"Take them," said Frederick. "We will divert ourselves by a little rivalry in song, while you translate the verses of the French poet into German. I will sing to the praise of the German author in French rhyme.
Let us not disturb each other."
Frederick stepped to the window and wrote off hastily a few verses, then waited till he saw that Gottsched had also ceased to write. "I am ready, sir," said the king.
"And I also," said the scholar, solemnly. "Listen, your majesty, and be pleased to take the book and compare as I read;" then with a loud nasal voice he read his translation:
"'Mit ungleich gluecklicherm Geschicke, Gebeut die Koenigin zarter Pein, Hin, Deine schoenen Augenblicke, Zum Opfer noch einmal zu weihn, Den Holzstoss liebt man aufzugeben, Der Altar glaenzt, des Weihrauchs Duefte Durchdringen schon die weiten Luefte, Das Opfer wird gedoppelt schoen, Durch Amors Glut ist es verflogen, Und das Geheimniss wird vollzogen.'"
"Now, your majesty," said Gottsched, "do you not find that the German language is capable of repeating the French verses promptly and concisely?"
"I am astonished that you have been able to translate this beautiful poem. I am sorry I am too old to learn German. I regret that in my youth I had neither the courage nor the instruction necessary. I would certainly have turned many of my leisure hours to the translation of German authors, rather than to Roman and French writers; but the past cannot be recalled, and I must be content! If I can never hope to become a German writer, it will at least be granted me to sing the praises of the regenerator of the German language in French verse. I have sought to do so now--listen!"
The king read aloud a few verses to the enraptured professor. The immoderate praise enchanted him, and, in the assurance of his pride and conceit, he did not remark the fine irony concealed in them. With a raised voice, and a graceful, bantering smile, the king concluded:
"C'est a toi Cygne des Saxons, D'arracher ce secret a la nature avare; D'adoucir dans tes chants d'une langue barbare, Les durs et detestables sons'"
[Footnote: Oeuvres Posthumes, vol. vii., p 216.
"It is thine, swan of the Saxons, To draw the secret from the miser Nature; To soften with thy songs the hard And detestable sounds of a barbarous tongue."]
"Ah! your majesty," cried Gottsched, forgetting his indignation over the langue barbare, in his rapture at the praise he had received, "you are kind and cruel at the same moment. You cast reproach upon our poor language, and, at the same time, give me right royal praise. Cygne des Saxons--that is an epithet which does honor to the royal giver, and to the happy receiver. For a king and a hero, there can be no higher fame than to appreciate and reverence men of letters. The sons of Apollo and the Muses, the scholars, the artists and authors, have no more exalted object than to attain the acknowledgment and consideration of the king and the hero. Sire, I make you a most profound and grateful reverence.
You have composed a masterly little poem, and when the Cygne des Saxons shall sing his swanlike song, it will be in honor of the great Frederick, the Csesar of his time."
"Now, my dear Quintus," said the king, after Gottsched had withdrawn, "are you content with your great scholar?"
"Sire," said he, "I must sorrowfully confess that the great Gottsched has covered his head with a little too much of the dust of learning; he is too much of the pedant."
"He is a puffed-up conceited fool," said the king, impatiently; "and you can never convince me that he is a great genius. Great men are modest; they have an exalted aim ever before them, and are never satisfied with themselves; but men like this Gottsched place themselves upon an altar, and fall down and worship. This is their only reward, and they will never do any thing truly great."
"But Gottsched has really great and imperishable merit," said Quintus, eagerly. "He has done much for the language, much for culture, and for science. All Germany honors him, and, if the incense offered him has turned his head, we must forgive him, because of the great service he has rendered."
"I can never believe that he is a great man, or a poet. He had the audacity to speak of the golden era of literature which bloomed in the time of my grandfather, Frederick I., in Germany, and he was so foolhardy as to mention some German scribblers of that time, whose barbarous names no one knows, as the equals of Racine, and Corneille, and even of Virgil. Repeat to me, once more, the names of those departed geniuses, that I may know the rivals of the great writers of the day!"
"He spoke of Bessen and Neukirch," said Quintus; "I must confess it savors of audacity to compare these men with Racine and Corneille; he did this, perhaps, to excite the interest of your majesty, as it is well known that the great Frederick, to whom all Germany renders homage, attributes all that is good and honorable to the German, but has a poor opinion of his intellect, his learning, and his wit."
The king was about to reply, when a servant entered and gave him a letter from the professor, Gottsched.
