XI. THE KING AND THE GERMAN SCHOLAR
It was the winter of 1760. Germany, unhappy Germany, bleeding from a thousand wounds, was for a few months freed from the scourge of war; she could breathe again, and gather new strength for new contests. Stern winter with its ice and snow had alone given peace to the people for a short time. The rulers thought of and willed nothing but war; and the winter’s rest was only a time of preparation for new battles. The allies had never yet succeeded in vanquishing the little King of Prussia. Notwithstanding the disappointments and adversities crowded upon him--though good fortune and success seemed forever to have abandoned him--Frederick stood firm and undaunted, and his courage and his confidence augmented with the dangers which surrounded him.
But his condition appeared so sad, so desperate, that even the heroic Prince Henry despaired. The king had in some degree repaired the disasters of Kunersdorf and Mayen by his great victories at Leignitz and Torgau; but so mournful, so menacing was his position on every side, that even the victories which had driven his enemies from Saxony, and at least assured him his winter quarters, brought him no other advantages, and did not lessen the dangers which threatened him. His enemies stood round about him--they burned with rage and thirst to destroy utterly that king who was always ready to tear from them their newly-won laurels. Only by his complete destruction could they hope to quench the glowing enthusiasm which the people of all Europe expressed by shouts and exultation.
The Russians had their winter quarters for the first time in Pomerania. The Austrians lay in Silesia and Bohemia. The newly-supplied French army, and the army of the States, were on the Rhine. While the enemies of Frederick remained thus faithful to each other in their war against him, he had just lost his only ally.
King George II. of England was dead, and the weak George III. yielded wholly to the imperious will of his mother and to that of Lord Bute. He broke off his league with Prussia, and refused to pay the subsidy.
Thus Prussia stood alone--without money, without soldiers, without friends--surrounded by powerful and eager enemies--alone and seemingly hopeless, with so many vindictive adversaries.
All this made Prince Henry not only unhappy, but dispirited--palsied his courage, and made him wish to leave the army and take refuge in some vast solitude where he could mourn over the misfortunes of his distracted country. Accordingly he wrote to the king and asked for his discharge.
The king replied:
“It is not difficult, my brother, in bright and prosperous times, to find men willing to serve the state. Those only are good citizens who stand undaunted at the post of danger in times of great crises and disaster. The true calling of a man consists in this: that he should intrepidly carry out the most difficult and dangerous enterprises. The more difficulty, the more danger--the more bright honor and undying fame. I cannot, therefore, believe that you are in earnest in asking for your discharge. It is unquestionable that neither you nor I can feel certain of a happy issue to the circumstances which now surround us. But when we have done all which lies in our power, our consciences and public opinion will do us justice. We contend for our fatherland and for honor. We must make the impossible possible, in order to succeed. The number of our enemies does not terrify me. The greater their number, the more glorious will be our fame when we have conquered them.” [Footnote: Preuss, “History of Frederick the Great,” vol. ii., p. 246.]
Prince Henry, ashamed of his despondency, gave to this letter of his brother the answer of a hero. He marched against the Russians, drove them from Silesia, and raised the siege of Breslau, around which the Austrians under Loudon were encamped. Tauentzein, with fearless energy and with but three thousand Prussians, had fortified himself in Breslau against this powerful enemy. So in the very beginning of the winter the capital of Silesia had been retaken By Torgau the king had fought and won his twelfth battle for the possession of Silesia--yes, fought and won from his powerful and irreconcilable enemies. And all this had been in vain, and almost without results. The prospect of peace seemed far distant, and the hope of happiness for Frederick even as remote.
But now winter was upon them. This stern angel of peace had sheathed the sword, and for the time ended the war.
While the pious Maria Theresa and her court ladies made it the mode to prepare lint in their splendid saloons during the winter for the wounded soldiers--while the Russian General Soltikow took up his winter quarters at Poseu, and gave sumptuous feasts and banquets--Frederick withdrew to Leipsic, in which city philosophy and learning were at that time most flourishing. The Leipsigers indeed boasted that they had given an asylum to poetry and art.
The warrior-hero was now changed for a few happy months into the philosopher, the poet, and the scholar. Frederick’s brow, contracted by anxiety and care, was now smooth; his eye took again its wonted fire--a smile was on his lip, and the hand which had so long brandished the sword, gladly resumed the pen. He who had so long uttered only words of command and calls to battle, now bowed over his flute and drew from it the tenderest and most melting melodies. The evening concerts were resumed. The musical friends and comrades of the king had been summoned from Berlin; and that nothing might be wanting to make his happiness complete, he had called his best-beloved friend, the Marquis d’Argens, to his side.
D’Argens had much to tell of the siege of Berlin and the Russians--of the firm defence of the burghers-of their patriotism and their courage. Frederick’s eyes glistened with emotion, and in the fulness of his thankful heart he promised to stand by his faithful Berliners to the end. But when D’Argens told of the desolation which the Russians had wrought amongst the treasures of art in Charlottenburg, the brow of the king grew dark, and with profound indignation he said:
“Ah, the Russians are barbarians, who labor only for the downfall of humanity. [Footnote: The king’s own words,--Archenholtz, vol. i., p. 282] If we do not succeed in conquering them, and destroying their rude, despotic sovereignty, they will again and ever disquiet the whole of Europe. In the mean time, however,” said Frederick, “the vandalism of the Russians shall not destroy our beautiful winter rest. If they have torn my paintings and crushed my statues, we must collect new art-treasures. Gotzkowsky has told me that in Italy, that inexhaustible mine of art, there are still many glorious pictures of the great old masters; he shall procure them for me, and I will make haste to finish this war in order to enjoy my new paintings, and to rest in my beautiful Sans-Souci. Ah, marquis, let us speak no longer of it, in this room at least, let us forget the war. It has whitened my hair, and made an old man of me before my time. My back is bent, and my face is wrinkled as the flounce on a woman’s dress. All this has the war brought upon me. But my heart and my inclinations are unchanged, and I think I dare now allow them a little satisfaction and indulgence. Come, marquis, I have a new poem from Voltaire, sent to me a few days since. We will see if he can find grace before your stern tribunal. I have also some new sins to confess. That is to say, I have some poems composed in the hours of rest during my campaigns. You are my literary father confessor, and we will see if you can give me absolution.”
But the king did not dedicate the entire winter to music, and French poems, and gay, cheerful conversation with his friends. A part of this happy time was consecrated to the earnest study of the ancients. For the first time he turned his attention to German literature, and felt an interest in the efforts of German philosophers and poets.
Quintus Icilius, the learned companion of Frederick, had often assured him that the scholarship, the wit, the poetry of Germany, found at this time their best representatives in Leipsic, that he at length became curious to see these great men, of whom Quintus Icilius asserted that they far surpassed the French in scholarship, and in wit and intellect might take their places unchallenged side by side with the French.
The king listened to this assurance with rather a contemptuous smile. He directed Icilius, however, to present to him some of the Leipsic scholars and authors.
“I will present to your majesty the most renowned scholar and philologist of Leipsic, Professor Gottsched, and the celebrated author, Gellert,” said Icilius, with great animation. “Which of the two will your majesty receive first?”
“Bring me first the scholar and philologist,” said the king, laughing. “Perhaps the man has already discovered in this barbarous Dutch tongue a few soft notes and turns, and if so, I am curious to hear them. Go, then, and bring me Professor Gottsched. I have often heard of him, and I know that Voltaire dedicated an ode to him. In the mean time I will read a little in my Lucretius and prepare my soul for the interview with this great Dutchman.”
Icilius hastened off to summon the renowned professor to the king.
Gottsched, to whom, at that time, all Germany rendered homage, and who possessed all the pride and arrogance of a German scholar, thought it most natural that the king should wish to know him, and accepted the invitation with a gracious smile. In the complete, heart-felt conviction of his own glory, in the rigid, pedantic array of a magnificent, long-tailed wig, the German professor appeared before the king. His majesty received him in his short, simple, unostentatious manner, and smiled significantly at the pompous manner of the renowned man. They spoke at first of the progress of German philosophy, and the king listened with grave attention to the learned deductions of the professor, but he thought to himself that Gottsched understood but little how to make his knowledge palatable; he was probably a learned, but most certainly a very uninteresting man.
The conversation was carried on with more vivacity when they spoke of poetry and history, and the king entered upon this theme with warm interest.
“In the history of Germany, I believe there is still much concealed,” said Frederick; “I am convinced that many important documents are yet hidden away in the cloisters.”
Gottsched looked up at him proudly. “Pardon, sire,” said he, in his formal, pedantic way. “I believe those can be only unimportant documents. To my view, at least, there is no moment of German history concealed--all is clear, and I can give information on every point!”
The king bowed his head with a mocking smile. “You are a great scholar, sir; I dare not boast of any preeminence. I only know the history of the German States written by Pere Barre.”
“He has written a German history as well as a foreigner could write it,” said Gottsched. “For this purpose he made use of a Latin work, written by Struve, in Jena. He translated this book--nothing more. Had Barre understood German, his history would have been better; he would have had surer sources of information at his command.”
“But Barre was of Alsace, and understood German,” said Frederick, eagerly. “But you, who are a scholar, an author, and a grammarian, tell me, if any thing can be made of the German language?”
“Well, I think we have already made many beautiful things of it,” said Gottsched, in the full consciousness of his own fame. “But you have not been able to give it any melody, or any grace,” said Frederick. “The German language is a succession of barbarous sounds; there is no music in it. Every tone is rough and harsh, and its many discords make it useless for poetry or eloquence. For instance, in German you call a rival ‘Nebenbuhler,’ what a fatal, disgusting sound--‘Buhler!’” [Footnote: The king’s own words.--Archenholtz, vol. ii., p. 272.]
“Ah, your majesty,” said Gottsched, impatiently, “that is also a sound in the French tongue. You should know this, for no one understands better, more energetically than yourself, how to circumvent the ‘boules!’”
Frederick laughed; and this gay rejoinder of the learned professor reconciled him somewhat to his puffed-up and haughty self-conceit. “It is true,” said he, “this time you are right; but you must admit that, in general, the French language is softer and more melodious!”
“I cannot admit it,” said Gottsched, fiercely. “I assert that German is more musical. How harsh, how detestable sounds, for instance, the French ‘amour;’ how soft and tender--yes, I may say, how characteristic--sounds the word ‘liebe!’”
“Aha!” said the king, “you are certainly most happily married, or you would not be so enthusiastic about German ‘liebe,’ which I admit is a very different thing from French ‘amour.’ I am, however, convinced that the French language has many advantages over the German. For instance, in the French one word may often suffice to convey many different meanings, while for this purpose several German words must be combined.”
“That is true. There your majesty is right,” said Gottsched, thoughtfully. “The French language has this advantage. But this shall be no longer so--we will change it! Yes, yes--we will reform it altogether!”
Frederick looked astonished and highly diverted. This assumption of the learned scholar, “to change all that,” impressed him through its immensity. [Footnote: Many years afterward the king repeated this declaration of Gottsched to the Duchess of Gotha, “We will change all that,” and was highly amused.] “Bring that about sir,” said the king, gayly. “Wave your field-marshal’s staff and give to the German language that which it has never possessed, grace, significance, and facility; then breathe upon it the capability to express soft passion and tender feeling, and you will do for the language what Julius Caesar did for the people. You will be a conqueror, and will cultivate and polish barbarians!”
Gottsched did not perceive the mockery which lay in these words of the king, but received them smilingly as agreeable flattery. “The German language is well fitted to express tender emotions. I pledge myself to translate any French poem faithfully, and at the same time melodiously,” said he.
“I will put you to the proof, at once,” said the king, opening a book which lay upon the table. “Look! These are the Odes of Rousseau, and we will take the first one which accident presents Listen to this:”
“‘Sous un plus heureux auspice, La Deesse des amours, Veut qu’un nouveau sacrifice, Lui consacre vos beaux jours; Deja le bucher s’allume. L’autel brille, l’encens fume, La victime s’embellit, L’amour meme la consume, Le mystere s’accomplit.’
[Footnote: “Under a most happy omen, The goddess of love Wished that a new sacrifice Should consecrate to her our bright days. Already the fagots are lighted, The altar glows, the incense fumes, The victim is adorned-- By love itself it is consumed, The mystery accomplished.”]
“Do you believe it is possible to translate this beautiful stanza into German?” said the king.
“If your majesty allows me, I will translate it at once,” said he. “Give me a piece of paper and a pencil.”
“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?”
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.”
“You loved your mother too deeply, professor,” said Conrad; “that is the reason you are determined not to love and marry some other woman.”
“Why, man, do not talk to me again of marrying,” cried Gellert. “What has that fatal word to do in my study?”
“A great deal, sir; only look how miserable every thing is here; not even neat and comfortable, as it should certainly be in the room of so learned and celebrated a professor. Only think of the change that would be made by a bright young wife. You must marry, professor, and the lady must be rich. This state of things cannot continue; you must take a wife, for you cannot live on your celebrity.”
“No, Conrad, but on my salary,” said Gellert. “I receive two hundred and fifty thalers from my professorship; only think, two hundred and fifty thalers! That is a great deal for a German poet, Conrad; I should consider myself most fortunate. It is sufficient for my necessities, and will certainly keep me from want.”
“It would be sufficient, professor, if we were not so extravagant. I am an old man, and you may very well listen to a word from me. I served your father for fifteen years--in fact, you inherited me from him. I have the right to speak. If it goes so far, I will hunger and thirst with you, but it makes me angry that we should hunger and thirst when there is no necessity. Have you dined today?”
“No, Conrad,” said Gellert, looking embarrassed. “I had, accidentally, no money with me as I came out of the academy, and you know that I do not like to go to the eating-house without paying immediately.”
“Accidentally you had no money? You had probably left it at home.”
“Yes, Conrad, I had left it at home.”
“No, sir; you gave your last thaler to the student who came this morning and told you of his necessities, and complained so bitterly that he had eaten nothing warm for three days. You gave your money to him, and that was not right, for now we have nothing ourselves.”
“Yes, Conrad, it was right, it was my duty; he hungered and I was full; he was poor and in want, and I had money, and sat in my warm, comfortable room; it was quite right for me to help him.”
“Yes, you say so always, sir, and our money all goes to the devil,” muttered Conrad. “With what shall we satisfy ourselves to-day?”
“Well,” said Gellert, after a pause, “we will drink some coffee, and eat some bread and butter. Coffee is an excellent beverage, and peculiarly acceptable to poets, for it enlivens the fancy.”
“And leaves the stomach empty,” said Conrad.
“We have bread and butter to satisfy that. Ah, Conrad, I assure you we would often have been very happy in my father’s parsonage if we had had coffee and bread and butter for our dinner. We were thirteen children, besides my father and mother, and my father’s salary was not more than two hundred thalers. Conrad, he had less than I, and he had to provide for thirteen children.”
“As if you had not provided for yourself since you were eleven years old--as if I had not seen you copying late into the night to earn money, at an age when other children scarcely know what money is, and know still less of work.”
“But when I carried the money which I had earned to my mother, she kissed me so tenderly, and called me her brave, noble son--that was a greater reward than all the money in the world. And when the next Christmas came, and we were all thirteen so happy, and each one received a plate filled with nuts and apples and little presents, I received a shining new coat. It was the first time I had ever had a coat of new cloth. My mother had bought the material with the money I had earned. She had kept it all, and now my writings had changed into a beautiful coat, which I wore with pride and delight. No coat is so comfortable as one we have earned ourselves. The self-earned coat is the royal mantle of the poor.”
“But we need not be poor,” scolded Conrad. “It is that which makes me angry. If we were careful, we could live comfortably and free from care on two hundred and fifty thalers. But every thing is given away, and every thing is done for others, until we have nothing left for ourselves.”
“We have never gone hungry to bed, Conrad, and we need not hunger. To-day we have coffee, and bread and butter, and to-morrow I will receive something from my publishers from the fourth edition of my fables. It is not much, it will be about twenty thalers, but we will be able to live a long time on that. Be content, Conrad, and go now into the kitchen and prepare the coffee; I am really rather hungry. Well, Conrad, you still appear discontented. Have you another grievance in reserve?”
“Yes, professor, I have another. The beadle tells me that the university have offered you a still higher position than the one you now hold. Is it true?”
“Yes, Conrad, it is true. They wished me to become a regular professor.”
“And you declined?”
“I declined. I would have been obliged to be present at all the conferences. I would have had more trouble, and if I had had the misfortune to become rector I would have been lost indeed, for the rector represents the university; and if any royal personages should arrive it is he who must receive them and welcome them in the name of the university. No, no; protect me from such honors. I do not desire intercourse with great men. I prefer my present position and small salary, and the liberty of sitting quietly in my own study, to a regular professorship and a higher salary, and being forced to dance attendance in the antechambers of great people. Then, in addition to that, I am delicate, and that alone would prevent me from attending as many lectures as the government requires from a regular high-salaried professor. You must never receive money for work that you have not done and cannot do. Now, Conrad, those are my reasons for declining this situation for the second time. I think you will be contented now, and prepare me an excellent cup of coffee.”
“It is a shame, nevertheless,” said Conrad, “that they should say you are not a regular professor. But that is because you have no wife. If the Swedish countess were here, every thing would be changed; your study would be nicely arranged, and you would be so neatly dressed, that no one would dare to say you were not a regular professor.”
“But that is no offence, Conrad,” cried Gellert, laughing. “In the sense in which you understand it, I am more now than if I had accepted this other position, for I am now called an extraordinary professor.”
“Well, I am glad that they know that you are an extraordinary professor,” said Conrad, somewhat appeased. “Now I will go to the kitchen and make the coffee. That reminds me that I have a letter for you which was left by a servant.”
He took a letter from the table, and handed it to his master. While he was breaking the seal, Conrad approached the door slowly and hesitatingly, evidently curious to hear the contents of the letter. He had not reached the door, when Gellert recalled him.
“Conrad,” said Gellert, with a trembling voice, “hear what this letter contains.”
“Well, I am really curious,” said Conrad, smiling.
Gellert took the letter and commenced reading:
“My dear and honored professor, will you allow one of your--”
Here he hesitated, and his face flushed deeply. “No,” he said, softly; “I cannot read that; it is too great, too undeserved praise of myself. Read it yourself.”
“Nonsense!” said Conrad, taking the letter; “the professor is as bashful as a young girl. To read one’s praise, is no shame. Now listen: ‘My dear and honored professor, will you allow one of your pupils to seek a favor from you? I am rich! God has enriched you with the rarest gifts of mind and heart, but He has not bestowed outward wealth upon you. Your salary is not large, but your heart is so great and noble, that you give the little you possess to the poor and suffering, and care for others while you yourself need care. Allow me, my much-loved master, something of that same happiness which you enjoy. Grant me the pleasure of offering you (who divide your bread with the poor, and your last thaler with the suffering) a small addition to your salary, and begging you to use it so long as God leaves you upon earth, to be the delight of your scholars, and the pride of Germany. The banker Farenthal has orders to pay to you quarterly the sum of two hundred thalers; you will to-morrow receive the first instalment.”
