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"Oh, that makes me feel better," cried Karschin, with tears in her eyes; "that is balsam for my wounds. You are a great poet, Goethe, I feel it to be so. You are a great man, for your heart is good and filled with pity. How unjustly they call you cold and proud! Only be a little more yielding, and call upon the Berlin poets and writers.
A mighty poetical development of the nation would indeed have set aside that almost comic official parallel between the Homeric Iliad and the Ennian Annals as easily as we have set aside the comparison of Karschin with Sappho and of Willamov with Pindar; but no such development took place in Rome.
Much more, upon the strength of your word of honor, I desire it. You promised, word for word, to relate it to me." "If it must be, then, let it be. I went at once to Professor Rammler's. He asked me immediately if I had not been here." "Just as I asked you," laughed Karschin. "I affirmed it, saying that you showed me his house. Upon which he asked, 'Did she say any thing against me?
I shall visit the artist Chodowiecki, good Karschin, occasional poetess, and the philosopher Mendelssohn. Then, if it pleases you, we will set out this afternoon, shaking the sand of Berlin from our feet." "I shall prepare whilst you make your visits. Will you take my carriage? You know there is one from the royal stables always at my service, which stands at the door."
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.
"'His majesty commanded, Instead of building-money, To send me three thalers. The order was exactly, Promptly fulfilled. I am indebted for thanks, But for three thalers can No joiner in Berlin My coffin make. "Why do you not laugh?" said Frau Karschin, raising her flashing eyes to Goethe, who sat looking down earnestly and quietly before her. "I cannot," he gently answered.
"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, Gedicke, Plumicke, Karschin, and Burman here.
"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."
A mighty poetical development of the nation would indeed have set aside that almost comic official parallel between the Homeric Iliad and the Ennian Annals as easily as we have set aside the comparison of Karschin with Sappho and of Willamov with Pindar; but no such development took place in Rome.
"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.
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