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CHAPTER IX.

The connection between the baron and the actors had suffered various changes

since  the  arrival  of  the  latter.  At  the  commencement  it  had  been  productive  of

great satisfaction to both parties. As the baron for the first time in his life now

saw one of those plays, with which he had already graced a private theatre, put

into  the  hands  of  real  actors,  and  in  the  fair  way  for  a  decent  exhibition,  he

showed the benignest humor in the world. He was liberal in gifts: he bought little

presents  for  the  actresses  from  every  millinery  hawker,  and  contrived  to  send

over  many  an  odd  bottle  of  champagne  to  the  actors.  In  return  for  all  this,  our

company  took  every  sort  of  trouble  with  his  play;  and  Wilhelm  spared  no

diligence  in  learning,  with  extreme  correctness,  the  sublime  speeches  of  that

very eminent hero, whose part had fallen to his share.

But,  in  spite  of  all  these  kind  reciprocities,  some  clouds  by  degrees  arose

between  the  players  and  their  patron.  The  baron’s  preference  for  certain  actors

became  daily  more  observable:  this  of  necessity  chagrined  the  rest.  He  exalted

his  favorites  quite  exclusively,  and  thus,  of  course,  introduced  disunion  and

jealousy  among  the  company.  Melina,  without  skill  to  help  himself  in  dubious

junctures, felt his situation very vexing. The persons eulogized accepted of their

praise,  without  being  singularly  thankful  for  it;  while  the  neglected  gentlemen

showed  traces  of  their  spleen  by  a  thousand  methods,  and  constantly  found

means  to  make  it  very  disagreeable  for  their  once  much-honored  patron  to

appear  among  them.  Their  spite  received  no  little  nourishment  from  a  certain

poem,  by  an  unknown  author,  which  made  a  great  sensation  in  the  castle.

Previously  to  this  the  baron’s  intercourse  with  the  company  had  given  rise  to

many  little  strokes  of  merriment;  several  stories  had  been  raised  about  him;

certain  little  incidents,  adorned  with  suitable  additions,  and  presented  in  the

proper  light,  had  been  talked  of,  and  made  the  subject  of  much  bantering  and

laughter.  At  last  it  began  to  be  said  that  a  certain  rivalry  of  trade  was  arising

between  him  and  some  of  the  actors,  who  also  looked  upon  themselves  as

writers. The poem we spoke of was founded upon this report: it ran as follows:

—

“Lord  Baron,  I,  poor  devil,  own  With  envy,  you  your  rank  and  state;  Your

station,  too,  so  near  the  throne;  Of  heirs  your  possessions  great;  Your  father’s

seat, with walls and mounds, His game-preserves, and hunting-grounds.

While  me,  poor  devil,  it  appears,  Lord  Baron,  you  with  envy  view,  Since

Nature,  from  my  early  years,  Has  held  me  like  a  mother  true,  With  heart  and

---

head both light, I poor, But no poor wight grew, to be sure.

My dear Lord Baron, now to me It seems, we well alone should let, That you

your  father’s  son  still  be,  And  I  remain  my  mother’s  pet:  Let’s  free  from  envy

live,  and  hate;  Nor  let’s  desire  each  other’s  title:  No  place  you  on  Parnassus

great, No noble rank I in requital.” — Editor’s Version.

Upon this poem, which various persons were possessed of, in copies scarcely

legible,  opinions  were  exceedingly  divided.  But  who  the  author  was,  no  one

could  guess;  and,  as  some  began  to  draw  a  spiteful  mirth  from  it,  our  friend

expressed himself against it very keenly.

“We Germans,” he exclaimed, “deserve to have our Muses still continue in the

low contempt wherein they have languished so long; since we cannot value men

of  rank  who  take  a  share  in  our  literature,  no  matter  how!  Birth,  rank,  and

fortune  are  no  wise  incompatible  with  genius  and  taste;  as  foreign  nations,

reckoning among their best minds a great number of noblemen, can fully testify.

Hitherto, indeed, it has been rare in Germany for men of high station to devote

themselves to science; hitherto few famous names have become more famous by

their love of art and learning; while many, on the other hand, have mounted out

of darkness to distinction, and risen like unknown stars on the horizon. Yet such

will not always be the case; and I greatly err, if the first classes of the nation are

not even now in the way of also employing their advantages to earn the fairest

laurels of the Muses, at no distant date. Nothing, therefore, grieves me more than

to see the burgher jeering at the noble who can value literature; nay, even men of

rank  themselves,  with  inconsiderate  caprice,  maliciously  scaring  off  their  equal

from a path where honor and contentment wait on all.”

Apparently this latter observation pointed at the count, of whom Wilhelm had

heard that he liked the poem very much. In truth, this nobleman, accustomed to

rally  the  baron  in  his  own  peculiar  way,  was  extremely  glad  of  such  an

opportunity to plague his kinsman more effectually. As to who the writer of the

squib  might  be,  each  formed  his  own  hypothesis;  and  the  count,  never  willing

that  another  should  surpass  him  in  acuteness,  fell  upon  a  thought,  which,  in  a

short time, he would have sworn to the truth of. The verses could be written, he

believed, by no one but his Pedant, who was a very shrewd knave, and in whom,

for  a  long  while,  he  had  noticed  some  touches  of  poetic  genius.  By  way  of

proper  treat,  he  therefore  caused  the  Pedant  one  morning  to  be  sent  for,  and

made  him  read  the  poem,  in  his  own  manner,  in  presence  of  the  countess,  the

baroness, and Jarno, — a service he was paid for by applauses, praises, and a

present; and, on the count’s inquiring if he had not still some other poems of an

earlier time, he cunningly contrived to evade the question. Thus did the Pedant

---

get  invested  with  the  reputation  of  a  poet  and  a  wit,  and,  in  the  eyes  of  the

baron’s friends, of a pasquinader and a bad-hearted man. From that period, play

as  he  might,  the  count  applauded  him  with  greater  zeal  than  ever;  so  that  the

poor  wight  grew  at  last  inflated  till  he  nearly  lost  his  senses,  and  began  to

meditate having a chamber in the castle, like Philina.

Had this project been fulfilled at once, a great mishap might have been spared

him. As he was returning late one evening from the castle, groping about in the

dark, narrow way, he was suddenly laid hold of, and kept on the spot by some

persons, while some others rained a shower of blows upon him, and battered him

so  stoutly,  that  in  a  few  seconds  he  was  lying  almost  dead  upon  the  place,  and

could not without difficulty crawl in to his companions. These, indignant as they

seemed to be at such an outrage, felt their secret joy in the adventure: they could

hardly  keep  from  laughing,  at  seeing  him  so  thoroughly  curried,  and  his  new

brown coat bedusted through and through, and bedaubed with white, as if he had

had to do with millers.

The count, who soon got notice of the business, broke into a boundless rage.

He  treated  this  act  as  the  most  heinous  crime,  called  it  an  infringement  of  the