“‘YOUR GRATEFUL AND ADMIRING PUPIL.’”
“Hurrah! hurrah!” cried Conrad, waving the paper aloft. “Now we are rich, we can live comfortably, without care. Oh, I will take care of you, and you must drink a glass of wine every day, in order to become strong, and I will bring your dinner from the best eating-house, that you may enjoy your meal in peace and quiet in your own room.”
“Gently, gently, Conrad!” said Gellert, smiling. “In your delight over the money, you forget the noble giver. Who can it be? Who among my pupils is so rich and so delicate, as to bestow so generously, and in such a manner?”
“It is some one who does not wish us to know his name, professor,” cried Conrad, gayly; “and we will not break our hearts over it. But now, sir, we will not content ourselves with bread and coffee; we are rich, and we need not live so poorly! I will go to the eating-house and bring you a nice broiled capon, and some preserved fruit, and a glass of wine.”
“It is true,” said Gellert, well pleased; “a capon would strengthen me, and a glass of wine; but no, Conrad, we will have the coffee; we have no money to pay for such a meal.”
“Well, we can borrow it! To-morrow you will receive the first quarterly payment of your pension, and then I will pay for your dinner.”
“No, Conrad, no!” said Gellert, firmly. “You should never eat what you cannot pay for immediately. Go to the kitchen and make the coffee.” Conrad was on the point of going discontentedly to obey the command of his master, when a loud and hasty ring was heard at the outer door of the professor’s modest lodging.
“Perhaps the banker has sent the money to-day,” cried Conrad, as he hurried off, whilst Gellert again took the letter and examined the handwriting.
But Conrad returned, looking very important.
“The Prussian major, Quintus Icilius, wishes to speak to the professor, in the name of the king,” he said, solemnly.
“In the name of the king!” cried Gellert; “what does the great warrior-hero want with poor Gellert?”
“That I will tell you,” replied a voice from the door; and as Gellert turned, he saw before him the tall figure of a Prussian officer. “Pardon me for having entered without your permission. Your servant left the door open, and I thought--”
“You thought, I hope, that Gellert would be happy to receive an officer from the king, especially one who bears so celebrated a name,” said Gellert, courteously, as he signed to Conrad to leave the room--a sign that Conrad obeyed most unwillingly, and with the firm determination to listen outside the door.
“In the first place, allow me to say how happy I am to make the acquaintance of so learned and celebrated a man as Professor Gellert,” said Quintus, bowing deeply; “then I must announce the cause of my appearance. His majesty the King of Prussia wishes to know you, and he has sent me to conduct you to him at once.”
“At once?” cried Gellert. “But, sir, you must see that I am weak and ill. The king will not care to see a sick man who cannot talk.”
Quintus glanced sympathizingly at the poor professor, and said:
“It is true, you do not look well, and I cannot force you to go with me to-day; but allow me to make one remark: if you think to escape the interview altogether, you are mistaken. The king desires to speak with you, and it is my duty to bring you to him. If you cannot go to-day, I must return to-morrow; if you are then still unwell, the day after; and so on every day, until you accompany me.”
“But this is frightful!” cried Gellert, anxiously.
Quintus shrugged his shoulders. “You must decide, sir,” he said; “I give you an hour. At four o’clock I will return and ask if you will go to-day, or another time.”
“Yes; do that, major,” said Gellert, breathing more freely. “In the mean time, I will take my dinner, and then see how it is with my courage. Conrad! Conrad!” exclaimed Gellert, as Quintus Icilius left him, and his servant entered the room. “Conrad, did you hear the bad tidings? I must go to the King of Prussia.”
“I heard,” said Conrad, “and I do not think it bad tidings, but a great honor. The king sent for Professor Gottsched a few days since, and conversed with him a long time. Since then, his entire household act as if Gottsched were the Almighty Himself, and as if they were all, at least, archangels. Therefore, I am glad that the king has shown you the same honor, and that he desires to know you.”
“Honor!” murmured Gellert. “This great lord wishes to see the learned Germans for once, as others visit a menagerie, and look at the monkeys, and amuse themselves with their wonderful tricks. It is the merest curiosity which leads such men to desire to behold the tricks and pranks of a professor. They know nothing of our minds; it satisfies them to look at us. Conrad, I will not go; I will be ill to-day and every other day. We will see if this modern Icilius will not yield!”
And the usually gentle and yielding poet paced the room in angry excitement, his eyes flashing, and his face deeply flushed.
“I will not--I will not go.”
“You must go, professor,” said Conrad, placing himself immediately in front of his master, and looking at him half-imploringly, half-threateningly--“you must go; you will give your old Conrad the pleasure of being able to say to the impudent servants of Herr Gottsched that my master has also been to the King of Prussia. You will not do me the injury of making me serve a master who has not been to see the king, while Herr Gottsched has been?”
“But, Conrad,” said Gellert, complainingly, “what good will it have done me to have declined the position of regular professor, that I might be in no danger of becoming rector, and being obliged to see kings and princes?”
“It will show the world,” said Conrad, “that a poet need not be a regular professor in order to be called into the society of kings and princes. You must go--the king expects you; and if you do not go, you will appear as the Austrians do, afraid of the King of Prussia.”
“That is true,” said Gellert, whose excitement had somewhat subsided; “it will look as though I were afraid.”
“And so distinguished a man should fear nothing,” said Conrad, “not even a king.”
“Well, so be it,” said Gellert, smiling, “I will go to the king to-day, but I must first eat something; if I went fasting to the king I might faint, and that would disgrace you forever, Conrad.”
“I will run and bring the coffee,” said the delighted old servant.
XIII. THE POET AND THE KING
Gelbert had scarcely finished his frugal meal, and arranged his toilet a little, when Major Quintus arrived and asked the poet if he were still too unwell to accompany him to the king.
“I am still indisposed,” said Gellert, with a sad smile, “but my indisposition is of a kind that leaves me neither to day, to-morrow nor any day; it is therefore better for me to gratify the king’s commands at once. I am ready to accompany you, sir; let us depart.”
He took his three-cornered hat, which Conrad handed him with a delightful smirk, and followed the major to the splendid house where the king had taken his quarters for the winter.
“Allow me a favor, sir,” said Quintus, as they mounted the steps; “the king is prejudiced against German poets and philosophers, and it would be of the greatest advantage to the literary and political world of Germany for these prejudices to disappear, and for the great Frederick to give to Germany the sympathy and encouragement which until now he has lavished upon the French and Italians. Think of this, sir, and endeavor to win the king by your obliging and pleasing manner.”
“Oh, major!” sighed Gellert, “I do not understand the art of pleasing the great ones of this world. I cannot utter words of praise and flattery; my heart and manners are simple and not showy.”
“Exactly, this is beautiful and attractive,” said the major, smiling: “the king cannot endure pretension or conceited wisdom. Be simply yourself; imagine that you are in your own study, conversing frankly and freely with a highly-honored friend, to whom politeness and attention are due.”
The king, with his flute in hand, was walking up and down the room, when the door opened, and Major Quintus entered with Gellert.
Frederick immediately laid his flute aside, and advanced to meet the poet with a gracious smile. Gellert’s gentle and intellectual countenance was composed, and his eyes were not cast down or confused by the piercing glance of the king.
“Is this Professor Gellert?” said the king, with a slight salutation.
“Yes, your majesty,” said Gellert, bowing profoundly.
“The English ambassador has spoken well of you,” said the king; “he has read many of your works.”
“That proves him to be a thoughtful and benevolent gentleman, who hopes something from German writers,” said Gellert, significantly.
Frederick smiled, and perhaps to excite him still more, said quickly:
“Tell me, how does it happen, Gellert, that we have so few celebrated writers?”
“Your majesty sees before you now a German poet whom even the French have translated, and who call him the German La Fontaine.”
“That is great praise, great praise,” said the king, whose large eyes fastened themselves more attentively upon Gellert’s modest, expressive face. “You are then called the German La Fontaine? Have you ever read La Fontaine?”
“Yes, sire, but I did not imitate him,” said Gellert, ingenuously, “I am an original.”
The king nodded gayly; Gellert’s quick frankness pleased him.
“Good,” he said, “you are an excellent poet; but why do you stand alone?”
Gellert shrugged his shoulders slightly.
“Your majesty is prejudiced against the Germans.”
“No, I cannot admit that,” said the king, quickly.
“At least against German writers,” replied Gellert.
“Yes, that is true; I cannot deny that. Why have we no good writers in Germany?”
“We have them, sire,” said Gellert, with noble pride. “We boast a Maskow, a Kramer--who has set Bossuet aside.”
“How!” cried the king, astonished; “Bossuet? Ah, sir, how is it possible for a German to set Bossuet aside?”
“Kramer has done so, and with great success,” said Gellert, smiling. “One of your majesty’s most learned professors has said that Kramer has the eloquence of Bossuet, and more profound historical accuracy.”
The king appeared really astonished, and walked several times thoughtfully up and down his room.
“Was my learned professor capable of deciding that question?”
“The world believes so, sire.”
“Why does no one translate Tacitus?”
“Tacitus is difficult,” said Gellert, smiling; “there are some bad French translations of this author.”
“You are right,” said the king.
“Altogether,” continued Gellert, “there are a variety of reasons why the Germans have not become distinguished in letters. When art and science bloomed in Greece, the Romans were becoming renowned in war. Perhaps the Germans have sought their fame on the battle-field; perhaps they had no Augustus or Louis XIV. who favored and encouraged the historians and poets of Germany.”
This was a daring and broad allusion, but Frederick received it smilingly.
“You have had an Augustus, perhaps two, in Saxony,” he said.
“And we have made a good commencement in Saxony. We should have an Augustus for all of Germany.”
“What!” cried the king, quickly, and with sparkling eyes, “you desire an Augustus for Germany?”
“Not exactly,” said Gellert, “but I wish that every German sovereign would encourage genius and letters in his country. Genius needs encouragement; and when it does not find it in its own land, and from its native princes, it cannot retain the great and joyous power of creation.”
The king did not answer, but walked thoughtfully up and down; from time to time he glanced quickly and searchingly at Gellert, who was standing opposite to him.
“Have you ever been out of Saxony?” said the king, at last.
“Yes, sire, I was once in Berlin.”
“You should go again,” said the king--then added, as if he regretted having shown the German poet so much sympathy, “at all events, you should travel.”
“To do so, your majesty, I require health and money.”
“Are you sick?” asked the king, in a gentle, sympathizing voice. “What is your malady? Perhaps too much learning.”
Gellert smiled. “As your majesty thinks so, it may bear that interpretation. In my mouth it would have sounded too bold.”
“I have had this malady myself,” said the king, laughing; “I will cure you. You must take exercise--ride out every day.”
“Ah, sire, this cure might easily produce a new disease for me,” said Gellert, terrified; “if the horse should be healthier than I, I could not ride it, and if it were as weak as myself, we would not be able to stir from the spot.”
“Then you must drive,” said the king, laughing.
“I have not the money, sire.”
“That is true,” said the king. “All German writers need money, and we have fallen upon evil times.”
“Yes, truly, sire, evil times; but it lies in your majesty’s hands to change all this, if you would give peace to Germany.”
“How can I?” cried the king, violently. “Have you not heard that there are three against me?”
“I care more for ancient than modern history,” said Gellert, who did not desire to follow the king upon the slippery field of politics.
“You, then, are accurately acquainted with the ancients?” said the king. “Which, then, do you think the greatest and most renowned of that epoch--Homer or Virgil?”
“Homer, I think, merits the preference, because he is original.”
“But Virgil is more polished and refined.”
Gellert shook his head violently. Now that the old writers were being discussed, the German sage overcame his timidity.
“We are entirely too widely separated from Virgil to be able to judge of his language and style. I trust to Quintilian, who gives Homer the preference.”
“But we must not be slaves to the judgment of the ancients,” said the king, aroused.
“I am not, sire; I only adopt their views when distance prevents my judging for myself.”
“You are certainly right in this,” said the king, kindly. “Altogether you appear to be a wise and reasonable man. I understand that you have greatly improved the German language.”
“Ah, yes, sire, but unfortunately it has been in vain.”
“Why is this?” said the king. “You all wish me to interest myself in German, but it is such a barbarous language, that I often have quires of writing sent me, of which I do not understand a word. Why is it not otherwise?”
“If your majesty cannot reform this, I certainly cannot,” said Gellert, smiling; “I can only advise, but you can command.”
“But your poems are not written in this stiff, pompous German. Do you not know one of your fables by heart?”
“I doubt it, sire, my memory is very treacherous.”
“Well, try and think of one. In the mean while I will walk backward and forward a little. Well, have you thought of one?”
“Yes, your majesty,” said Gellert, after a brief silence, “I believe I remember one.”
“Let us hear it,” said the king; and, seating himself upon the fauteuil, he gazed fixedly at Gellert, who, standing in the middle of the room, his clear glance turned toward the king, now began his recitation.
“THE PAINTER.”
“A painter, Athens his abode, Who painted less for love of gain Than crowns of laurel to obtain, Mars’ portrait to a connoisseur once showed, And his opinion of it sought. The judge spoke freely what he thought, Twas wholly not unto his taste, he said, And that, to please a practised eye, Far less of art should be displayed. The painter failed not to reply, And though the critic blamed with skill, Was of the same opinion still.”
“Then in the room a coxcomb came, To scan the work with praise or blame. He with a glance its worth descried; ‘Ye gods! A masterpiece’ he cried. ‘Ah, what a foot! what skilled details, E’en to the painting of the nails! A living Mars is here revealed, What skill--what art in light and shade-- Both in the helmet and the shield, And in the armor are displayed!’”
“The painter blushed with humbled pride, Looked at the judge with woful mien, ‘Too well am I convinced’ he cried, ‘Unjust to me thou hast not been.’ The coxcomb scarce had disappeared, when he his god of battle smeared.”
“And the moral,” cried the king, with vivacity, as Gellert ceased for a moment.
“Here is the moral, sire:”
“If what you write offends the critic’s rules, It is an evil sign, no doubt; But when ‘tis lauded to the skies by fools, ‘Tis time, indeed, to blot it out.”
“That is beautiful--very beautiful; you have something gallant in your person. I understand every thing you say. I received a translation of ‘Iphigenia’ by Gottsched, and Quintus read it to me. I had the French with me, and I did not understand a word. He also brought me a poem by Pietsh, but I threw it aside.”
“I threw it aside, also,” said Gellert, smiling.
The king smiled pleasantly. “Should I remain here, you must come often and bring your fables to read to me.”
Gellert’s brow clouded slightly. “I do not know whether I am a good reader,” he said, in some embarrassment. “I have such a sing-song, monotonous voice.”
“Yes, like the Silesians,” said the king, “but it sounds pleasantly. You must read your fables yourself. No one else can give the proper emphasis. You must visit me soon again.”
“Do not forget the king’s request,” said Quintus Icilius, as he escorted Gellert to the door. “Visit him soon, and be assured you shall never come in vain. I will take care that the king receives you always.”
Gellert looked up smilingly at the major. “My dear sir, in many respects I am quite an old-fashioned man; for example, I have read a great deal in the Old Scriptures for instruction. I have read, ‘Put not your trust in princes.’ These words seem wise to me, and you must allow me to interpret them literally, and act accordingly.”
Gellert withdrew, and hastened home. The major returned to the king, admiring, almost envying, Gellert’s modest, independent, and beautiful character.
“Quintus,” said the king, “I thank you sincerely for my new German acquaintance. The poet is better than the philosopher. Gellert is the wisest and cleverest poet of his time--a much worthier man than Gottsched, with all his pompous knowledge. Gellert’s fame will outlive his. He is perhaps the only German who will not be forgotten. He attempts but little, and succeeds well.”
XIV. THE KING AND THE VILLAGE MAGISTRATE
In the little village of Voiseilvitz, near the Silesian frontier, there was a great stir and excitement. The quartermaster of the army had just arrived and announced the king’s approach. He then went on to the next village to seek quarters for the army. After their many sufferings and wants, the weary soldiers were much in need of rest and refreshment. They had passed many, many miserable weeks, during which the most patient had become disheartened. The king alone had retained his courage, his presence of mind, his activity and energy. He had borne, without complaint, every want and privation. Surrounded by powerful enemies, his great and clear mind had contrived the intrenchments which encompassed his camp, and which had filled his enemies with wonder. Neither Daun, Loudon, Butterlin, nor Ternitschow, dared attack the camp that had suddenly become a strong fortress. They gazed in wild amazement at their daring, invincible enemy, whom they had so often thought to ruin, and who had continually with his lion strength broken the nets they had laid for him. Not daring to attack him with their cannon and their swords, the allies relied upon another much more fearful weapon--hunger! It was impossible for the king, surrounded as he was by enemies, to obtain food for his troops and fodder for the horses. But Frederick did not cease to hope: he turned night into day and day into night; thus he was prepared for any movement. During the day he could observe all that passed in the enemy’s camp; a few slight guards were placed in the intrenchments, while the rest of the army slept. But at night they did not sleep; as soon as evening came, all the tents were taken down, the cannon were planted, and behind them the regiments were placed in line of battle. Thus they stood listening in breathless silence for any sound or movement that would announce the enemy’s approach. All were ready and waiting for them, determined to die rather than surrender.
In spite of privations, want of rest and food, the army remained hopeful, for their king shared their danger, wants, and sleepless nights. He was always with them--he hungered and worked with them. If the soldiers were deprived of their rations, they had at least the consolation of knowing that the king suffered likewise. This strengthened and encouraged them.
The Prussians had fortitude to bear their sufferings, but their enemy had not the patience to wait. Butterlin, the Russian commander, tired of watching Frederick, withdrew to Poland; and Loudon, not feeling secure now in his isolated position, retired also.
After four weeks of agony and want, the Prussian army could leave their encampment and seek both food and rest. They were to recruit themselves in the villages in the vicinity of Strehlen; the king and his staff were to rest at Voiseilvitz. The house of the magistrate had been chosen as the only dwelling-place fit for these noble guests. The magistrate, elated at the honor, was marching from room to room, scolding, imploring his servants to have every thing clean and orderly.
“Remember,” said he, “a king is to inhabit this house; he will be enraged if there is the least spot or stain upon the floors or windows, for of course he wears beautiful garments, covered with pearls and diamonds, and embroidered in gold and silver. How fearful, then, would it be were he to ruin them at my house! He would be infuriated, for money is scarce now, and I dare say as hard for him to get as for us.”
At last, thanks to threats and entreaties, the house was in readiness for the king. The front room was beautifully clean, and white blinds were at the windows. The deal table was covered with a snow-white damask cloth. Beside a window in which were placed some bright plants, an old leathern arm-chair was standing, which the magistrate intended for a throne. The walls were covered with some portraits of the royal family of Prussia. Around a wretched engraving of Frederick a wreath of immortelles and forget-me-nots was woven. In a corner stood a large bed with clean white curtains in readiness for the king. When every thing was arranged, with a last proud look at his handsome dwelling, the magistrate hurried to the front door, waiting anxiously for his guest. His heart beat high with expectation--his whole being was in commotion--he was to see a king for the first time, and he asked himself how this king would look. “How glorious his eyes must be! I think he must radiate like the sun. It must almost blind the eyes to dwell upon his splendor.”
