans in person, and I bow before you and obey your command. I shall remain to wors.h.i.+p you, and gaze at you."

"And it may be possible to speak in a reasonable manner to me," said Goethe, coaxingly. "Away with sentimentality and odors of incense! We are no sybarites, to feed on sweet-meats and cakes; but we are men who have a n.o.ble aim in view, attained only by a th.o.r.n.y path. Our eyes must remain fixed upon the goal, and nothing must divert them from it."

"What is the aim that we should strive for?" asked Moritz, his whole being suddenly changing, and his manner expressing the greatest depression and sadness.

Goethe smiled. "How can you ask, as if you did not know it yourself.

Self-knowledge should be our first aim! The ancient philosophers were wise to have inscribed over the entrances to their temples, 'Know thyself,' in order to remind all approaching, to examine themselves before they entered the halls of the G.o.ds. Is not the human heart equally a temple? only the demons and the G.o.ds strive together therein, unfortunately. To drive the former out, and give place to the latter, should be our aim; and when once purified, and room is given for good deeds and great achievements, we shall not rest satisfied simply to conquer, but rise with gladness to build altars upon those places which we have freed from the demons; for that, we must steadily keep in view truth and reality, and not hide them with a black veil, or array them in party-colored rags. Our ideas must be clear about the consequences of things, that we may not be like those foolish men who drink wine every evening and complain of headache every morning, resorting to preventives."

Did Goethe know the struggles and dissensions which rent the heart of the young man to whom he spoke? Had his searching eyes read the secrets which were hidden in that darkened soul? He regarded him as he spoke with so much commiseration that Moritz's heart softened under the genial influence of sympathy and kindness. A convulsive trembling seized him, his cheeks were burning red, and his features expressed the struggle within. Suddenly he burst into tears. "I am very, very wretched," he sighed, with a voice suffocated by weeping, and sank upon a chair, sobbing aloud, and covering his face with his hands.

Goethe approached him, and laid his hand gently upon his shoulder. "Why are you so miserable? Is there any human being who can help you?" he kindly inquired.

"Yes," sobbed Moritz; "there are those who could, but they will not, and I am lost. I stand upon the brink of a precipice, with Insanity staring at me, grinning and showing her teeth. I know it, but cannot retreat. I wear the mask of madness to conceal my careworn face. Your divine eyes could not be deceived. You have not mistaken the caricature for the true face. You have penetrated beneath the gay tatters, and have seen the misery which sought to hide itself there."

"I saw it, and I bewailed it, as a friend pities a friend whom he would willingly aid if he only knew how to do it."

"No one can help me," sighed Moritz, shaking his head mournfully. "I am lost, irremediably lost!"

"No one is lost who will save himself. He who is wrecked by a storm and tossed upon the raging sea, ought to be upon the watch for a plank by which he can save himself. He must keep his eyes open, and not let his arms hang idly; for if he allows himself to be swallowed up he becomes a self-murderer, who, like Erostratus, destroyed the holy temple, and gained eternal fame through eternal shame."