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Updated: June 3, 2025
After concluding his recitation, Iffland approached the old man quickly, knelt down before him and imprinted a kiss on his clasped hands. "Farewell!" exclaimed Haydn, in a deeply-moved voice, and sank back in the easy-chair. Profound silence now reigned around him; but all at once this silence was broken by a thundering crash, which caused the windows to rattle and shook the walls.
"Let us go," whispered Schmid, pointing to Haydn, who had feebly sunk back into his easy-chair, and was leaning his pale head against the cushions. Iffland fixed his eyes for a long time with an expression of heart- felt grief on the groaning, broken form reposing in the easy-chair. "And that is all that is left of a great composer, of a genius who delighted the whole world!" he sighed.
In Berlin, where Fleck had already paved the way, Iffland, who, like Schroeder, was both a poet and an actor, founded a school, which in every respect took nature as a guide, and which raised the German stage to its well-merited celebrity.
He had placed on the table before him every piece, after showing it to them and explaining its meaning; and now that all the treasures were spread out before him, he contemplated them with a blissful smile, and nodded to them as if to dear old friends. "Do not laugh at me," he said, lifting his eyes to Iffland, almost beseechingly.
"It was the great composer's apotheosis which the musicians and singers were celebrating," said Iffland, deeply moved. . "It is true the Viennese have done a great deal for me. They are so good, and they love me dearly." "Oh, the Viennese are not ahead of the people of Berlin in this respect," exclaimed Iffland.
Indisputable as it may be that Werner carried the idea of the 'Kreuz an der Ostsee' about with him for a long time, to the best of my knowledge the first impulse to his writing it came to him from Iffland, who was anxious that he should write a tragedy for the Berlin stage.
"I hope the day is distant when Germany will have to lament the death of her favorite, Joseph Haydn," exclaimed Iffland. "That day is close at hand," said Haydn, calmly; "I feel to-day more distinctly than ever before that my end is drawing nigh. My strength is exhausted."
Thus there was Iffland, of the same age as Schiller, who was destined to win fame as an actor, playwright and manager. Like Diderot, Iffland believed ardently in the moral mission of the drama. He was himself a man of character who had taken to the stage against the wish of his kinfolk, and now his hobby was to refine the language of the stage and to elevate the actor's profession.
"I heard all you said," he remarked; "but I was too feeble to speak. You wish to get one of my flowers? No, you shall have them all." He took the bouquet, looked at it tenderly, and buried his whole face for a moment in the flowers, and then handed it to Iffland with a gentle smile. "Farewell," he said; "remember me on looking at these flowers.
From his point of view his poet had been a bad investment. Schiller had not kept his contract in the matter of the new play; he had done nothing but procrastinate and make excuses. 'Don Carlos' had not even been begun. There seemed to be no excuse for such dawdling, when a man like Iffland could always be relied upon to turn out a fairly acceptable play in a few weeks.
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