Lost in these thoughts, he did not observe a cavalcade consisting of three riders passing through the street. The foremost one was enveloped in an old faded blue mantle, his large three-cornered hat hung far over his brow, shading his eyes and his thin, pale countenance. His heavy army boots were in need both of brushing and mending. His two companions formed an agreeable contrast to him. They wore the rich, glittering uniforms of Prussian staff officers. All about them was neat and elegant, and pleased the magistrate right well. The cavalcade now stopped at his house, and, to the amazement of the villagers, the two spruce young officers sprang to the ground--and hastened to assist the man in the blue mantle to alight from his horse. But he waved them aside, and springing lightly from the saddle, advanced to the house door. The magistrate blocked up the way, and looking haughtily at the stranger, said:
“You undoubtedly belong to the servants of the king, and think, therefore, to enter my house. But that cannot be. The king alone will dwell with me. If you are what I suppose you to be, you must go next door. My neighbor may have quarters for you.”
The stranger smiled. Fixing his large, brilliant eyes sternly upon the magistrate, he caused him to draw back almost in terror, feeling as if the sun had really blinded him.
“I am not one of the king’s servants,” said the stranger, gayly, “but I am invited to dine with him.”
“Then it is all right,” said the magistrate, “you can enter. But you must first go into that little side-room and brush your shoes before the king sees you, for he would surely be enraged to find you in dusty boots.”
The king laughed gayly, and entered the house. “I will go to the king’s chamber at once. I think he will forgive my shoes.” He beckoned to the two officers and entered his room, the door of which he left open.
The magistrate took no more notice of him, but remained outside, looking eagerly for the king.
Frederick still did not come to illuminate the street with his splendor. In his stead came generals and officers, with gold epaulets and bright stars sparkling on their coats, and entered the king’s chamber, without a word to the magistrate.
“They are all waiting for the king,” murmured he, “but I shall see him first. How splendid and magnificent are all these officers! How grand, how glorious then must the king be, who is far nobler than they! He does not come; I will enter and pass the time in looking at all these splendidly-dressed soldiers.” He stepped lightly to the door, and peered in. He started; a low cry of terror escaped him, as he looked at the scene before him.
The generals--the officers dressed in the gold and silver embroidered uniforms--stood around the room with bared heads; in their midst stood the stranger with the dusty boots. He alone had his hat on. He alone bore neither epaulets nor stars: he was clad in simple uniform, without a single ornament, and still, wonderful to say, it now seemed to the magistrate that he was more noble, more splendid-looking than all the others. He was the smallest amongst them, but seemed much taller. They stood with bowed heads before him; he alone was raised proudly to his full height. There was something grand and glorious in his countenance; and when his large, luminous eyes fell upon the magistrate, he endeavored in vain to slip away--he was rooted to the spot as if by magnetism.
“Will you not stay with us until the king comes?” said Frederick, laughing.
The magistrate answered the smile with a broad grin. “I see, sir,” said he, “that you are laughing at me. You know that you yourself are the king.”
Frederick nodded an assent, and then turned to Prince Anhalt von Dessau.
“You see, sir, how precarious a thing is the glory and magnificence of a king. This man took me for a servant; his dull eyes could not perceive my innate glory.”
“Your majesty justly calls this man’s eyes dull,” said the prince, laughing.
Frederick looked at him kindly, and then began a low, earnest conversation with his generals, who listened attentively to his every word.
The magistrate still stood at the door. It seemed to him that he had never seen any thing so splendid-looking as this man with the muddy boots, the simple coat, and torn, unwieldy hat, whose countenance beamed with beauty, whose eyes glittered like stars.
“That, then, is really the king?” said he to one of the royal servants--“the King of Prussia, who for five years has been fighting with the empress for us?”
“Yes, it is him.”
“From to-day on I am a Prussian at heart,” continued the magistrate; “yes, and a good and true one. The King of Prussia dresses badly, that is true, but I suppose his object is to lighten the taxes.” Passing his coat-sleeve across his misty eyes, he hastened to the kitchen to investigate dinner.
XV. THE PROPOSAL OF MARRIAGE
Some days had passed since the king entered Voiseilvitz. He dwelt in the house of the magistrate, and the generals were quartered in the huts of the village. The regiments were in the neighboring hamlets. The king lived quietly in his house, wholly given up to anxiety and discontent. He ate alone in his room, spoke to no one, or if he did, said only a few grave words. All jesting was vanished from his lips; he was never seen to smile, never heard to play the flute. The grief which oppressed his heart was too profound to be confided to the soft and melting tones of his flute. Even that cherished companion could now give him no consolation. Fearful, horrible intelligence had followed him from the encampment at trehlen. It had poisoned these days of long-denied and necessary rest, and shrouded the gloomy future with yet darker presentiments of evil.
Schweidnitz, the strong fortress, the key of Silesia, which had been so long and with such mighty effort defended, had fallen!--had yielded to the Austrians--and Frederick had thus lost the most important acquisition of the last year, and thus his possession of Silesia was again made doubtful. He looked sadly back upon all the precious blood which had been shed to no purpose--upon all the great and hardly-won battles, won in vain. He looked forward with an aching heart to the years of blood and battle which must follow. Frederick longed for rest and peace--he was weary of bloodshed and of war. Like an alluring, radiant picture of paradise, the image of his beloved Sans-Souci passed from time to time before his soul. He dreamed of his quiet library and his beautiful picture-gallery. And yet his courage was unconquered--and he preferred the torture of these wretched days--he preferred death itself to the unfavorable and humiliating peace which his proud enemies, made presumptuous by their last successes, dared to offer him. They stood opposed to him in monstrous superiority, but Frederick remained unshaken. With a smaller army and fewer allies Alexander demolished Persia. “But happily,” he said to himself, “there was no Alexander to lead his enemies to victory.”
Frederick did not despair, and yet he did not believe in the possibility of triumph. He preferred an honorable death to a dishonorable peace. He would rather fail amidst the proud ruins of Prussia, made great by his hand, than return with her to their former petty insignificance. They offered him peace, but a peace which compelled him to return the lands he had conquered, and to pay to his victorious enemies the costs of the war.
The king did not regard these mortifying propositions as worthy of consideration, and he commanded his ambassador, whom he had sent to Augsburg to treat with the enemy, to return immediately. “It is true,” he said to his confidant, Le Catt, “all Europe is combined against me--all the great powers have resolved upon my destruction. And England, the only friend I did possess in Europe, has now abandoned me.”
“But one has remained faithful.”
“‘Among the faithless, faithful only he’ Among the innumerable false, unmoved, unshaken, unseduced, unterrified, that is my sword. If the exalted empresses are not my friends, the greater honor to my good sword which has never failed me, and which shall go down with me into the dark grave. If in Europe I have neither friends nor allies, I may find both in other parts of the world. Asia may send me the troops which Europe denies. If Russia is my enemy, who knows but for this reason Turkey may become my ally? And who knows but an alliance with the so-called unbelievers would be of more value to Prussia than a league with the so-called believing Russians? They call themselves Christians, but their weapons are lies, intrigues, deceit, and treachery. The Moslem, however, is an honorable man and a brave soldier. If he calls his God Allah, and his Christ Mohammed, God may call him to account. I have nothing to do with it. What has faith to do with the kings of this world? Besides, I believe the Turks and Tartars are better Christians than the Russians.”
“Your majesty is really, then, thinking of an alliance with the Turks and Tartars?” said Le Catt.
“I am thinking of it so earnestly,” said the king, eagerly, “that day and night I think of nothing else. I have spared no cost, no gold, no labor, to bring it about. Once I had almost succeeded, and the Sublime Porte was inclined to this league; and my ambassador, Rexin, was, with the consent of the Grand Vizier Mustapha, and indeed by his advice, disguised and sent secretly to Constantinople. The negotiations were almost completed, when the Russian and French ambassadors discovered my plans, and by bribery, lies, and intrigues of every base sort, succeeded in interfering. Mustapha broke his promise, and his only answer to me was--‘that the Sublime Porte must wait for happier and more propitious days to confirm her friendship and good understanding with the King of Prussia.’ This was the will of God the Almighty. This propitious year has been a long time coming, but I hope it is now at hand, and this longed-for alliance will at length be concluded. The last dispatches from my ambassador in Constantinople seem favorable. The wise and energetic Grand Vizier Raghile, the first self-reliant and enterprising Turkish statesman, has promised Rexin to bring this matter before the sultan, and I am daily expecting a courier who will bring me a decisive and perhaps favorable answer from Tartary.”
[Footnote: Kammer, “History of the Porte,” vol. viii., p. 190.]
Le Catt gazed with admiration upon the noble, excited countenance of the king. “Oh, sire,” said he, deeply moved, “pardon, that in the fulness of my heart, overcome with joy and rapture. I dare for once to give expression in words to my love and my admiration. It is a glorious spectacle to see the proud oak in the midst of the wild tempest firm and unmoved, not even bowing its proud head to the raging elements, offering a bold but calm defiance. But it is a still more exalted spectacle to see a man with a brave heart and flashing eye defy disaster and death; alone, in the consciousness of his own strength, meeting Fate as an adversary and gazing upon it eye to eye unterrified. Misfortune is like the lion of the desert. If a man with steady eye and firm step advances to meet him, he ceases to roar and lies down humbly at his feet; he recognizes and quails before man made in the likeness of God. You, my king, now offer this spectacle to the astonished world. Can you wonder that I, who am ever near you, are filled with devotion and adoration, and must at last give utterance to my emotion? I have seen your majesty on the bloody battle-field, and in the full consciousness of victory, but never have I seen the laurels which crown your brow so radiant as in these days of your misfortune and defeat. Never was the King of Prussia so great a hero, so glorious a couqueror, as during these last weeks of destitution and gloom. You have hungered with the hungry, you have frozen with the freezing; you have passed the long, weary nights upon your cannon or upon the hard, cold earth. You have divided your last drop of wine with the poor soldiers. You did this, sire; I was in your tent and witnessed it--I alone. You sat at your dinner--a piece of bread and one glass of Hungarian wine, the last in your possession. An officer entered with his report. You asked him if he had eaten. He said yes, but his pale, thin face contradicted his words. You, sire, broke off the half of your bread, you drank the half of your wine, then gave the rest to the officer, saying in an almost apologetic tone, ‘It is all that I have.’ Sire, on that day I did what since my youth I have not done--I wept like a child, and my every glance upon your nobel face was a prayer.”
“Enthusiast,” said the king, giving his hand to Le Catt with a kindly smile, “is the world so corrupt that so natural an act should excite surprise, and appear great and exalted? Are you astonished at that which is simply human? But look! There is a courier! He stops before the door of my peasant-palace. Quick, quick! Le Catt; let me know the news he brings.”
Le Catt hastened off, and returned at once with the dispatches.
Frederick took them with impatient haste, and while he read, his grave face lightened, and a happy, hopeful smile played once more upon his lips. “Ah, Le Catt,” said he, “I was a good prophet, and my hopes are about to be fulfilled. Europe is against me, but Asia is my ally. The barbarous Russians are my enemies, but the honest Turks and Tartars are my friends. This dispatch is from my ambassador Rexin. He is coming, accompanied by an ambassador of Tartary, and may be here in a few hours.”
“Where will your majesty receive him?” said Le Catt.
The king looked around smilingly at the little room, with the rude walls and dirty floor.
“I will receive him here!” said he; “here, in my royal palace of Voiseilvitz. I am forced to believe that a right royal king would, by his presence, transform the lowliest hut into a palace, and the most ordinary chair into a throne. The eyes of the ambassador may, however, be as dull as those of the worthy possessor of my present palace. It may be that he will not recognize me as the visible representative of God--as king by the grace of God. We must therefore come to his assistance, and show ourselves in all the dazzling glitter of royalty. We must improvise a throne, and, it appears to me, that leathern arm-chair, which certainly belonged to a grandfather, is well suited to the occasion. It will be a worthy representation of my throne, which was my grandfather’s throne; he erected it, and I inherited it from him. Shove it, then, into the middle of the room, and fasten some of the Russian flags, which we took at Zorndorf, on the wall behind it; spread my tent-carpet on the floor, and my throne saloon is ready. Quick, Le Catt, make your preparations; call the servants, and show them what they have to do. In the mean time, I will make my toilet; I must not appear before the worthy ambassador in such unworthy guise.” The king rang hastily, and his valet, Deesen, entered. “Deesen,” said he, gayly, “we will imagine ourselves to be again in Sans-Souci, and about to hold a great court. I must do then, what I have not done for a long time--make grande toilette. I will wear my general’s uniform, and adorn myself with the order of the Black Eagle. I will have my hair frizzed, and screw up an imposing cue. Well, Deesen, why do you gaze at me so wildly?”
“Sire, the general’s coat is here, but--”
“Well, but what?” cried the king, impatiently.
“But the breeches! the breeches!” stammered Deesen, turning pale; “they are torn; and those your majesty now wears, are your last and only ones.”
“Well, then,” said the king, laughing, “I will continue to wear my last and only breeches; I will put on my general’s coat, voila tout.”
“That is wholly impossible,” cried Deesen, wringing his hands. “If your majesty proposes to hold a great court, you cannot possibly wear these breeches!”
“Why not? why not?” said the king, fiercely.
“Sire,” murmured Deesen, “sire, that has happened to them which happened to your majesty at Torgau.”
“That is to say--“said the king, questioningly.
“That is to say, they are wounded.”
Frederick looked surprised, and following the glance of his valet, he found his eyes fixed upon his knees.
“You are right, Deesen,” said he, laughing; “that disaster has befallen my breeches which befell me at Torgau: they are wounded, and need a surgeon.”
“Your majesty must therefore graciously postpone your great court till to-morrow. Perhaps I may find a tailor in one of the neighboring villages; he will work during the night, and early tomorrow every thing will be in order.”
“It must be done to-day--done immediately,” cried the king. “In a few hours the injury must be healed, and my apparel fully restored to health.”
“But, sire,” whispered Deesen, “how can that be possible? Your majesty has but one pair, and you must take them off, in order that they may be mended.”
“Well, I will take them off,” said the king; “go and seek the tailor. I will undress and go to bed till this important operation is performed. Go at once!”
While the king was undressing, he heard Deesen’s stentorian voice, calling out lustily through the streets--“A tailor! a tailor! is there a tailor amongst the soldiers?”
The king was scarcely covered up in bed before Deesen entered, with a joyous face.
“Sire, I have found a soldier who can do the work; he is not a tailor, but he swears he can sew and patch, and he undertakes to dress the wounds.”
“And yet, it is said that a higher power rules the world,” murmured the king, when he was again alone; “accident--accident decides all questions. If there had been no tailor amongst the soldiers, the King of Prussia could not have received the ambassador of Tartary to-day, and the negotiations might have been broken off.”
At this moment the door opened, and Le Catt entered, followed by a servant with the Russian flags and the carpet. When he saw the king in bed, he started back, and asked anxiously “if his majesty had been taken suddenly unwell?”
“No,” said Frederick, “I am only making my toilet.”
“Your toilet, sire?”
“Yes, Le Catt, did you see a soldier at the door?”
“Yes, sire.”
“What was he doing?”
“He seemed to be sewing.”
“He is sewing, and he is to-day my first gentleman of the bedchamber; he is dressing me. Ah! in the presence of this humble patcher, I remember that a wise man said, ‘A king is but a man to his valet de chambre.’ But do not allow my presence to prevent you from building my throne; I will rest here comfortably, and look on.”
While the king lay in bed waiting, the soldier who had undertaken the job, sat on a bench before the door. He bent his head zealously over his work, and did not once look up to his comrade who stood near him, leaning against a large oak, gazing rigidly and unweariedly at him. But in this steady and indefatigable glance, there seemed to be a strange, attractive power, which the soldier could not resist. He raised his head involuntarily for a moment, and the sweet and noble face of Charles Henry Buschman was seen.
“Fritz Kober,” said he, “why do you gaze at me so, and why do you follow me?”
“Because I have been so accustomed to be where you are!” said Fritz Kober, quietly. “When I heard Deesen call for a tailor, and you answered, ‘Here! here!’ I stepped out of my tent and followed you; nothing more! But you would also know why I look at you? Well, while it pleases me to see you sewing, it brings strange and pleasant thoughts to my mind.”
“What sort of strange and pleasant thoughts, Fritz?” said Charles Henry, bowing down again earnestly over his work.
“I thought,” said Fritz Kober, in a trembling voice, “that if ever I should take a wife, she must look exactly as you do, Charles Henry; she must have the same neat little hands, and be expert with the needle as you are. Then I thought further, that in the whole world there was no man so good and brave, so gentle and intelligent as you. Then I considered what would become of me when the war was at an end, and you should desert me and go back to your village. Then I resolved to follow you through the whole world, and not to cease my prayers and entreaties till you promised to come into my hut, and take all that was mine--under the condition that you would keep me always with you--at least as your servant--and never spurn me or cast me off. Then, I thought further, that if you said no--if you refused to come into my house, I would wander far away in despair, and, in the anguish of my heart I would become a bad and contemptible man. Without you, Charles Henry, there is no joy or peace in this world for me; you fire my good angel! Charles Henry Buschman, do you wish me to be a dissolute drunkard?”
“How can I wish that, Fritz Kober?” whispered Charles Henry. “But you could never be a bad man; you have the best and noblest heart in the world! No man dare injure or abuse you! You give to those who ask of you, you help those who suffer, and you stand by those who are in difficulty! Then you are a complete, true man, and know how to maintain your own dignity on every occasion. All who approach you are compelled to respect you, and no one will ever dare to cast a reproach on Fritz Kober. You are, at the same time, a hero, a good man, and an innocent child, and my heart rejoices in you.”
“What is good in me, I owe to you,” said Fritz Kober. “Before I knew you, I was a simple blockhead, and lived on stupidly from day to day, thinking of nothing. Since I knew you, I have learned to open my eyes, and to reflect. But all this will be changed if you desert me, Charles Henry, and I see that you will do so; yes, you will abandon me. For three weeks past you have taken no notice of me. You would not go into my tent with me at Bunzelwitz, but camped out alone. Here, in the village, you would not come into my hut, but quartered with an old peasant woman. So I followed you to-day, to ask you, once for all, if you have the heart to leave me--to spurn me from you? Look at me, Charles Henry! look at me and tell me if you will make a pitiful and unhappy man of me?”
Charles Henry looked up from his work, and gazed at the pale, agitated face of his comrade; and as he did so, tears gushed from his eyes.
“God forbid, Fritz Kober, that I should make you unhappy! I would rather shed my heart’s blood to make you happy.”
“Hurrah! hurrah!” cried Fritz Kober. “If this is so, listen to me and answer me, Charles Henry Buschman, will you be my wife?”
A glowing blush suffused Charles Henry’s face; he bowed down over his work and sewed on in monstrous haste.
Fritz Kober came nearer and bowed so low that he was almost kneeling.
“Charles Henry Buschman, will you be my wife?”
