"Oh, my friend, my mother, that we should meet under such circumstances! That I should be compelled to throw myself at your feet in shame and penitence!" "And why, Schiller?" asked Madame von Wolzogen, in her soft, kindly voice. "Why must you throw yourself at my feet, and why this penitence? Be still. Do not reply yet, my poor child. First, hear me! My only reason in coming here was to see you. It seemed impossible, unnatural, that I should pass through Mannheim without seeing my friend, my son, my Frederick Schiller! My sister, who lives in Meiningen, has suddenly fallen ill, and has called me to her bedside. Well, I am answering her call; for no one has ever appealed to Henrietta von Wolzogen in vain. I have ridden all night, and will soon resume my journey. The carriage is waiting for me at the corner. I inquired my way to Schiller's dwelling; and here I am, and I wish to know, Frederick Schiller, what this silence means, and why you have not written to me for so long a time? That I must know; and I am only here for the purpose of putting this one question: Schiller, have you forgotten your friends in Bauerbach? have you forgotten me, who was your friend and your mother?" "No, no," he cried, rising and throwing his arms tenderly around Madame von Wolzogen's neck, and pressing her to his heart. "No, how could I forget your goodness, your generosity, and friendship? But can you not comprehend, my friend, why your arrival could have a terrible effect on me--could bring me to the verge of despair?" "Only see how the poetic flame bursts forth when we prosaic people ask a practical question--when we have to remind poets that, unfortunately, we are not fed upon ambrosia falling from heaven! But I imagined that my wild boy would be once more tearing his own flesh, and terribly dissatisfied with his destiny. And I am here, Schiller, to tell you that you must think better of me and better of yourself, and not confound noble friendship with ignoble gold, which shrewd people call the mainspring of life, but which is, fortunately, not the mainspring of friendship, and--" "Oh, my friend, if you knew--" "Silence! The philippic which I had time to prepare at my leisure during my night ride, and which I am determined to inflict upon the capricious and wayward boy, if not upon the man, is not yet ended. Is it possible that your heart could be forgetful of and untrue to the past? And why? Because his poor motherly friend has written him in confidence that she would be glad if he would return at least a part of the sum of money she had loaned him. And what is his reply? Nothing, nothing at all! He throws his friend's letter into the fire, and--"