"I find, Quintus," said the king, "that my brother in Apollo does me the honor to treat me with confidence. If I was at all disposed to be arrogant, I might finally imagine myself to be his equal. Let us see with what sort of dedication the Cygne des Saxons has honored us." He opened the letter, and while reading, his countenance cleared, and he burst out into a loud, joyous laugh. "Well, you must read this poem, and tell me if it is pure German and true poetry." The king, assuming the attitude of a great tragedian, stepped forward with a nasal voice, and exactly in the pompous manner of Gottsched, he read the poem aloud.
"Be pleased to remark," said the king, with assumed solemnity, "that Gottsched announces himself as the Pindar of Germany, and he will have the goodness to commend me in his rhymes to after-centuries. And now, tell me, Quintus, if this is German poetry? Is your innermost soul inspired by these exalted lines?"
"Sire," said Quintus Icilius, "I abandon my renowned scholar, and freely confess that your majesty judged him correctly; he is an insufferable fool and simpleton."
"Not so; but he is a German scholar," said the king, pathetically; "one of the great pillars which support the weight of the great temple of German science and poetry."
"Sire. I offer up my German scholar; I lay him upon the altar of your just irony. You may tear him to pieces; he is yours. But I pray you, therefore, to be gracious, sire, and promise me to receive my poet kindly."
"I promise," said the king: "I wish also to become acquainted with this model."
"Promise me, however, one thing. If the German poet resembles the German scholar, you will make me no reproaches if I turn away from all such commodities in future?"
CHAPTER XII. GELLERT.
Gellert was just returning from the university, where, in the large hall, he had recommenced his lectures on morality. A large audience had assembled, who had given the most undivided attention to their beloved master. As he left the rostrum the assembly, entirely contrary to their usual custom, burst forth in loud applause, and all pressed forward to welcome the beloved teacher on his return to his academic duties after his severe illness.
These proofs of love had touched the sensitive German poet so deeply in his present nervous and suffering condition, that he reached his lodging deathly pale and with trembling knees: utterly exhausted, he threw himself into his arm-chair, the only article of luxury in his simple study.
The old man, who sat near the window in this study, was busily engaged in reading, and paid him no attention; although Gellert coughed several times, he did not appear to remark his presence, and continued to read.
"Conrad," said Gellert, at length, in a friendly, pleading tone.
"Professor," answered the old man, as he looked up unwillingly from his book.
"Conrad, it seems to me that you might stand up when I enter; not, perhaps, so much out of respect for your master, as because he is delicate and weak, and needs your assistance."
"Professor," said the old man, with composure, "I only intended finishing the chapter which I have just commenced, and then I should have risen. You came a little too soon. It was your own fault if I was compelled to read after you came."
Gellert smiled. "What book were you reading so earnestly, my old friend?"
"The 'Swedish Countess,' professor. You know it is my favorite book. I am reading it now for the twelfth time, and I still think it the most beautiful and touching, as well as the most sensible book I ever read.
It is entirely beyond my comprehension, professor, how you made it, and how you could have recollected all these charming histories. Who related all that to you?"
"No one related it to me, it came from my own head and heart," said Gellert, pleasantly. "But no, that is a very presumptuous thought; it did not come from myself, but from the great spirit, who occasionally sends a ray of his Godlike genius to quicken the hearts and imaginations of poets."
"I do not understand you, professor," said Conrad, impatiently. "Why do you not talk like the book--I understand all that the 'Swedish Countess'
says, for she speaks like other people. She is an altogether sensible and lovely woman, and I have thought sometimes, professor--"
Old Conrad hesitated and looked embarrassed.
"Well, Conrad, what have you thought?"
"I have thought sometimes, sir, perhaps it would be best for you to marry the 'Swedish Countess'."
Gellert started slightly, and a light flush mounted to his brow.
"I marry!" he exclaimed; "Heaven protect me from fastening such a yoke upon myself, or putting my happiness in the power of any creature so fickle, vain, capricious, haughty, obstinate, and heartless as a woman.
Conrad, where did you get this wild idea? you know that I hate women; no, not hate, but fear them, as the lamb fears the wolf."
"Oh, sir," cried Conrad, angrily, "was your mother not a woman?"
"Yes," said Gellert, softly, after a pause--"yes, she was a woman, a whole-hearted,' noble woman. She was the golden star of my childhood, the saintly ideal of the youth, as she is now in heaven the guardian angel of the man; there is no woman like her, Conrad. She was the impersonation of love, of self-sacrifice, of goodness, and of devotion."
"You are right," said Conrad, softly, "she was a true woman; the entire village loved and honored her for her benevolence and piety; when she died, it seemed as though we had all lost a mother."
"When she died," said Gellert, his voice trembling with emotion, "my happiness and youth died with her; and when the first handful of earth fell upon her coffin I felt as if my heart-strings broke, and that feeling has never left me."