Charles Henry did not answer; tears and bobs choked his voice, and trembling with emotion he laid his head on Fritz Kober’s shoulder.
“Does that mean yes?” said Fritz, breathlessly.
“Yes,” whispered she, softly.
And now Fritz uttered a wild shout, and threw his arms around the soldier’s neck and kissed him heartily.
“God be thanked that it is over,” said he; “God be thanked that I did not deceive myself--that you are truly a girl. When you were last sick, and the surgeon bled you, I was suspicious. I said to myself, ‘That is not the arm of a man.’ I went out, but in the evening you were praying, and you did not know that I was in the tent, and you said, ‘You dear parents in heaven, pity your poor daughter.’ I could have shouted with rapture and delight, but I held my peace. I wished to wait and see if you would be good to me.”
“But the expression of your eyes was so changed,” whispered Charles Henry; “I was obliged to turn away when their glance fell upon me. I felt that my secret was discovered, and therefore I avoided being with you.”
“Officer Buschman,” cried Deesen, in a commanding voice from the house, “is your work finished?”
“Immediately; I have but a few stitches to do,” cried Charles Henry. “Be silent,” said he to Fritz, “and let me sew.”
But Fritz was not silent; he crouched near officer Buschman, and whispered many and strange things in his ear.
Charles Henry sewed on zealously, blushed often, and replied in low, embarrassed words.
At last the work was completed, and the knees of the great Frederick’s breeches were worthily mended with divers patches.
“I will carry them myself to the king, as I have a favor to ask him,” said Fritz Kober. “Come with me, Charles Henry; you must hear what the king says.”
He took Charles Henry’s hand and advanced to the door, but Deesen stood there, and forbade him to enter; he ordered Fritz to give him the breeches.
“No,” said Fritz Kober, resolutely, “we have a request to make of the king, and he once gave us permission to come directly to him when we had a favor to ask.”
He pushed Deesen aside and entered the room with Charles Henry.
The king sat in his bed reading, and was so absorbed that he did not see them enter. But Fritz stepped up boldly to the bed and laid the breeches upon the chair.
“Did you mend them, my son?” said the king.
“No, your majesty, Charles Buschman mended them, but I came along to say something to your majesty. You remember, no doubt, what you said when we returned from the enemy’s camp near Kunersdorf, after the battle, when Charles Henry related so beautifully all that we had seen and heard. You said, ‘You are both officers from this day, and if you ever need my assistance call upon me freely.’”
“And you wish to do so now?” said the king.
“Yes, your majesty, I have something to ask.”
“Well, what is it?”
Fritz Kober drew up grandly and ceremoniously.
“I ask your majesty to allow me to marry officer Charles Henry Buschman--to marry him to-day!”
“Marry him!” said the king, amazed; “is, then, officer Buschman--”
“A woman, your majesty!” interrupted Fritz Kober, with joyful impatience. “He is a woman; his name is Anna Sophia Detzloff, from Brunen.”
Frederick’s sharp, piercing eye rested for a moment questioningly upon Charles Henry’s face; then nodding his head smilingly several times, he said:
“Your bride is a spruce lad and a brave officer, and knows how to blush in his soldier’s uniform. Officer Charles Henry Buschman, will you be the wife of officer Fritz Kober?”
“I will, if your majesty consents,” whispered Charles Henry.
“Well, go to the field-preacher, and be married--I give my consent. And now go, I must dress.”
“At last,” said the king to Le Catt, “fortune will be again favorable to me. Signs and wonders are taking place, as they did with Charles VII. of France. When he was in the most dire necessity, surrounded by his enemies, the Lord sent the Maid of Orleans to save him. To me, also, has the Lord now sent a Joan d’Arc, a maid of Brunen. With her help I will overcome all my enemies.”
XVI. THE AMBASSADOR AND THE KHAN OF TARTARY
The preparations were completed; the room of the king had become, by means of his inventive genius, a magnificent throne saloon. The great arm-chair, draped with rich hangings, looked almost imposing; the dirty floor was concealed by a costly Turkish carpet. The door which led into the entry had been removed, and the opening hung with banners. The entry itself had been changed by means of carpets, banners, and standards into a tasteful antechamber.
The king wore his general’s uniform, and the chain of the order of the Black Eagle, and the generals and staff officers stood near him in their glittering dresses. The room of the sheriff had indeed become a royal apartment.
And now an imposing train approached this improvised palace. First appeared two riders, whose gold-embroidered mantles fell below their feet and concealed the well-shaped bodies of the small Arabian horses on which they were mounted, only displaying their slender necks, with their flowing manes and their graceful legs. It was evident from their dark complexions and flashing eyes that these men were foreigners, the sons of the South. On each appeared the diamond-headed hilt of a sword, glittering amid the folds of the costly Turkish shawls which encircled their slender waists; and at the side of each hung the jewelled sheath of a Damascus blade, which was held in the right hand, and presented in salutation. These Turkish warriors were followed by two others, scarcely less richly dressed, and behind them rode four men, in long black robes, with eyes closed, each bearing in his right hand a book bound in gold and velvet, which he pressed prayerfully to his breast; a golden pen was worn in their girdles in place of a weapon, and on the fez an artistically arranged and jewelled peacock’s feather. Now followed two other riders; but these were not alike, as the others had been, but bore the most remarkable and striking contrast to one another. One of them was dressed in the latest French style; he wore a blue, silver-embroidered velvet coat, with small-clothes of the same material, which met his white silk stockings at the knee, and were fastened by a band with a diamond clasp. His shoes were also ornamented with diamond buckles and red heels. He wore a three-cornered hat, with a white feather, which was placed lightly and gracefully upon his stiffly-curled, well-powdered peruke. Splendid lace covered his breast, and broad lace cuffs fell over his white gloved hands. It was a perfect ball dress, such as was worn at that time at court by all ambassadors who were not military, in their ceremonious audiences with the sovereign.
Near this man, dressed so gracefully and airily, was another cavalier who presented a great contrast to him. As the one seemed dressed for a summer day, so the other appeared prepared for the coldest weather; the one was ready for the ball-room, and the other for the steppes of Siberia. The long, thin figure of the latter was concealed by a fur mantle, made of the skin of the white Lapland wolf, and lined and trimmed with a darker fur; around his waist was bound a costly gold embroidered shawl, from which hung a small golden cup, and a richly ornamented razor. At his side, instead of the Turkish sabre, a bag, richly worked with gold and pearls, was suspended by golden chains. He wore a fez, on the front of which was embroidered a small golden cup.
Behind these two men came a troop of Turkish, Tartar, and European servants, all in livery; and these were followed by a golden chariot, with closely-drawn blinds, the interior being impenetrable to the most curious gaze. Four Tartars in long white fur mantles rode on either side of the chariot, with drawn swords.
The chariot was followed by a most remarkable crowd, consisting of Prussian soldiers from every regiment, and in every variety of uniform, of peasants and their wives, of old men and children, who were all struck dumb with astonishment and admiration at the sight of this strange cavalcade which now paused before the king’s house.
The guards saluted, and the generals and staff officers advanced silently and bowed profoundly to the two cavaliers, who were such a singular contrast to one another, and who were evidently the important persons of the cavalcade. They swung themselves lightly from their saddles, and returned the polite greetings of the generals; the one in fluent German, the other in equally flowing words, but in a language which no one understood, and to which the only answer was a few murmured words, a smile, and hieroglyphic hand-pressures.
The first was the Baron von Rexin, the ambassador of the king to the Grand Sultan and the Khan of Tartary, who had been so fortunate as to become the minster plenipotentiary of the King of Prussia under the title given him by the king of Baron von Rexin, after having been the servant of a merchant in Breslau, called Hubsch. The second was the great and noble Mustapha Aga, the ambassador of Krimgirai, the Khan of Tartary. He was the favorite and confidant of his master, and was sent by him to bear his greetings and good wishes to the King of Prussia.
As soon as they had dismounted, a page of the king approached and invited them to enter the house, where the king was waiting to give them audience. Baron von Rexin, who during his residence in Turkey had learned the Turkish language, informed the ambassador. A smile appeared upon Mustapha Aga’s thin, paleface, and he turned to the four men in black robes, who wore the golden pens in their belts, and signed to them to follow him, and then taking the arm of Baron von Rexin, they both entered the house, followed by the four historians and interpreters; the generals and staff officers of the king then arranging themselves on either side of the throne, according to their rank.
The king received the embassy sitting upon his throne. His eye rested smilingly upon Mustapha Aga, who had just bent to the earth before his throne, and as he arose signed to one of the four interpreters to approach. The interpreter opened the costly book, which he held in his hand, and handed the ambassador a large document, covered with seals, which Mustapha Aga pressed respectfully to his lips, and then kneeling, presented it respectfully to the king.
“Mustapha Aga, the ambassador of the high and mighty Khan of Tartary, Krimgirai, has the unutterable honor to present his credentials to the King of Prussia,” said the interpreter, in the purest and most fluent French.
The king broke the seal, and looked hurriedly over the document. “Mustapha Aga,” he said, “you are most welcome; and I greet your master, the hero Krimgirai, whom I am proud to call my friend, in you.”
After the interpreter repeated the words of the king, Mustapha Aga threw himself upon his knees before the throne, and spoke rapidly for a few moments.
“Mustapha Aga, the ambassador of the great Khan,” said the interpreter, “entreats your majesty to allow him to show you the highest proof of his respect, to greet you in the manner in which he alone, in great and beautiful Tartary, is permitted to greet the Khan.”
“I grant his request,” said the king.
Mustapha immediately opened the pouch which hung at his side, and took from it a crystal flask, from which he poured a fluid into the cup, and a delightful perfume immediately pervaded the room. After putting a small quantity of white powder into the cup, he proceeded to stir the contents with a brush, of which the handle was ornamented with three diamonds of immense size. The fluid now arose into a sparkling milk-white foam.
The king looked curiously at him at first, and then turned to his ambassador. “What does this mean?” he asked in German, probably because he did not wish to be understood by the interpreter.
“Sire,” said Rexin, smiling, “that means that the noble Mustapha Aga wishes to show you the greatest honor in his power, he wishes to shave you.”
“To shave me!” exclaimed the king. “Who and what is the noble Mustapha Aga?”
“Sire, he is one of the greatest dignitaries of Tartary; he is the barber of the Khan!”
The king could scarcely restrain a smile at this explanation. “Well,” he said, “it is not a bad idea to make a diplomat and ambassador of a barber. The gentlemen of the diplomatic corps are given to shaving in politics and frequently put soap in the eyes of the world.”
Mustapha Aga now approached the king with solemn steps, and bending forward, he thrust his forefinger into the foam in the golden cup and passed it lightly across the king’s chin. He then drew forth the golden razor from his belt. But before opening it, he raised his eyes prayerfully to heaven, and spoke a few solemn words. “Allah is the light of heaven and earth! May He illuminate me in my great work!” said the interpreter, translating Mustapha’s words.
Then the ambassador began his dignified work; drawing the blade of his knife across the chin of the king with a rapid movement.
The king and his generals and attendants, were scarcely able to retain their composure during this performance.
When Mustapha had finished, he signed to one of the interpreters to approach, and as he kneeled before him he wiped the foam from his razor on the back of his uplifted hand. Then thrusting it in his belt, he bowed deeply and solemnly to the king.
“May Allah keep the heart of this king as pure as his chin now is!” he said. “May the knife which Allah employs to prune away the faults of this king, pass over him as gently and painlessly as the knife of your unworthy servant has done! Mighty king and lord, the all-powerful Khan Krimgirai, the lion of the desert, the dread of his enemies, sends me to you and offers you his aid and friendship. The renown of your deeds has reached his ears, and he is lost in astonishment that a prince, of whose kingdom and existence he was in ignorance, should so long successfully resist the great German sultan, whose power we know, without fearing. The eagle eye of my master now sees clearly that he who was so insignificant is now great enough to overshadow the land of the powerful German sultan, and to make the proud and unbending czarina of the north tremble. He sends me to report to you his profound admiration; but first, will you allow me, O eagle king of the north! to present the gifts which he offers you?”
“I shall be delighted to receive these gifts,” said the king, smiling, “as they are a proof of the friendship of the great Khan.”
Mustapha Aga made a signal in the direction of the door, and spoke a few words aloud. Immediately there appeared the two men who were so richly dressed in Turkish costumes, and had been at the head of the cavalcade. They stationed themselves on either side of the entrance, and were followed by the lower officers and servants attached to the embassy, who entered, bearing baskets delicately woven and lined with rich stuffs.
Mustapha signed to the first two to approach him, and then, before opening the basket, he turned once more to the king.
“Sire,” said he, “before a Tartar gives a promise of love and friendship to any one, he invites him to his house, and begs him to eat of his bread and drink of his wine. Sire, my great and respected master makes use of his unworthy servant to entreat your majesty to descend from your throne and to enter his house, where he is present in spirit, and bids the eagle king of the north welcome.”
“I should be delighted to grant this request,” returned the king, smiling, “were the distance not so great between my house and that of the Khan.”
“Sire, the house of my great master is before your door,” said Mustapha Aga, bowing deeply. “On the day of our departure, the Khan walked through it and kissed its walls, and exclaimed: ‘Be greeted, my great and royal brother, you eagle of the north! Be welcome, you hero-king, the hated enemy of the czarina, Krimgirai offers you his heart, and would be your friend for all time.’ Sire, thus spoke my lord the Khan; the air in his house is still vibrating with the words he uttered. Will your majesty condescend to leave your throne and visit my great master, the Khan Krimgirai?”
The king arose instantly and said, “I am well pleased to do so. Lead me to the palace of your Khan.”
Mustapha Aga signed to the basket-carriers and to the other attendants to leave the room, and then spoke a few rapid and emphatic words to the interpreters, who followed them. Then bowing to the ground before the king, he turned and passed out of the house.
Before the door a wonderful spectacle presented itself to the astonished view of the king. Immediately opposite the house, on the open square, a high tent, of considerable size, appeared, around which was a wall of fur, well calculated to protect it from the cold air and rough winds. A carpet covered the way from the door of the tent to the king’s house, and from within the tent could be heard the gentle notes of a peculiar music.
“Really,” said the king to his ambassador, Von Rexin, “I seem to be living in the ‘Arabian Nights.’ There is nothing wanting but the beautiful Scheherezade.”
“Sire, perhaps she also is here,” said Von Rexin; “we were accompanied by a close chariot, guarded by four of the khan’s eunuchs.”
The king laughed, and said, “We will see,” and he rapidly approached the hut. As he reached it, the door flew open, and Mustapha Aga received him kneeling, while his attendants threw themselves to the ground, touching it with their foreheads.
The king entered and examined with great curiosity the house of the Khan. The interior of this immense tent was hung with crimson draperies, amongst which arose twenty golden pillars which supported the tent. At the top of these was an immense golden ring from which the crimson draperies hung, and above this ring were twenty golden pillars which, uniting in the centre at the top, formed the dome of the tent. From the centre hung a golden vase, in which burned the rarest incense. The floor was covered by a great Turkish carpet, and against the walls stood several divans, such as are generally used in the dwellings of the wealthy Turks. In the centre of the tent, just under the suspended vase, stood a low, gilt table, decked with a service of glittering porphyry. One side of the tent was separated from the rest by heavy curtains of a costly material, and from hence came the sound of music, which now arose in loud, triumphant tones, as if greeting the king.
His majesty moved rapidly to the middle of the tent, while his attendants stood against the walls, and Mustapha Aga and his interpreter stood near the king.
Mustapha then took a sword which was on the table, and, after kissing it, handed it to the king. “Sire,” he said, “the great Krimgirai first offers you his sword, as a sign of his love and goodwill. He begs that on the day of the great victory which you and he will undoubtedly gain over the hated czarina of the north, you will wear this sword at your side. A sword like this--tempered in the same fire and ornamented with the same design--is worn by the Khan. When these two swords cut the air, Russia will tremble as if shaken by an earthquake.”
The king received the sword from Mustapha Aga, and looked at it attentively. Then pointing to the golden letters which ornamented the blade, he asked the significance of the motto.
“Sire,” replied Mustapha, solemnly, “it is the battle-cry of the Tartar: ‘Death is preferable to defeat.’”
“I accept the sword with great pleasure,” said the king. “This motto embodies in a few words the history of a war, and discloses more of its barbarity, than many learned and pious expositions could do. I thank the Khan for his beautiful gift.”
“The Khan hears your words, sire, for his spirit is among us.”
Mustapha, after begging the king to seat himself upon the large divan, drew aside the opening of the tent, when the servants with the covered baskets immediately appeared, and placed themselves in a double row around the tent. Mustapha then took the basket from the first couple, and throwing back the cover, said: “Sire, will you condescend to eat of the bread and drink of the favorite beverage of the Khan, that the ties of your friendship may be strengthened? The Khan sends you a costly ham--a proof of his unselfish friendship. He had his favorite horse killed, the one that he has ridden for years, that he might offer you a ham from this noble animal.”
As the interpreter translated these words, the Prussian generals and officers glanced smiling and mockingly at one another.
The king alone remained grave, and turning to the generals, he said in German:
“Ah, gentlemen! how happy we would have been, had any one brought us this meat at the siege of Bunzelwitz, and how ravenously we would have eaten it!”
He then turned again to the ambassador, who, taking from the other baskets Carian dates and almonds, and other Eastern dainties in silver dishes, placed them before the king. Mustapha then uttered a loud, commanding cry, and the door of the tent was again opened, and there appeared a Tartar, dressed in white wolf-skin, bearing a golden dish, which contained a steaming, white liquid. He took it, and kneeled with it before Frederick.
“Sire,” said he, “my master begs you to drink with him of his favorite beverage. He pressed his lips to the rim of this dish before sending it to you, and if you will now do the same, the eagle and hero of the north will receive the brotherly kiss of the eagle and hero of the south.”
“What is it?” asked the king, in a low voice, of Baron von Rexin, who stood near the divan.
“Sire, it is mare’s milk!” whispered Rexin.
The king shuddered, and almost overturned the contents of the dish which he had just received from the hands of Mustapha Aga; but quickly overcoming this feeling, he raised the bowl smilingly to his mouth. After placing his lips upon the rim, he returned the bowl to the ambassador.
“I have received the kiss of my friend. May our friendship be eternal!”
“Allah grant this prayer!” cried Mustapha. “Sire, Krimgirai dares, as this beverage is such a favorite with all Turks, to hope that it may please you; he therefore offers you the animal from which it was procured.” He then pointed to the opening in the tent, where now appeared a noble Arabian horse, wearing a costly saddle and bridle, and a crimson saddle-cloth richly worked with pearls and precious stones.
The eyes of the king beamed with pleasure, and as he hurried through the tent and approached the horse, the animal seemed to wish to greet his new master, for it neighed loudly, and pawed the sand with its well-shaped feet. The king gently stroked its slender, shining neck and its full, fluttering mane, and looked in the great, flashing eyes.
“You are welcome, my battle-horse!” he said; “may you bear me in the next engagement either to victory or death!”
He then returned to his seat, in order to receive the remaining presents of the Khan, consisting of costly weapons and furs.
