When Schiller Was Born [Der Weg 1947-11]
An original translation of "Als Schiller geboren wurde..."
Source Documents: German Scan
Note(s): None.
Title: When Schiller Was Born [de: Als Schiller geboren wurde...]
Author(s): H. Bogel
“Der Weg” Issue: Year 1, Issue 6 (November 1947)
Page(s): 384-385
Referenced Documents: None.
When Schiller Was Born
H. Bogel
They had probably drunk four or five glasses of fine Franconian wine by now. The two men enjoying the wine were Lieutenant Caspar Schiller, a doctor, and his host, Tobias Täubler, a pharmacist from Oberesenheim on the Main River. Schiller had been staying with Täubler for several weeks. Despite the war and the decisions of their superiors, which had brought Schiller's Württemberg regiment to the Main River, the two had become good friends.
Every evening, after Schiller finished his not-too-demanding duties and Täubler completed his light work at the family pharmacy, they would meet at the inn. There, they talked about the world, politics in the German Empire, and enjoyed the excellent wine from the nearby vineyards.
“Well—”
Tobias Täubler would say,
"I’m glad politics brought you to our little town. It’s good to hear different opinions and talk with a man who has seen both the university and the harsh lessons of life."
“You’re right, my friend,”
Schiller would reply.
“I’ve learned a lot, not just in medicine but also from my experiences in the world. I could tell you many stories.”
Schiller never quite realized how his words made Täubler curious, but the pharmacist always encouraged him:
"Tell me, Lieutenant! The innkeeper has plenty more wine in the cellar!"
So, with the golden glow of the wine and the warmth of their friendship, they grew closer. Both men had faced hard times, and beneath their ordinary lives, they had kind and patriotic hearts. They enjoyed sitting together, sharing old memories and forgotten stories.
“One dreams a lot during adventures—by campfires or lying wounded on a pile of straw,”
Schiller began that day. A memory came to him, like the reflection of the evening sun in his wine glass. He started to talk about his time as a soldier: how he had traveled down the Rhine, fought in the Netherlands against the French, suffered hunger, been captured once, and another time gained great rewards. But even in the middle of battles, he missed his homeland, Germany, which many loyal people still loved despite its troubles.
“I love this German land,”
he said quietly, a little embarrassed by his sudden emotion.
“Its fields, towns, and the life that flows through it. If I had been luckier in my youth and could have gone to university, I might have become more than just a field surgeon and soldier. But life took me far away, even across the sea, and now I’m back. Still, I feel a deep desire to serve this country in my own small way.”
“Yes, in our own small way,”
Täubler agreed. Like many others, he saw how other nations looked down on Germany and took advantage of it. They couldn’t change it, despite their loyalty and hard work, because too much had happened since the days when German emperors went to Rome. Now, Germans were often just hired soldiers for foreign powers. But they hoped for a better future. With this in mind, Schiller said mysteriously:
“In Berlin, there is a king they call Frederick the Great. We can’t say it loudly here, especially not me, since I’m a soldier and must obey orders. But he is a great leader. Friend, if my wife, who is waiting at home for her baby and for me, gives birth to a son, I will name him after that king.”
Schiller spoke with passion, which only came out in quiet moments like this. Then he added,
“Let’s stop with the wine—it makes us talk too much and say things we might not otherwise.”
He finished his glass, and they left the inn. Outside, in the clear, moonlit November night, he took Täubler’s arm, and they walked—slightly unsteady—across the market square and down to the Main River. The moonlight danced on the waves as they lapped gently against the shore.
“We always need to be a little drunk,”
Schiller said to the night,
“even if just a bit, to talk about Germany’s greatness and its place in the world. When will someone stand up and speak loudly and clearly, respected by all, saying that we are one people? Someone who can say it without being drunk and still touch the hearts of thousands who would cheer for him even now.”
Three days after that evening, a messenger arrived from Württemberg with letters and news. Among them was a letter for Lieutenant Schiller. He opened it, read it, and quietly celebrated. Then he rushed to Täubler, holding the letter high:
“My wife has given birth to a son, at the very hour we spoke of the king whose name he will carry! Friend, he will be called Friedrich Schiller!”
This happened three days after November 10, 1759.