ROSICRUCIANS AND POWERFUL GENIUSES
GOETHE IN BERLIN.
"I wish I only knew whether it were a man, or whether the god 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 fashion. To-day he wore a white garment, of no particular style, tied at the neck with a red ribbon (full sleeves, buttoned 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 fashion, 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 *******, 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 Imet 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 pronounced 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 ass 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 ass! 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 gods 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 godlike face as you do, you favorite of the gods!"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.