“And now, sire, the Khan begs that you will repose in his tent, and listen to the music that he loves, and look at the dances which give him pleasure. My master knows that the great King of Prussia loves music as he does, and that it gladdens your heart as it does his own. When he goes to battle--which is but going to victory--he takes with him his musicians and dancers, who must perform the dance of triumph before him. The Khan hopes that you will permit them to dance before you, and I pray that your majesty will grant this request.”
“I am ready to behold and hear all,” said the king.
Immediately, at a sign from Mustapha, the curtain which concealed part of the tent was withdrawn, and four lovely girls, clothed in light, fluttering apparel, appeared and commenced a graceful, beautiful dance, to the music of the mandoline. When they had finished, they retired to the curtain, and looked with great, wondering eyes at the Prussian warrior. Then appeared from behind the curtain four young men, who seated themselves opposite the girls. The musicians began a new strain, in which the girls and young men joined. Then two of the girls arose, and drawing their veils over their faces so that only their eyes were visible, they danced lightly and swayingly to the end of the tent, and then returned to the young men, who now commenced the love-songs, with downcast eyes, not daring to call the name of the objects of their tenderness, but addressing them in poetical terms; and then they sang to the same air the battle-song of the Tartars. In this song, the battles are not only pictured forth, but you hear the shrieks of the warriors, the battle-cry of the Tartars, and, at length, when the battle is won, the loud shouts of rejoicing from the women. When the song was ended, the singers bowed themselves to the earth, and then disappeared behind the curtain.
The music ceased, and the king, rising from the divan, and turning to Mustapha, said:
“I owe to the Khan a most delightful morning, and I will take a pleasant remembrance of his house with me.”
“Sire,” said Mustapha, “the Khan begs you to accept this tent as a proof of his friendship.”
The king bowed smilingly, and as he left the tent, told Rexin to ask the Tartar ambassador to come to him now for a grave conference. The king then dismissed his generals, and attendants, and entered his house, followed by Baron von Rexin and the Turkish ambassador and his interpreters.
“Now we will speak of business!” said the king. “What news do you bring me from the Khan? What answer does he make to my proposition?”
“Sire, he is willing to grant all that your majesty desires, and to give you every assistance in his power, provided you will not make peace with our hated enemy--with Russia--but will continue the war unweariedly and unceasingly, until Russia is humbled at our feet.”
“Ah!” exclaimed the king, “the Khan of Tartary cannot hate the Empress of Russia more vindictively than she hates me; he need not fear, therefore, an alliance between me and Russia. I have myself no desire to form a friendship with those rough barbarians.”
“If the Empress of Russia hates you, she hates Krimgirai equally. Russia hates every thing that is noble and true; she hates enlightenment and cultivation. Russia hates Krimgirai, because he has civilized his people; because he has changed his rough hordes of men into a mighty army of brave warriors; because he governs his kingdom with humanity, and is, at the same time, a father to his people and a scourge to his enemies. Krimgirai hates Russia as he hates every thing that is wicked, and vicious, and cruel; therefore he is willing to stand by your side against Russia, with an army of six thousand men, and, if you wish it, to invade Russia.”
“And what are the conditions which the Khan demands for this assistance?”
“He wishes you to pay his soldiers as you pay your own.”
“And for himself?”
“For himself, he begs that you will send him a physician who can cure him of a painful but not dangerous disease. Further, he begs for your confidence and friendship.”
“Which I gladly give him!” said the king, gayly. “But tell me one other thing. Has the Khan not yet become reconciled to the Grand Sultan?”
“Sire, the sultan feels that he cannot spare his brave Khan; he made an overture, which Krimgirai gladly accepted. One week before we started on our journey, the Khan was received by the sultan in his seraglio. The heads of forty rebels were displayed as a special honor in front of the seraglio, and, in the presence of the sultan himself, my master was again presented with belt and sword, and again reinstalled as Khan. The sultan also presented him with a purse containing forty thousand ducats. You see, sire, that the sultan prizes and acknowledges the virtues of your ally.”
“And how do we stand with the Porte?” asked the king, turning to Baron von Rexin.
“I have succeeded, sire, in establishing a treaty between your majesty and the Porte! I shall have the honor to lay it before your majesty for your signature.”
The king’s eyes beamed with delight, as he exclaimed:
“At length I have attained the desired goal, and in spite of the whole of Europe. I have my allies!”
Then turning once more to Mustapha Aga, he dismissed him for the day, and gave him permission to occupy the magnificent tent which had been presented to him by the Khan, during the remainder of his visit.
Mustapha Aga then withdrew with his interpreter, leaving the king alone with the Baron von Rexin, who now presented to him the papers which it was necessary he should sign, to establish the long-desired alliance with Turkey. This treaty assured to Prussia all the privileges which Turkey accorded to the other European powers: free navigation, the rights of ambassadors and consuls, and the personal liberty of any Prussian subjects who might have been seized as slaves.
The king signed the treaty, and named Baron von Rexin his minister plenipotentiary, and commanded him to return with the ambassador from Tartary and present the signed treaty to the Grand Sultan.
“Now the struggle can begin anew,” said Frederick, when he was once more alone. “I will recommence with the new year; I will battle as I have already done; I will consider nothing but my honor and the glory of Prussia. I will not live to see the moment when I will consent to a disgraceful peace. No representations, no eloquence shall bring me to acknowledge my own shame. I will be buried under the ruins of my native land, or if this consolation be denied me by my unfortunate fate, I will know how to end my misfortunes. Honor alone has led my footsteps, and I will follow no other guide. I sacrificed my youth to my father, my manhood to my country, and I have surely gained the right to dispose of my old age. There are people who are docile and obedient toward fate. I am not one of them. Having lived for others, I dare at least die for myself, careless what the world may say. Nothing shall force me to prefer a weak old age to death. I will dare all for the accomplishment of my plans; they failing, I will die an honorable death. But no! no!” said the king, smiling after a short pause. “I will not indulge in such sad and despairing thoughts on the day which has shown me the first ray of sunlight after so many storms. Perhaps the year sixty-two will be more fortunate than the one just passed. I stand no longer alone; I have my friends and my allies. Why should I carp, that the world calls them unbelievers? I have seen Christians betray and murder one another. Perhaps unbelievers are better Christians than believers. We will try them, at least. When all deserted me, they offered me the hand of friendship. This is the first sunbeam which has greeted me. Perhaps bright days may now follow the storms. May God grant it!” [Footnote: The king was not deceived. The Empress Elizabeth died in the commencement of the year 1762. Her successor Peter the Third, was a passionate admirer of Frederick the Great, and he now became the ally of Prussia. The Empress Catharine approved this change, and remained the ally of Prussia. France now withdrew from the contest; and in the year 1763, Austria, finding her treasury completely exhausted, was compelled to make peace with Prussia. Prussia had no use for her new ally of Tartary, and Krimgirai, who was already on the march, returned home with his army.--See “Memoires du Baron de Tott sur les Turcs et les Tartares.”]
I. THE KING’S RETURN
Berlin was glittering in festal adornment! This was a great, a joyous day; the first gleam of sunshine, after many long years of sorrow, suffering, and absolute want. For the last seven years the king had been absent from his capital-to-day he would return to Berlin.
After seven years of bloody strife, the powers at Hubertsburg had declared peace. No nation had enlarged its boundaries by this war. Not one of the cities or fortresses of the King of Prussia had been taken from him, and he was forced to content himself with his former conquest. There had been no successful results! Losses only were to be calculated.
During these seven years, Russia had lost one hundred and eighty thousand men, the French two hundred thousand, the Prussians a hundred and twenty thousand, the English and confederate Germans a hundred and sixty thousand, and the Saxons ninety thousand--lastly, the Swedes and the States sixty thousand. This seven years’ war cost Europe nearly a million of men. Their blood fertilized the German soil, and their bones lay mouldering beneath her green sods.
Throughout all Europe, weeping mothers, wives, and children turned their sorrowful faces toward the land which had robbed them of their dear loved ones; they were even deprived the painfully sweet consolation of weeping over these lonely and neglected graves.
Losses were not only to be counted in myriads of men, whose blood had been shed in vain, but uncounted millions had been lavished upon the useless strife.
During this war, the debt of England had increased to seventy million pounds sterling; the yearly interest on the debt was four and a half million crowns. The Austrians calculated their debt at five hundred million guldens; France at two thousand million livres; Sweden was almost bankrupt, and unfortunate Saxony had to pay to Prussia during the war over seven million crowns.
In the strict meaning of the term, Prussia had made no debt, but she was, in fact, as much impoverished as her adversaries. The Prussian money which was circulated during the war was worthless.
At the close of the war, all those who carried these promissory notes shared the fate of the rich man in the fairy tale. The money collected at night turned to ashes before morning. This was the fatal fruit of the war which for seven years had scourged Europe. Prussia, however, had reason to be satisfied and even grateful. Although bleeding from a thousand wounds, exhausted and faint unto death, she promised a speedy recovery; she was full of youthful power and energy--had grown, morally, during this seven years’ struggle--had become great under the pressure of hardship and self-denial, and now ranked with the most powerful nations of Europe.
To-day, however, suffering and destitution were forgotten: only smiling, joyous faces were seen in Berlin. The whole city seemed to be invigorated by the golden rays of fortune; no one appeared to suffer, no one to mourn for the lost--and yet amongst the ninety-eight thousand inhabitants of Berlin, over thirty thousand received alms weekly--so that a third of the population were objects of charity. To-day no one thirsted, no one was hungry; all hearts were merry, all faces glad!
They had not seen their great King Frederick for seven years; they would look upon him to-day. The royal family had arrived from Magdeburg.
Every one hastened to the streets to see Frederick, who on his departure had been but the hero-king of Prussia, but who now, on his return, was the hero of all Europe--whom all nations greeted--whose name was uttered in Tartary, in Africa, with wonder and admiration--yes, in all parts of the civilized and uncivilized world!
The streets were filled with laughing crowds; all pressed toward the Frankfort gate, where the king was to enter. The largest arch of triumph was erected over this gate, and all other streets were decorated somewhat in the same manner. Every eye was turned toward this street; all were awaiting with loudly-beating hearts the appearance of that hero whose brow was decked with so many costly laurels. No heart was more impatient, no one gazed so eagerly at the Frankfort gate as the good Marquis d’Argens; he stood at the head of the burghers, near the arch of triumph; he had organized the citizens for this festal reception; he had left his cherished retirement for love of his royal friend; to welcome him, he had ventured into the cutting wind of a cold March morning. For Frederick’s sake he had mounted a horse, a deed of daring he had not ventured upon for many a year; in his lively impatience, he even forgot the danger of being run away with or dragged in the dust.
The marquis knew well that nothing could be more disagreeable to the king than this public reception, but his heart was overflowing with hope and happiness, and he felt the necessity of shouting his vivats in the sunny air. In the egotism of his love, he forgot to respect the preferences of the king.
Perhaps Frederick suspected this triumph which his good Berliners had prepared for him. Perhaps it appeared to his acute sensibilities and noble heart altogether inappropriate to welcome the returned soldiers with wild shouts of joy, when so many thousand loved ones were lying buried on the bloody battle-field. Perhaps he did not wish to see Berlin, where his mother had so lately died, adorned in festal array.
Hour after hour passed. The sun was setting. The flowers which had been taken from the greenhouses to decorate the arch of triumph, bowed their lovely heads sadly in the rough March winds. The fresh, cool breeze whistled through the light draperies and displaced their artistic folds. Notwithstanding the enthusiasm of the citizens, they began to be hungry, and to long greatly for the conclusion of these solemnities. Still the king came not. The Berliners waited awhile longer, and then one after another quietly withdrew. This bad example was speedily imitated, and the gay cortege of riders grew small by degrees and beautifully less. At sunset but a few hundred citizens remained at the gate, and even these heroic Spartans showed but little of the enthusiasm of the morning.
Marquis d’Argens was in despair, and if Frederick had arrived at this moment he would have heard a reproachful phillipic from his impatient friend instead of a hearty welcome. But fortune did not favor him so far as to give him the opportunity to relieve his temper. The king did not appear. The marquis at last proposed to the citizens to get torches, and thus in spite of the darkness give to their king a glittering reception. They agreed cheerfully, and the most of them dashed off to the city to make the necessary preparations.
The streets were soon brilliantly lighted, and now in the distance the king’s carriage was seen approaching. Throughout the vast train shouts and vivats were heard, and the proud voices of this happy people filled the air as with the thunder of artillery.
“Long life to the king! Long life to Frederick the Great!”
The carriage came nearer and nearer, and now myriads of lights danced around it. The citizens had returned with their torches, and the carriage of Frederick rolled on as if in a sea of fire. It drew up at the arch of triumph. The king rose and turned his face toward his people, who were shouting their glad welcome. The light from the torches fell upon his countenance, and their red lustre gave his cheek a fresh and youthful appearance.
His subjects saw once more his sparkling, speaking eye, in which shone the same energy, the same imperial power, as in days gone by. They saw the soft, sympathetic smile which played around his eloquent lips--they saw him, their king, their hero, and were glad. They laughed and shouted with rapture. They stretched out their arms as if to clasp in one universal embrace their dear-loved king, who was so great, so beautiful, so far above them in his bright radiance. They threw him fond kisses, and every utterance of his name seemed a prayer to God for his happiness.
But one stood by the carriage who could not speak--whose silent, trembling lips were more eloquent than words. No language could express the delight of D’Argent--no words could paint the emotion which moved his soul and filled his eyes with tears.
The king recognized him, and holding out his hand invited him to take a seat in the carriage. Then giving one more greeting to his people, he said, “Onward--onward to Charlottenburg.”
At a quick pace the carriage drove through Berlin. Those who had not had the courage and strength to await the king at the Frankfort gate, were now crowding the streets to welcome him.
Frederick did not raise himself again from the dark corner of the carriage. He left it to the Duke of Brunswick to return the salutations of the people. He remained motionless, and did not even appear to hear the shouts of his subjects. Not once did he raise his hand to greet them--not a word passed his lips.
When they crossed the king’s bridge and reached the castle grounds, the people were assembled and closely crowded together. Frederick now raised himself, but he did not see them--he did not regard the brilliantly illuminated houses, or the grounds sparkling in a flood of light. He turned slowly and sadly toward the castle--his eye rested upon that dark, gloomy mass of stone, which arose to the right, and contrasted mysteriously with the brilliant houses around it. It looked like a monstrous coffin surrounded by death-lights. Frederick gazed long and steadily at the castle. He raised his head once more, but not to greet his subjects. He covered his face--he would not be looked at in his grief. D’Argens heard him murmur, “My mother, oh my mother! Oh, my sister!”
The Prussians welcomed joyously the return of their great king, but Frederick thought only at this moment of those who could never return--those whom death had torn from him forever. Onward, onward through the lighted streets! All the inhabitants of Berlin seemed to be abroad. This was a Roman triumph, well calculated to fill the heart of a sovereign with just pride.
The Berliners did not see that Frederick had no glance for them. Gloom and despair veiled his countenance, and no one dreamed that this king, whom they delighted to honor, was at this proud moment a weeping son, a mourning brother.
At last the joyous, careless city lay behind them, and they approached Charlottenburg.
The noise and tumult gradually ceased, and a welcome quiet ensued. Frederick did not utter one word, and no one dared to break the oppressive silence. This triumphant procession seemed changed to a burial-march. The victor in so many battles seemed now mastered by his memories.
The carriage drew up at Charlottenburg. The wide court was filled with the inhabitants of the little city, who welcomed the king as enthusiastically as the Berliners had done. Frederick saluted them abruptly, and stepped quickly into the hall.
The castle had been changed into a temple of glory and beauty in honor of the king’s return. The pillars which supported it were wound around with wreaths of lovely, fragrant blossoms; costly draperies, gay flags, and emblems adorned the walls; the floors were covered with rich Turkish carpets; the gilded candelabras shed their variegated lights in every direction, irradiating the faces of the court cavaliers glittering with stars and orders, and the rich toilets of the ladies. The effect was dazzling.
In the middle of the open space two ladies were standing, one in royal attire, sparkling in diamonds and gold embroideries, the other in mourning, with no ornament but pearls, the emblem of tears. The one with a happy, hopeful face gazed at the king; the other with a sad, weary countenance, in which sickness, sorrow, and disappointment had drawn their heavy lines, turned slowly toward him; her large eyes, red with weeping, were fixed upon him with an angry, reproachful expression.
Frederick drawing near, recognized the queen and the Princess Amelia. At the sight of this dearly-beloved face, the queen, forgetting her usual timidity and assumed coldness, stepped eagerly forward and offered both her hands to her husband. Her whole heart, the long-suppressed fervor of her soul, spoke in her moist and glowing eyes. Her lips, which had so long been silent, so long guarded their sweet secret, expressed, though silently, fond words of love. Elizabeth Christine was no longer young, no longer beautiful; she had passed through many years of suffering and inward struggle, but at this moment she was lovely. The eternal youth of the soul lighted her fair brow--the flash of hope and happiness glimmered in her eyes. But Frederick saw nothing of this. He had no sympathy for this pale and gentle queen, now glowing with vitality. He thought only of the dearly-loved queen and mother who had gone down into the cold, dark grave. Frederick bowed coldly to Elizabeth Christine, and took both her hands in his a short moment.
“Madame,” said he, “this is a sad moment. The queen my mother is missing from your side.”
Elizabeth Christine started painfully, and the hands which the king had released fell powerless to her side. Frederick’s harsh, cruel words had pierced her heart and quenched the tears of joy and hope which stood in her eyes.
Elizabeth was incapable of reply. Princess Amelia came to her relief.
“If my brother, the king, while greeting us after his long absence, is unconscious of our presence and sees only the faces of the dead, he must also be forced to look upon my unhappy brother, Prince Augustus William, who died of a broken heart.”
The king’s piercing eyes rested a moment with a strangely melancholy expression upon the sorrowful, sickly face of the Princess Amelia.
“Not so, my sister,” said he, softly and gently; “I not only see those who have been torn from us by death. I look upon and welcome gladly those who have been spared to me. I am happy to see you here to-day, my sister.”
Frederick offered Amelia his hand, and bowing silently to those who were present, he entered his apartment, followed only by the Marquis d’Argens.
Frederick stepped rapidly through the first room, scarcely looking at the new paintings which adorned the walls; he entered his study and threw a long, thoughtful glance around this dear room. Every piece of furniture, every book, recalled charming memories of the past--every thing stood as he had left it seven years ago. He now for the first time realized the joy of being again at home; his country had received him and embraced him with loving arms.
With glowing cheeks he turned toward the marquis, who was leaning against the door behind him.
“Oh, D’Argens! it is sweet to be again in one’s own native land--the peace of home is sweet. The old furniture appears to welcome me; that old chair stretches its arms wooingly toward me, as if to lure me to its bosom, and give me soft sleep and sweet dreams in its embrace. Marquis, I feel a longing to gratify my old friend; I yield to its gentle, silent pleadings.”
Frederick stepped to the arm-chair and sank into it with an expression of indescribable comfort.
“Ah, now I feel that I am indeed at home.”
“Allow me,” said D’Argens, “to say, your majesty, what the dear old arm-chair, in spite of its eloquence, cannot express. I, also, am a piece of the old furniture of this dear room, and in the name of all my voiceless companions, I cry ‘Welcome to my king!’ We welcome you to your country and your home. You return greater even than when you left us. Your noble brow is adorned with imperishable laurels; your fame resounds throughout the earth, and every nation sings to you a hymn of victory.”
“Well, well,” said Frederick, smilingly, “do not look too sharply at my claims to such world-wide renown, or my fame will lose a portion of its lustre. You will see that chance has done almost every thing for me--more than my own valor and wisdom, and the bravery of my troops combined. Chance has been my best ally during this entire war. [Footnote: The king’s own words.] Chance enabled me to escape the famine camp of Bunzelwitz--chance gave me the victory over my enemies. Speak no more of my fame, marquis, at least not in this sacred room, where Cicero, Caesar, Lucretius, and Thucydides look down upon us from the walls; where the voiceless books with their gilded letters announce to us that we are surrounded by great spirits. Speak not of fame to me, D’Argens, when from yonder book-shelf I see the name of Athalie. I would rather have written Athalie, than to have all the fame arising from this seven years’ war.” [Footnote: Ibid.]
“Herein I recognize the peaceful, noble tastes of my king,” said D’Argens, deeply moved; “years of hardship and victory have not changed him--the conquering hero is the loving friend and the wise philosopher. I knew this must be so--I knew the heart of my king; I knew he would regard the day on which he gave peace to his people as far more glorious than any day of bloody battle and triumphant victory. The day of peace to Prussia is the most glorious, the happiest day of her great king’s life.”
Frederick shook his head softly, and gazed with infinite sadness at his friend’s agitated countenance.
“Ah, D’Argens, believe me, the most beautiful, the happiest day is that on which we take leave of life.”
As Frederick turned his eyes away from his friend, they fell accidentally upon a porcelain vase which stood upon a table near his secretary; he sprang hastily from his chair.
“How came this vase here?” he said, in a trembling voice.
“Sire,” said the marquis, “the queen-mother, shortly before her death, ordered this vase to be placed in this room; she prized it highly--it was a present from her royal brother, George II. Her majesty wished that, on your return from the war, it might serve as a remembrance of your fond mother At her command, I placed that packet of letters at the foot of the vase, after the queen mother had sealed and addressed it with her dying hand.”
Frederick was silent, he bowed his head upon the vase, as if to cool his burning brow upon its cold, glassy surface. He, perhaps, wished also to conceal from his friend the tears which rolled slowly down his cheeks, and fell upon the packet of letters lying before him.
The king kissed the packet reverentially, and examined with a deep sigh the trembling characters traced by the hand of his beloved mother.
“For my son--the king.”
Frederick read the address softly. “Alas! my dear mother, how poor you have made me. I am now no longer a son--only a king!”
He bowed his head over the packet, and pressed his mother’s writing to his lips, then laid the letters at the foot of the vase and remained standing thoughtfully before it.
A long pause ensued. Frederick stood with folded arms before the vase, and the marquis leaned against the door behind him. Suddenly the king turned to him.
“I beg a favor of you, marquis. Hasten to Berlin, and tell Benda he must perform the Te Deum of my dear Graun here in the castle chapel to-morrow morning at nine o’clock. I know the singers of the chapel can execute it--they gave it once after the battle of Leignitz. Tell Benda to make no difficulties, for it is my express wish to hear the music to-morrow morning. I trust to you, marquis, to see my wish fulfilled, to make the impossible possible, if you find it necessary. Call me capricious if you will, for desiring to hear this music to-morrow. I have so long been controlled by stern realities, that I will allow myself now to yield to a caprice.”
He gave his hand to the marquis, who pressed it to his lips.
“Sire, to-morrow morning at nine o’clock the Te Deum shall be performed in the chapel, should I even be compelled to pass the night in arousing the musicians from their beds.”
The marquis kept his word; he surmounted all difficulties, removed all objections. In vain Benda declared the organ in the chapel was out of tune, the performance impossible; the marquis hastened to the organist and obliged him to put it in order that night. In vain the singers protested against singing this difficult music before the king without preparation; D’Argens commanded them in the name of the king to have a rehearsal during the night. Thanks to his nervous energy and zeal, the singers assembled, and Benda stood before his desk to direct this midnight concert.
When the clock struck nine the next morning every difficulty had been set aside, and every preparation completed. The organist was in his place, the organ in order; the musicians tuned their instruments, the singers were prepared, and the chapel-master, Benda, was in their midst, baton in hand.
All eyes were directed toward the door opposite the choir, through which the court must enter; all hearts were beating with joyful expectation--all were anxious to see the king once more in the midst of his friends, in his family circle. Every one sympathized in the queen’s happiness at being accompanied once more by her husband; laying aside her loneliness and widowhood, and appearing in public by his side.
All eyes, as we have said, were impatiently directed toward the door, waiting for the appearance of their majesties and the court.
Suddenly the door opened. Yes, there was the king. He stepped forward very quietly, his head a little bowed down; in the midst of the solemn stillness of the chapel his step resounded loudly.
Yes, it was Frederick the Great, he was alone, accompanied by no royal state, surrounded by no glittering crowd--but it was the king; in the glory of his majesty, his endurance, and his valor, radiant in the splendor of his heroic deeds and his great victories.
Frederick seated himself slowly, gave one quick glance at the choir, and waved his hand to them. Benda raised his baton and gave the sign to commence. And now a stream of rich harmony floated through the chapel. The organ, with its powerful, majestic tones; the trumpets, with their joyous greeting; the drums, with their thunder, and the soft, melting tones of the violin and flute, mingled together in sweet accord.
The king, with head erect and eager countenance, listened to the beautiful and melodious introduction. He seemed to be all ear, to have no other thought, no other passion than this music, which was wholly unknown to him. And now, with a powerful accord, the sweetly attuned human voices joined in, and the choir sang in melting unison the Te Deum Laudamus, which resounded solemnly, grandly through the aisles. The king turned pale, and as the hymn of praise became more full and rich, his head sank back and his eyes were fixed upon the floor.
Louder and fuller rose the solemn tones; suddenly, from the midst of the choir, a soft, melting tenor sang in a sweet, touching voice, Tuba mirum spargeus sonum. Frederick’s head sank still lower upon his breast, and at last, no longer able to restrain his tears, he covered his face with his hands.
The lofty strains of this solemn hymn resounded through the empty church, which until now had been wrapped in gray clouds, but in a moment the sun burst from behind the clouds, darted its rays through the windows, and lighted up the church with golden glory. The king who, until now, had been in the shadow of the cloud, was as if by magic bathed in a sea of light. All eyes were fixed upon his bowed head, his face partially covered with his hands, and the tears gushing from his eyes.
No one could withstand the silent power of this scene; the eyes of the singers filled with tears, and they could only continue their chant in soft, broken, sobbing tones, but Benda was not angry; he dared not look at them, lest they might see that his own stern eyes were veiled in tears.
Frederick seemed more and more absorbed in himself--lost in painful memories. But the loud hosannas resounded and awakened him from his slumber; he dared no longer give himself up to brooding. He arose slowly from his seat, and silent and alone, even as he had entered, he left the church.
II. PRINCE HENRY
Seven years had passed since Prince Henry had left his wife, to fight with his brother against his enemies. During these long years of strife and contest, neither the king nor the prince had returned to Berlin. Like the king, he also had won for himself fame and glory upon the battle-field. Much more fortunate than his brother, he had won many victories, and had not sustained a single defeat with his army corps. More successful in all his undertakings than Frederick, perhaps also more deliberate and careful, he had always chosen the right hour to attack the enemy, and was always prepared for any movement. His thoughtfulness and energy had more than once released the king from some disagreeable or dangerous position. To the masterly manner in which Prince Henry managed to unite his forces with those of his brother after the battle of Kunersdorf, the king owed his escape from the enemies which then surrounded him. And to the great and glorious victory gained by Prince Henry over the troops of the empire and of Austria at Freiberg, the present happy peace was to be attributed. This battle had subdued the courage of the Austrians, and had filled the generals of the troops of the empire with such terror, that they declared at once their unwillingness to continue the war, and their determination to return with their forces to their different countries.
The battle of Freiberg was the last battle of the Seven Years’ War. It brought to Prince Henry such laurels as the king had gained at Leignitz and Torgau; it placed him at his brother’s side as an equal. Frederick saw it without envy or bitterness, and rejoiced in the fulness of his great soul, in his brother’s fame. When he found himself, for the first time after the Seven Years’ War, surrounded at Berlin by the princes and generals, he advanced with a cordial smile to his brother, and laying his hand gently on his shoulder, said aloud:
“You see here, sirs, the only one amongst us all who did not commit a single mistake during the war!”
Seven years had passed since Prince Henry had seen his young wife, Princess Wilhelmina. He could at last return to her--to his beloved Rheinsberg, and find rest after his many years of wandering. He had written to the princess, and requested her not to meet him in Berlin, but to find some pretext for remaining at Rheinsberg. His proud soul could not endure the thought that the woman he loved, who appeared to him fit to grace the first throne of the world, would occupy an inferior position at court--would have to stand behind the queen. He had never envied the king his crown or his position, but his heart now craved the crown of the queen, for the brow of his own beautiful wife, who seemed much better fitted to wear it than the gentle, timid Elizabeth Christine. Princess Wilhelmina had therefore remained at Rheinsberg, feigning sickness.
It was night! The castle of Rheinsberg glittered with the light of the torches by which the gates were adorned, to welcome the prince to his home. The saloons and halls were brilliantly lighted, and in them a gay, merry crowd was assembled. All the prince’s friends and acquaintances had been invited by Princess Wilhelmina to greet his return.
Every thing in the castle bore the appearance of happiness--all seemed gay and cheerful. But still, there was one whose heart was beating anxiously at the thought of the approaching hour--it was the Princess Wilhelmina. She was gorgeously dressed; diamonds glittered on her brow and throat, bright roses gleamed upon her breast, and a smile was on her full, red lips. No one knew the agony this smile cost her! No one knew that the red which burned upon her cheek was caused, not by joy, but terror!
Yes, terror! She was afraid of this meeting, in which she was to receive the prince as her loved husband, while, during the long years of absence, he had become a perfect stranger to her. Not even bound to him by the daily occurrences of life, she had no sympathies with the husband who had been forced upon her, and who had once contemptuously put aside the timid heart that was then prepared to love him. This stranger she was now to meet with every sign of love, because he had one day waked up to the conviction that the heart he had once spurned was worthy of him. It was her duty now to return this love--to consecrate the rich treasures of her heart to him who had once scorned them. Her soul rose in arms at this thought like an insulted lioness, and she felt some of that burning hatred that the lioness feels for her master who wishes to tame her with an iron rod. The prince was to her but her master, who had bound and held her heart in irons, to keep it from escaping from him.
During these seven long years, she had experienced all the freedom and happiness of girlhood; her heart had beat with a power, a fire condemned by the princess herself, but which she was incapable of extinguishing.
Trembling and restless, she wandered through the rooms, smiling when she would have given worlds to have shrieked out her pain, her agony; decked in splendid garments, when she would gladly have been in her shroud. Every sound every step, filled her with terror, for it might announce the arrival of her husband, whom she must welcome with hypocritical love and joy. Could she but show him her scorn, her hatred, her indifference! But the laws of etiquette held her in their stern bonds and would not release her. She was a princess, and could not escape from the painful restraints of her position. She had not the courage to do so. At times in her day-dreams, she longed to leave all the cold, deceitful glare, by which she was surrounded--to go to some far distant valley, and there to live alone and unknown, by the side of her lover, where no etiquette would disturb their happiness--where she would be free as the birds of the air, as careless as the flowers of the field. But these wild dreams vanished when the cold, cruel reality appeared to her. By the side of the once loving woman stood again the princess, who could not surrender the splendor and magnificence by which she was surrounded. She had not the courage nor the wish to descend from her height to the daily life of common mortals. There was dissension in her soul between the high-born princess and the loving, passionate woman. She was capable of making any and every sacrifice for her love, but she had never openly confessed this love, and even in her wildest dreams she had never thought of changing her noble name and position for those of her lover. She could have fled with him to some distant valley, but would she be happy? Would she not regret her former life? Princess Wilhelmina felt the dissension in her soul, and therefore she trembled at the thought of her husband’s return. This meeting would decide her whole future. Perhaps she could still be saved. The prince, returning covered with fame and crowned with laurels, might now win her love, and drive from her heart every other thought. But if he cannot win it--if his return is not sufficient to loosen the chains which bind her--then she was lost--then she could not resist the intoxicating whispers luring her to ruin.
These were Princess Wilhelmina’s thoughts as she leaned against a window of the brilliant ball-room, the protection of whose heavy curtains she had sought to drive for a moment from her face the gay smile and to breathe out the sighs that were almost rending her heart. She was gazing at the dark night without--at the bright, starry sky above. Her lips moved in a low prayer--her timid soul turned to God with its fears.
“O God, my God!” murmured she, “stand by me. Take from me the sinful thoughts that fill my heart. Make me to love my husband. Keep my soul free from shame and sin.”
Hasty steps, loud, merry voices from the hall, disturbed her dreams. She left her retreat, meeting everywhere gay smiles and joyous faces. At the door stood the prince her husband. He advanced eagerly to her side, and ignoring etiquette and the gay assemblage alike he pressed the princess to his heart and kissed her on both cheeks.
Wilhelmina drew from him in deadly terror, and a burning anger filled her heart. Had she loved the prince, this public demonstration of his tenderness would perhaps have pleased and surely been forgiven by her. As it was, she took his embrace and kisses as an insult, which was only to be endured by compulsion--for which she would surely revenge herself.
Prince Henry was so joyous, so happy at meeting his wife once more, that he did not notice her embarrassed silence, her stiff haughtiness, and thought she shared his joy, his delight.
This confidence seemed to the princess presumptuous and humiliating. She confessed to herself that the prince’s manners were not in the least improved by his long campaign--that they were somewhat brusque. He took her hand tenderly; leading her to a divan, and seated himself beside her, but suddenly jumping up he left her, and returned in a few moments with his friend Count Kalkreuth.
“Permit me, Wilhelmina,” said he, “to introduce to you again my dear friend and companion in arms. Men say I have won some fame, but I assure you that if it is true, Kalkreuth deserves the largest share, for he was the gardener who tended my laurels with wise and prudent hands. I commend him, therefore, to your kindness and friendship, Wilhelmina, and beg you to evince for him a part of that affection you owe to me, and which causes my happiness.”
There was something so noble, so open, and knightly in the prince’s manner, that Count Kalkreuth, deeply touched, thought in his heart for a moment that he would not deceive this noble friend with treachery and faithlessness.
The prince’s words had a different effect upon the princess. Instead of being touched by his great confidence in her, she was insulted. It indicated great arrogance and self-conceit to be so sure of her love as to see no danger, but to bring his friend to her and commend him to her kindness. It humiliated her for the prince to speak with such confidence of her affection as of a thing impossible to lose. She determined, therefore, to punish him. With a bright smile, she held out her hand to the count, and said to him a few kind words of welcome. How she had trembled at the thought of this meeting--how she had blushed at the thought of standing beside the count with the conviction that not one of her words was forgotten--that the confession of love she had made to the departing soldier belonged now to the returned nobleman! But her husband’s confidence had shorn the meeting of all its terror, and made the road she had to travel easy.
The count bowed deeply before her and pressed her hand to his lips. She returned the pressure of his hand, and, as he raised his head and fixed an almost imploring glance upon her, he encountered her eyes beaming with unutterable love.
The court assembly stood in groups, looking with cold, inquisitive eyes at the piquant scene the prince in the innocence of his heart had prepared for them--which was to them an inimitable jest, an excellent amusement. They all knew--what the prince did not for a moment suspect--that Count Kalkreuth adored the princess. They now desired to see if this love was returned by the princess, or suffered by her as a coquette.
None had gazed at this scene with such breathless sympathy, such cruel joy, as Madame du Trouffle. Being one of the usual circle at Rheinsberg, she had been invited by the princess to the present fete, and it seemed to her very amusing to receive her own husband, not at their home, but at the castle of her former lover. Major du Trouffle was on the prince’s staff, and had accompanied him to Rheinsberg.
Louise had not as yet found time to greet her husband. Her glance was fixed eagerly upon the princess; she noticed her every movement, her every look; she watched every smile, every quiver of her lip. Her husband stood at her side--he had been there for some time, greeting her in low, tender words--but Louise did not attend to him. She seemed not to see him; her whole soul was in her eyes, and they were occupied with the princess. Suddenly she turns her sparkling eyes upon her husband and murmurs. “He is lost! His laurels will be insufficient to cover the brand which from to-day on will glow upon his brow!” Her husband looked at her in amazement.
“Is this your welcome, after seven long years of absence, Louise?” said he, sadly.
She laid her hand hastily upon his arm, saying, “Hush, hush!” Once more she gazed at the princess, who was talking and laughing gayly with her husband and Count Kalkreuth. “How her cheeks glow, and what tender glances she throws him!” murmured Louise. “Ah! the prince has fallen a victim to his ingenuousness! Verily, he is again praising the merits of his friend. He tells her how Kalkreuth saved his life--how he received the blow meant for his own head. Poor prince! You will pay dearly for the wound Kalkreuth received for you. I said, and I repeat it--he is lost!”
Her husband looked at her as if he feared she had gone mad during his absence. “Of whom do you speak, Louise?” whispered he. “What do you mean? Will you not speak one word of welcome to me to convince me that you know me--that I have not become a stranger to you?” The princess now arose from her seat, and leaning on her husband’s arm she passed through the room, talking merrily with Count Kalkreuth at her side. “They have gone to the conservatory,” said Louise, grasping her husband’s arm. “We will also go and find some quiet, deserted place where we can talk undisturbed.”
III. MOTHER AND DAUGHTER
Louise du Trouffle drew her husband onward, and they both followed silently the great crowd which was now entering the splendidly illuminated conservatories. The view offered to the eye was superb. You seemed to be suddenly transplanted as if by magic from the stiff, ceremonious court-saloons into the fresh, fragrant, blooming world of nature. You breathed with rapture the odor of those rare and lovely flowers which were arranged in picturesque order between the evergreen myrtles and oranges. The windows, and indeed the ceiling were entirely covered with vines, and seemed to give color to the illusion that you were really walking in an open alley. Colored Chinese balloons attached to fine chains, fell from the ceiling, and seemed to float like gay butterflies between the trees and flowers. They threw their soft, faint, many-colored lights through these enchanting halls, on each side of which little grottoes had been formed by twining together myrtles, palms, and fragrant bushes. Each one of these held a little grass-plot, or green divan, and these were so arranged that the branches of the palms were bent down over the seats, and concealed those who rested there behind a leafy screen.
To one of these grottoes Louise now led her husband. “We will rest here awhile,” said she. “This grotto has one advantage--it lies at the corner of the wall and has but one open side, and leafy bushes are thickly grouped about it. We have no listeners to fear, and may chat together frankly and harmlessly. And now, first of all, welcome, my husband--welcome to your home!”
“God be thanked, Louise--God be thanked that you have at last known how to speak one earnest word, and welcome me to your side! Believe me, when I say that through all these weary years, each day I have rejoiced at the thought of this moment. It has been my refreshment and my consolation. I truly believe that the thought of you and my ardent desire to see you was a talisman which kept death afar off. It seemed to me impossible to die without seeing you once more. I had a firm conviction that I would live through the war and return to you. Thus I defied the balls of the enemy, and have returned to repose on your heart, my beloved wife--after the storms and hardships of battle to fold you fondly in my arms and never again to leave you.” He threw his arms around her waist, and pressed his lips with a tender kiss upon her mouth.
Louise suffered this display of tenderness for one moment, then slipped lightly under his arms and retreated a few steps.
“Do you know,” said she, with a low laugh, “that was a true, respectable husband’s kiss; without energy and without fire; not too cold, not too warm--the tepid, lukewarm tenderness of a husband who really loves his wife, and might be infatuated about her, if she had not the misfortune to be his wife?”
“Ah! you are still the old Louise,” said the major merrily; “still the gay, coquettish, unsteady butterfly, who, with its bright, variegated wings, knows how to escape, even when fairly caught in the toils. I love you just as you are, Louise; I rejoice to find you just what I left you. You will make me young again, child; by your side I will learn again to laugh and be happy. We have lost the power to do either amidst the fatigues and hardships of our rude campaigns.”
“Yes, yes,” said Louise; “we dismissed you, handsome, well-formed cavaliers, and you return to us clumsy, growling bears; good-humored but savage pets, rather too willing to learn again to dance and sing. The only question is, will the women consent to become bear-leaders, and teach the uncultivated pets their steps?”
“Well, they will be obliged to do this,” said the major, laughing. “It is their duty.”
“Dear friend, if you begin already to remind us of our duty, I fear your cause is wholly lost. Come, let us sit here awhile upon this grass plot and talk together.”
“Yes, you will be seated, but I do not see exactly why we should talk together. I would much rather close your laughing, rosy lips with kisses.” He drew her to his side, and was about to carry out this purpose, but Louise waved him off.
“If you do not sit perfectly quiet by my side,” said she, “I will unfold the gay wings, of which you have just spoken, and fly far away!”
“Well, then, I will sit quietly; but may I not be permitted to ask my shy prudish mistress why I must do so?”
“Why? Well, because I wish to give my savage pet his first lecture after his return. The lecture begins thus: When a man remains absent from his wife seven years, he has no right to return as a calm, confident, self-assured husband, with his portion of home-baked tenderness; he should come timidly, as a tender, attentive, enamoured cavalier, who woos his mistress and draws near to her humbly, tremblingly, and submissively--not looking upon her as his wife, but as the fair lady whose love he may hope to win.”
“But why, Louise, should we take refuge in such dissimulation, when we are assured of your love?”
“You are assured of nothing! How can you be so artless as to believe that these seven years have passed by and left no trace, and that we feel exactly to-day as we did before this fearful war? When you have opened the door and given liberty to the bird whose wings you have cut, and whose wild heart you have tamed in a cage; when the captive flies out into the fresh, free air of God, floats merrily along in the midst of rejoicing, laughing Nature--will he, after years have passed, will lie, if you shall please to wish once more to imprison him, return willingly to his cage? I believe you would have to entice him a long time--to whisper soft, loving, flattering words, and place in the cage the rarest dainties before you could induce him to yield up his golden freedom, and to receive you once more as his lord and master. But if you seek to arrest him with railing and threats--with wise and grave essays on duty and constancy--he will swing himself on the lofty branch of a tree, so high that you cannot follow, and whistle at you!”
“You are right, I believe,” said Du Trouffle, thoughtfully. “I see to-day a new talent in you, Louise; you have become a philosopher.”
“Yes, and I thirst to bring my wisdom to bear against a man,” said Louise, laughingly. “I hope you will profit by it! Perhaps it may promote your happiness, and enable you to recapture your bird. You will not at least make shipwreck on the breakers against which the good prince dashed his head to-day: he was wounded and bleeding, and will carry the mark upon his brow as long as he lives.”
“What has he done which justifies so melancholy a prognostication?”
“What has he done? He returned to his wife, not as a lover but as a husband; he did not kiss her hand tremblingly and humbly and timidly--seek to read in her glance if she were inclined to favor him; he advanced with the assurance of a conquering hero, and before the whole world he gave her a loud, ringing kiss, which resounded like the trump of victory. The good prince thought that because the outside war was at an end and you had made peace with your enemies, all other strifes and difficulties had ceased, and you had all entered upon an epoch of everlasting happiness; that, by the sides of your fond and faithful wives, you had nothing to do but smoke the calumet of peace. But he made a great and dangerous mistake, and he will suffer for it. I tell you, friend, the war which you have just closed was less difficult, less alarming than the strife which will now be carried on in your families. The wicked foe has abandoned the battle-field to you, but he is crouched down upon your hearths and awaits you at the sides of your wives and daughters.”
“Truly, Louise, your words, make me shudder! and my heart, which was beating so joyfully, seems now to stand still.”
Louise paid no attention to his words, but went on:
“You say the war is at an end. I believe it has just begun. It will be carried on fiercely in every house, in every family; many hearts will break, many wounds be given, and many tears be shed before we snail have household peace. All those fond ties which united men and women, parents and children, have been shaken, or torn apart; all contracts are destroyed or undermined. In order to endure, to live through these fearful seven years, every one gave himself up to frivolity--the terrible consequence is, that the whole world has become light-minded and frivolous. We do not look upon life with the same eyes as formerly. To enjoy the present moment--to snatch that chance of happiness from the fleeting hour, which the next hour is chasing and may utterly destroy--seems the only aim. Love is an amusement, constancy a phantom, in which no one believes--which is only spoken of in nursery fairy tales. The women have learned, by experience, that their husbands and lovers did not die of longing to see them; that they themselves, after the tears of separation, which perhaps flowed freely a long time, were once quenched, could live on alone; that independence had its bright side and was both agreeable and comfortable. The history of the widow of Ephesus is repeated every day, my friend. The women wept and were melancholy a long time after the separation from their husbands, but at last they could not close their ears to the sweet, soft words of consolation which were whispered to them; at last they realized that incessant weeping and mourning had its wearisome and monotonous side, that the dreary time flew more swiftly if they sought to amuse themselves and be happy. They allowed themselves to be comforted, in the absence of their husbands, by their lovers, and they felt no reproach of conscience; for they were convinced that their truant husbands were doing the same thing in their long separation--were making love to ‘the lips that were near.’”
“Did you think and act thus, Louisa?” said Major du Trouffle, in a sad and anxious tone, looking his wife firmly in the eye.
Louisa laughed with calm and unconcern.
“My friend,” said she, “would I have told all this to you, if I had committed the faults I charge upon others? I have been inactive but observant; that has been my amusement, my only distraction, and my observations have filled me with amazement and abhorrence. I have drawn from these sources profound and philosophic lessons. I have studied mankind, and with full conviction I can assure you the war is not at an end, and, instead of the palm of peace, the apple of discord will flourish. Men no longer believe in constancy or honesty, every man suspects his neighbor and holds him guilty, even as he knows himself to be guilty. Every woman watches the conduct of other women with malicious curiosity; she seems to herself less guilty when she finds that others are no better than herself; and when, unhappily, she does not find that her friend is false or faithless, she will try to make her appear so; if the truth will not serve her purpose, she will, by slander and scandal, draw a veil over her own sins. Never was there as much treachery and crime as now. Calumny stands before every door, and will whisper such evil and fearful things in the ears of every returned soldier, that he will become wild with rage, and distrust his wife, no matter how innocent she may be.”
“I shall not be guilty of this fault,” said Major du Trouffle. “If I find slander lying in wait at my door, I will kick it from me and enter my home calmly and smilingly, without having listened to her whispers, or, if I have heard them involuntarily, without believing them.”
“Then there will be at least one house in Berlin where peace will reign,” said Louise, sweetly, “and that house will be ours. I welcome you in the name of our lares, who have been long joyfully awaiting you. I have also an agreeable surprise for you.”
“What surprise, Louise?”
“You often told me that my daughter Camilla disturbed your happiness, that she stood like a dark cloud over my past, which had not belonged to you.”
“It is true! I could not force my heart to love her; her presence reminded me always that you had been loved by another, had belonged to another, and had been made thoroughly wretched.”
“Well then, friend, this cloud has been lifted up, and this is the surprise which awaited your return home. Camilla has been married more than a year.”
“Married’” cried the major, joyfully; “who is the happy man that has undertaken to tame this wilful child, and warm her cold heart?”
“Ask rather, who is the unhappy man who was enamoured with this lovely face, and has taken a demon for an angel?” sighed Louise. “He is a young, distinguished, and wealthy Englishman, Lord Elliot, an attache of the English embassy, who fulfilled the duties of minister during the absence of the ambassador, Lord Mitchel, who was generally at the headquarters of the king.”
“And Camilla, did she love him?”
Louise shrugged her shoulders.
“When he made his proposals, she declared herself ready to marry him; but, I believe, his presence was less agreeable and interesting to her than the splendid gifts he daily brought her.”
“But, Louise, it was her free choice to marry him? You did not persuade her? you did not, I hope, in order to humor my weakness, induce her by entreaties and representations to marry against her will?”
“My friend,” said Louise, with the proud air of an injured mother, “however fondly I may have loved you, I would not have sacrificed for you the happiness of an only child. Camilla asked my consent to her marriage after she had obtained her father’s permission, and I gave it. The marriage took place three days after the engagement, and the young pair made a bridal-trip to England, from which they returned a few months since.”
“And where are they now?”
“They live in Berlin in an enchanting villa, which Lord Elliot has converted into a palace for his young wife. You will see them this evening, for they are both here, and--”
Louise ceased to speak; a well-known voice interrupted the silence, and drew nearer and nearer. “Ah,” whispered she, lightly, “the proverb is fulfilled, ‘Speak of the wolf, and he appears.’ That is Lord Elliot and Camilla speaking with such animation. Let us listen awhile.”
The youthful pair had now drawn near, and stood just before the grotto.
“I find it cruel, very cruel, to deny me every innocent pleasure,” said Camilla, with a harsh, displeased voice. “I must live like a nun who has taken an eternal vow; I am weary of it.”
“Oh, my Camilla, you slander yourself when you say this; you are not well, and you must be prudent. I know you better than you know yourself, my Camilla. Your heart, which is clear and transparent as crystal, lies ever unveiled before me, and I listen with devout love to its every pulse. I am sure that you do not wish to dance to-day, my love.”
“I wish to dance, and I will dance, because it gives me pleasure.”
“Because you are like a sweet child and like the angels,” said Lord Elliot, eagerly; “your heart is gay and innocent. You are like a fluttering Cupid, sleeping in flower-cups and dreaming of stars and golden sunshine; you know nothing of earthly and prosaic thoughts. I must bind your wings, my beauteous butterfly, and hold you down in the dust of this poor, pitiful world. Wait, only wait till you are well; when your health is restored, you shall be richly repaid for all your present self-denial. Every day I will procure you new pleasures, prepare you new fetes; you shall dance upon carpets of roses like an elfin queen.”
“You promise me that?” said Camilla; “you promise me that you will not prevent my dancing as much and as gayly as I like?”
“I promise you all this, Camilla, if you will only not dance now.”
“Well,” sighed she, “I agree to this; but I fear that my cousin, Count Kindar, will be seriously displeased if I suddenly refuse him the dance I promised him.”
“He will excuse you, sweetheart, when I beg him to do so,” said Lord Elliot, with a soft smile. “I will seek him at once, and make your excuses. Be kind enough to wait for me here, I will return immediately.” He kissed her fondly upon the brow, and hastened off.
Camilla looked after him and sighed deeply; then, drawing back the long leaves of the palm, she entered the grotto; she stepped hastily back when she saw that the green divan was occupied, and tried to withdraw, but her mother held her and greeted her kindly. Camilla laughed aloud. “Ah, mother, it appears as if I am to be ever in your way; although I no longer dwell in your house, I still disturb your pleasures. But I am discreet; let your friend withdraw; I will not see him, I will not know his name, and when my most virtuous husband returns, he will find only two modest gentlewomen. Go, sir; I will turn away, that I may not see you.”
“I rather entreat you, my dear Camilla, to turn your lovely face toward me, and to greet me kindly,” said Major du Trouffle, stepping from behind the shadow of the palm, and giving his hand to Camilla.
She gazed at him questioningly, and when at last she recognized him, she burst out into a merry peal of laughter. “Truly,” said she, “my mother had a rendezvous with her husband, and I have disturbed an enchanting marriage chirping. You have also listened to my married chirp, and know all my secrets. Well, what do you say, dear stepfather, to my mother having brought me so soon under the coif, and made her wild, foolish little Camilla the wife of a lord?”
“I wish you happiness with my whole soul, dear Camilla, and rejoice to hear from your mother that you have made so excellent a choice, and are the wife of so amiable and intellectual a man.”
“So, does mamma say that Lord Elliot is all that? She may be right, I don’t understand these things. I know only that I find his lordship unspeakably wearisome, that I do not understand a word of his intellectual essays, though my lord declares that I know every thing, that I understand every thing, and have a most profound intellect. Ah, dear stepfather, it is a terrible misfortune to be so adored and worshipped as I am; I am supposed to be an angel, who by some rare accident has fallen upon the earth.”
“Truly a misfortune, for which all other women would envy you,” said the major, laughing.
“Then they would make a great mistake,” sighed Camilla. “I for my part am weary of this homage; I have no desire to be, I will not consent to be an angel; I wish only to be a beautiful, rich young woman and to enjoy my life--. Do what I will, my husband looks at every act of folly from an ideal stand-point, and finds thus new material for worship; he will force me at last to some wild, insane act in order to convince him that I am no angel, but a weak child of earth.”
“You were almost in the act of committing such a folly this evening,” said her mother, sternly.
“Ah, you mean that I wished to dance. But only think, mamma, with whom I wished to dance, with my cousin, whom all the world calls ‘the handsome Kindar,’ and who dances so gloriously, that it is a delight to see him, and bliss to float about with him. He only returned this evening, and he came at once to me and greeted me so lovingly, so tenderly; you know, mamma, we have always loved each other fondly. When I told him I was married, he turned pale and looked at me so sorrowfully, and tears were in his eyes. Oh, mamma, why was I obliged to wed Lord Elliot, who is so grave, so wise, so learned, so virtuous, and with whom it is ever wearisome? Why did you not let me wait till Kindar returned, who is so handsome, so gay, so ignorant, before whom I should never have been forced to blush, no matter how foolish I had been, and with whom I should never have been weary?”
“But how did you know that the handsome Kindar wished to marry you?” said Louise, laughing.
“Oh, yes, mamma, I knew it well; he has often told me so, even when I was a little girl and he was a cadet. This dreadful war is the cause of all my misery; it led to his promotion, then he must join his regiment; then, alas! I must marry another before his return.”
“Yes, but a noble, intellectual, and honorable cavalier, who does honor to your choice,” said Du Trouffle.
“Lord Elliot has red hair, squints with both eyes, and is so long and meagre that he looks more like an exclamation-point than a man. When he appears before me in his yellow-gray riding costume, I am always reminded of the great windspeil you gave me once, stepfather, who had such long, high legs, I used to creep under them; and when he lies like a windspeil at my feet, and squints at me, his eyes seem tied up in knots, and I never know if he is really looking at me, or is about to fall into a swoon. Now, stepfather, do you not find that Lord Elliot does honor to my taste?”
“Certainly, and all the more because your choice proves that you appreciate the true dignity and beauty of a man, and his outward appearance seems to you comparatively insignificant.”
“Alas, alas! now you begin also to attribute noble and exalted motives to me,” said Camilla pathetically. “No, no, stepfather, I am not so sublime as you think, and I should not have married Lord Elliot if mamma and myself had not both indulged the ardent wish to be released from each other. Mamma is too young and too beautiful to be willing to have a grown-up daughter who is not ugly by her side, and I was too old to be locked up any longer in the nursery, so I stepped literally from the nursery to the altar, and became the wife of Lord Elliot; so mamma and myself were freed from the presence of each other, and I thought that a time of joy and liberty would bloom for me. But, alas, I have only changed my cage; formerly I was confined in a nursery, now my prison is a temple, because my husband says I am too elevated, too angelic to come in contact with the pitiful world. Ah. I long so for the world; I am so thirsty for its pleasures, I would so gladly take full draughts of joy from its golden cup! My husband comes and offers me a crystal shell, filled with heavenly dew and ether dust, which is, I suppose, angels’ food, but he does not remark that I am hungering and thirsting to death. Like King Midas, before whose thirsty lips every thing turned to gold, and who was starving in the midst of all his glory, I beseech you, stepfather, undertake the role of the barber, bore a hole and cry out in it that I have ass’s ears--ears as long as those of King Midas. Perhaps the rushes would grow again and make known to my lord the simple fact, which up to this time he refuses to believe, that I am indeed no angel, and he would cease to worship me, and allow me to be gay and happy upon the earth like every other woman. But come, come, stepfather, I hear the earnest voice of my husband in conversation with my merry, handsome cousin. Let us go to meet them, and grant me the pleasure of introducing Lord Elliot to you--not here, but in the brilliantly lighted saloon. Afterward I will ask you, on your word of honor, if you still find I have made a happy choice, and if my windspeil of a husband is of more value than my handsome cousin?”
She took the arm of the major with a gay smile, and tried to draw him forward.
“But your mother,” said Du Trouffle, “you forget your mother?”
“Listen now, mamma, how cruel he is, always reminding you that you are my mother; that is as much as to say to you, in other words, that you will soon be a grandmother. Mamma, I could die of laughter to think of you as a grandmother. I assure you, mamma, that in the midst of all my sorrows and disappointments this thought is the only thing which diverts and delights me. Only think, I shall soon make you a worthy grandmother. Say now, grandmother, will you come with us?”
“No, I will remain here, your gayety has made me sad--I do not feel fit for society. I will await my husband here, and we will return to Berlin.”
“Adieu, then, mamma,” said Camilla, rapidly drawing the major onward.
Louise du Trouffle remained alone in the grotto; she leaned her head against the palm-tree, and looked sorrowfully after the retreating form of her daughter. It seemed to her that a shudder passed through her soul; that a cold, dead hand was laid upon her heart, as if a phantom pressed against her, and a voice whispered: “This is thy work. Oh, mother worthy of execration, you alone have caused the destruction of your daughter; through you that soul is lost, which God intrusted to you, and which was endowed with the germ of great and noble qualities. It was your duty to nourish and build them up. God will one day call you to account, and ask this precious soul of you, which you have poisoned by your evil example, which is lost--lost through you alone.”
Louise shuddered fearfully, then rousing herself she tried to shake off these fearful thoughts, and free herself from the stern voices which mastered her. They had so often spoken, so often awaked her in the middle of the night, driven sleep from her couch, and tortured her conscience with bitter reproaches!
Louise knew well this gray phantom which was ever behind her or at her side; ever staring at her with dark and deadly earnestness, even in the midst of her mirth and joyousness; the harsh voice was often so loud that Louise was bewildered by it, and could not hear the ring of joy and rapture which surrounded her. She knew that this pale spectre was conscience; press it down as she would, the busy devil was ever mounting, mounting. But she would not listen, she rushed madly on after new distractions, new pleasures; she quenched the warning voice under shouts of mirth and levity; she threw herself in the arms of folly and worldly pleasures, and then for long months she escaped this threatening phantom, which, with raised finger, stood behind her, which seemed to chase her, and from which she ever fled to new sins and new guilt. Sometimes she had a feeling as if Death held her in his arms, and turned her round in a wild and rapid dance, not regarding her prayers, or her panting, gasping breath; she would, oh how gladly, have rested; gladly have laid down in some dark and quiet corner, away from this wild gayety. But she could not escape from those mysterious arms which held her captive in their iron clasp, which rushed onward with her in the death-dance of sin. She must go onward, ever onward, in this career of vice; she must ever again seek intoxication in the opium of sin, to save herself from the barren, colorless nothingness which awaited her; from that worst of all evils, the weariness with which the old coquette paints the terrible future, in which even she can no longer please; in which old age with a cruel hand sweeps away the flowers from the hair and the crimson from the cheek, and points out to the mocking world the wrinkles on the brow and the ashes in the hair.
“It is cold here,” said Louise, shuddering, and springing up quickly from the grass-plot--“it is cold here, and lonely; I will return to the saloon. Perhaps--”
Hasty steps drew near, and a voice whispered her name. Madame du Trouffle drew back, and a glowing blush suffused her cheek, and as she advanced from the grotto she was again the gay, imperious coquette--the beautiful woman, with the cloudless brow and the sparkling eyes, which seemed never to have been over-shadowed by tears. The conscience-stricken, self-accusing mother was again the worldly-wise coquette.
Her name was called the second time, and her heart trembled, she knew not if with joy or horror.
“For God’s sake, why have you dared to seek me here? Do you not know that my husband may return at any moment?”
“Your husband is entertaining Prince Henry while the princess dances the first waltz with Count Kalkreuth. All the world is dancing, playing, and chatting, and, while looking at the prince and princess, have for one moment forgotten the beautiful Louise du Trouffle. I alone could not do this, and as I learned from Lady Elliot that you were here, I dared to follow you, and seek in one glance a compensation for what I have endured this day. Ah, tell me, worshipped lady, must I be forever banished from your presence.”
The words of the young man would have seemed insincere and artificial to every unprejudiced ear, but they filled the heart of the vain Louise du Trouffle with joy; they convinced her that she was yet beautiful enough to excite admiration.
“All will be well, Emil,” said she; “I have convinced my husband that I am wise as Cato and virtuous as Lucretia. He believes in me, and will cast all slander from his door. Remain here, and let me return alone to the saloon. Au revoir, man ami.”
She threw him a kiss from the tips of her rosy fingers, and hastened away.
CHAPTER IV. THE KING IN SANS-SOUCI. The ceremonies and festivities of the reception were ended. The king could at length indulge himself in that quiet and repose which he had so long vainly desired. At length, he who had lived so many years to perform the duties of a king, who had in reality lived for his country, might after so many cares and sorrows seek repose. The warrior and hero might once more become the philosopher; might once more enjoy with his friends the pleasure of science and art.
The king entered the carriage which was to bear him to Sans-Souci with a beaming countenance--his deeply-loved Sans-Souci, which had seemed a golden dream to him during the dreary years of the war--a bright goal before him, of which it consoled and strengthened him even to think. Now he would again behold it; now he would again enter those beautiful rooms, and the past would once more become a reality.
He seemed enraptured with the road which led him to Sans-Souci. Every tree, every stone appeared to welcome him, and when the palace became visible, he was entirely overcome by his emotions, and sank back in his carriage with closed eyes.
The Marquis d’Argens, however, the only one who had been allowed to accompany the king in this drive, sprang from his seat, and waving his hat in greeting, exclaimed:
“I greet you, Sans-Souci, you temple of wisdom and happiness! Open wide your portals, for your lord is returning to you. Let your walls resound as did Memnon’s pillar, when the sun’s rays first greeted it, after a long night. Your night is passed, Sans-Souci; you will be again warmed by the sunbeams from your master’s eyes!”
The king smilingly drew his enthusiastic friend back to his seat.
“You are, and always will be a child--an overgrown child.”
“Sire,” said D’Argens, “that is because I am pious. It is written, ‘If you do not become as little children you cannot enter the kingdom of heaven!’ Now, Sans-Souci is my kingdom! I have become as the children, that I might be received at the side of my king, and begin once more the days of happiness.”
The king gently shook his head. “Oh, I fear, my friend, that the days of happiness will not recommence; the sun which once illumined Sans-Souci has set. Our lips have forgotten how to smile, and joy is dead in our hearts. How many illusions, how many hopes and wishes I still indulged, when I last descended the steps of Sans-Souci; how poor, and weak, and depressed I shall feel in ascending them!”
“What? your majesty poor! You who return so rich in fame, crowned with imperishable laurels?”
“Ah, marquis, these laurels are bathed in blood, and paid for bitterly and painfully with the lives of many thousands of my subjects. The wounds are still gaping which my land received during the war, and they will require long years to heal. Do not speak to me of my laurels; fame is but cold and sorrowful food! In order to prize fame, one should lay great weight on the judgment of men; I have lost all faith in them. Too many bitter experiences have at length destroyed my faith and confidence. I can no longer love mankind, for I have ever found them small, miserable, and crafty. Those for whom I have done most have betrayed and deceived me the most deeply. Think of Chafgotch, he whom I called friend, and who betrayed me in the hour of danger! Remember Warkotch, whom I preferred to so many others, whom I overloaded with proofs of my love, and who wished to betray and murder me! Think of the many attempts against my life, which were always undertaken by those whom I had trusted and benefited! Think of these things, marquis, and then tell me if I should still love and trust mankind!”
“It is true, sire,” said the marquis, sadly; “your majesty has had a wretched experience, and mankind must appear small to you, who are yourself so great. The eagle which soars proudly toward the sun, must think the world smaller and smaller, the higher he soars; the objects which delight us poor earth-worms, who are grovelling in the dust, and mistake an atom floating in the sunshine for the sun itself, must indeed appear insignificant to you.”
“Do not flatter me, marquis! Let us, when together, hear a little of that truth which is so seldom heard among men, and of which the name is scarcely known to kings. You flattered me, because you had not the courage to answer my question concerning the unworthiness of mankind, when I said I could no longer love or trust them! You feel, however, that I am right, and you will know how to pardon me, when I appear to the world as a cold, hard-hearted egotist. It is true my heart has become hardened in the fire of many and deep sufferings! I loved mankind very dearly, marquis; perhaps that is the reason I now despise them so intensely; because I know they are not worthy of my love!”
“But, sire, you love them still; for your heart is possessed of that Godlike quality--mercy--which overlooks and pardons the faults and failings of mankind. Intolerance is not in the nature of my king, and forgiveness and mercy are ever on his lips.”
“I will endeavor to verify your words, dear friend,” said the king, offering D’Argens his hand. “And should I not succeed, you must forgive me, and remember how deeply I have suffered, and that my heart is hardened by the scars of old wounds. But I will indulge such sad thoughts no longer. Only look how Sans-Souci gleams before us! Every window which glitters in the sunlight seems to greet me with shining eyes, and the whispering leaves appear to bid me welcome. There are the windows of my library, and behind them await the great spirits of my immortal friends, who look at me and shake their gray heads at the weak child who has returned to them old and bowed down. Csesar looks smilingly at the laurels I have brought, and Virgil shakes his curly locks, and lightly hums one of his divine songs, which are greater than all my victories. Come, marquis, come! we will go, in all modesty and humility to these gifted spirits, and entreat them not to despise us, because we are so unlike them.”
As the carriage reached the lowest terrace, Frederick sprang out with the elasticity of youth, and began to ascend the steps so lightly and rapidly, that the marquis could scarcely follow him.
From time to time the king stood still, and gazed around him, and then a bright smile illumined his countenance, and his eyes beamed with pleasure. Then hastening onward, he turned his head toward the house that looked so still and peaceful, and seemed, with its open doors, ready to welcome him.
At length, having reached the summit, he turned once more with beaming eyes to look at the lovely landscape which was spread before him in smiling luxuriousness. He then hastily entered the house and the beautiful room in which he had spent so many gay and happy hours with his friends. Now his footsteps echoed in the lonely room, and none of his friends were there to welcome the returning king--none but D’Argens, the dearest, the most faithful of all.
The king now turned to him, and a shadow overspread his countenance, which had been so bright.
“D’Argens,” he said, “we are very poor; the most of our friends have left us forever. The prior of Sans-Souci has returned, but his monks have all left him but you, marquis!”
“Does your majesty forget my Lord Marshal, the most amiable and intellectual of your monks? It needs but a sign from his beloved prior to recall him from Neufchatel!”
“It is true,” said the king, smiling; “I am not so deserted as I thought. Lord Marshal must return to us, and he must live here in Sans-Souci, as you will. I must surround myself with those who deserve my confidence; perhaps, then, I can forget how bitterly I have been deceived by others. Come, marquis, give me your arm, and we will make a tour of these rooms.”
He placed his hand upon the arm of the marquis, and they passed through the silent, deserted rooms, which seemed to greet the king with a thousand remembrances. Perhaps it was that he might the more distinctly hear the whispers of memory that he had commanded that no one should receive him in Sans-Souci, that no servant should appear until called for. Without noise or ceremony, he desired to take possession of this house, in which he had not been the king, but the philosopher and poet. He wished to return here, at least, as if he had only yesterday left the house. But the seven years of care and sorrow went with him; they crept behind him into these silent, deserted halls. He recognized them in the faded furniture, in the dusty walls, and in the darkened pictures. They were not merely around, but within him, and he again felt how utterly he had changed in these years.
As they entered the room which Voltaire had occupied, Frederick’s countenance was again brightened by a smile, while that of the marquis assumed a dark and indignant expression.
“Ah, marquis, I see from your countenance that you are acquainted with all the monkey-tricks of my immortal friend,” said the king, gayly; “and you are indignant that so great a genius as Voltaire should have possessed so small a soul! You think it very perfidious in Voltaire to have joined my enemies when I was in trouble, and then to send me his congratulations if I happened to win a victory!”
“Does your majesty know that also?” asked the astonished marquis.
“Dear marquis, have we not always good friends and servants, who take a pleasure in telling bad news, and informing us of those things which they know it will give us pain to hear? Even kings have such friends, and mine eagerly acquainted me with the fact that Voltaire wished all manner of evil might befall his friend ‘Luc,’ as it pleased him to call me. Did he not write to D’Argental that he desired nothing more fervently than my utter humiliation and the punishment of my sins, on the same day on which he sent me an enthusiastic poem, written in honor of my victory at Leuthen? Did he not write on another occasion to Richelieu, that the happiest day of his life would be that on which the French entered Berlin as conquerors, and destroyed the capital of the treacherous king who dared to write to him twice every month the tenderest and most flattering things, without dreaming of reinstating him as chamberlain with the pension of six thousand thalers? He wished that I might suffer ‘la damnation eternelle,’ and proudly added. ‘Vous voyez, que dans la tragedie je veux toujours que le crime soit puni.’”
“Yes,” replied D’Argens, “and at the same time he wrote here to Formay: ‘Votre roi est toujours un homme unique, etonnant, inimitable; il fait des vers charmants dans de temps ou un autre ne pourrait faire un ligne de prose, il merite d’etre heureux.’”
The king laughed aloud. “Well, and what does that prove, that Voltaire is the greatest and most unprejudiced of poets?”
“That proves, sire, that he is a false, perfidious man, a faithless ungrateful friend. All his great poetical gifts weigh as nothing in the scale against the weakness and wickedness of his character. I can no longer admire him as a poet, because I despise him so utterly as a man.”
“You are too hard, marquis,” said Frederick, laughing. “Voltaire has a great mind, but a small heart, and that is, after all, less his fault than his Creator’s. Why should we wish to punish him, when he is innocent? Why should we demand of a great poet that he shall be a good man? We will allow him to have a bad heart, he can account to Madame Denis for that; and if we cannot love him, we can at least admire him as a poet. We can forgive much wickedness in men, if it is redeemed by great virtues.”
“Ah, sire, that is very sad,” sad D’Argens, “and could only be uttered by one who had the most profound love or the greatest contempt for mankind.”
“Perhaps the two are combined in me,” said the king. “As Christ said of the Magdalen, ‘She has loved much, much will be forgiven her,’ so let us say of Voltaire. He has written much, much will be forgiven him. He has lately rendered an immortal service, for which I could almost love him, were it possible to love him at all. He undertook with bold courage the defence of the unhappy Jean Calas, who was murdered by fanatical French priests. The priests, perhaps, will condemn him; we, however, honor him.”
“Did not your majesty do the same thing?” asked D’Argens. “Did you not also take pity on the unhappy family of Jean Calas? Did you not send them a considerable amount of money and offer them an asylum in your dominions?”
“That I did, certainly; but what is that in comparison with what Voltaire has done? He gave them the strength of his mind and his work, his best possession, while I could only give them gold. Voltaire’s gift was better, more beautiful, and I will now take a vow for his sake, that the persecuted and oppressed shall always find aid and protection in my land, and that I will consider liberty of spirit a sacred thing as long as I live. Freedom of thought shall be a right of my subjects. I will call all free and liberal minded persons to come to me, for liberty of thought brings liberty of will, and I prefer to rule a thinking people, to a mass of thoughtless slaves, who follow me through stupid obedience. Prussia shall be the land of liberty and enlightenment. The believers and the unbelievers, the pietists and the atheists may speak alike freely; the spirit of persecution shall be forever banished from Prussia.”
“Amen,” cried D’Argens solemnly, as he glanced at the excited, beaming countenance of the king. “The spirit of love and of freedom hears your words, my king, and they will be written with a diamond-point in the history of Prussia.”
“And now, marquis,” said the king, “we will visit my library, and then we will repose ourselves that we may enjoy our meal. In the evening I invite you to the concert. My musicians are coming from Berlin, and we will see if my lips, which have been accustomed so long to rough words of discipline, are capable of producing a few sweet notes from my flute.”
Thus speaking, the king took the arm of the marquis, and they passed slowly through the room, whose desolate silence made them both sad.
“The world is nothing more than a great, gaping grave, on the brink of which we walk with wild courage,” said the king, softly. “There is no moment that some one does not stumble at our side and fall into the abyss, and we have the courage to continue in the path until our strength fails and we sink, making room for another. Almost all of those who formerly occupied these rooms have vanished. How long will it be ere I shall follow them?”
“May that wretched moment be very distant!” exclaimed D’Argens, with a trembling voice. “Your majesty is still so young and full of life--you have nothing to do with death.”
“No,” said the king; “I am very old, for I have become indifferent to the world. Things which would have deeply distressed me formerly, now pass unheeded over my soul. I assure you, marquis, I have made great progress in practical philosophy. I am old; I stand at the limits of life, and my soul is freeing itself from this world, which, it is to be hoped, I will soon leave.”
“Ah, sire,” said D’Argens, smiling, “you are ten years younger than I am, and each time that you speak of your rapidly advancing age, I ask myself how it is possible that a man so much younger than I should complain of old age. Only wait, sire; here, in the quiet of Sans-Souci, in a few months you will feel ten and I fifteen years younger. In the happiness and comforts of our existence, you will live to the age of Abraham and I to that of Jacob.”
“But I am much older than you, marquis. During the last seven years, I have had nothing but destroyed hopes, undeserved misfortunes, in short, all that the caprice of Fortune could discover to distress me. After such experiences it is allowable, when one is fifty years old, to say that he is old, that he will no longer be the play-thing of Fortune, that he renounces ambition and all those follies which are merely the illusions of inexperienced youth. But no more of these sad thoughts, for here we are at last at the door of my tusculum. Fold your hands, you unbelieving son of the Church; the gods and heroes await us in this temple, and you will at least believe in these.”
They entered the library, and as the door closed behind them and they were separated from the whole world, as they stood in the centre of the room whose only ornament consisted of rows of books, upon which glittered in golden letters the names of the great minds of all ages, whose only splendor consisted in the marble busts of Caesar and Virgil, of Cicero and Alexander, the king said, with beaming eyes:
“I am at last in the republic of minds, and I, as a humble citizen, approach the great presidents, who look down so graciously upon me.”
And, as the king seated himself in his arm-chair before his writing table, he recovered his sparkling humor, his gay wit, and recounted with a bright smile to the marquis that he intended to work most industriously, that he would certainly write a history of this war which he had just closed, and that he intended always to live at Sans-Souci, as its quiet and repose seemed more agreeable to him than the noise and turmoil of the great city. He then dismissed the marquis for a short time, that he might rest before going to the table.
But the king did not rest. Too many and too powerful thoughts were surging in his breast. Leaning back in his arm-chair, he thought of the future. He recalled his own life and arranged his future course. After sitting thus for a long time, he suddenly arose, his countenance bright with a firm and energetic expression.
“Yes, thus it shall be,” he said aloud. “I will be the father of my people. I will live for them, forgetting the wickedness of men, or only avenging myself on them by the prickings of a needle. I have no family, therefore my people shall be my family. I have no children, therefore every one who needs my aid shall become my child, and for them I will do the duties of a father. My country bleeds from a thousand wounds--to heal these wounds shall be the task of my life.”
True to this resolution, the king called together his ministers the next day, and commanded them to obtain exact accounts of the condition of his provinces; to inform him of the wants and necessities of the people; and to assist him in relieving them. True to this resolution, the king was untiring in his work for the good of his people. He wished to see all, to prove all. He desired to be the source from which his subjects received all their strength and power.
Therefore he must know all their griefs--he must lend an open ear to all their demands.
His first command was, that any one who asked for an interview should be admitted. And when one of his ministers dared to express his astonishment at this order. “It is the duty of a king,” said Frederick, “to listen to the request of the most insignificant of his subjects. I am a regent for the purpose of making my people happy. I do not dare close my ears to their complaints.” And he listened sympathizingly to the sorrows of his people, and his whole mind and thoughts were given to obtain their alleviation. He was always willing to aid with his counsel and his strength. Untiring in the work, he read every letter, every petition, and examined every answer which was written by his cabinet council. He and he alone, was the soul of his government.
A new life began to reign in this land, of which he was the soul. He worked more than all of his ministers or servants, and music and science were his only pleasure and recreation. He was a hero in peace as well as in war. He did not require, as others do, the distraction of gay pleasures. Study was his chief recreation--conversation with his friends was his greatest pleasure. Even the hunt, the so-called “knightly pleasure,” had no charms for him.
“Hunting,” said the king, “is one of the senseless pleasures which excites the body but leaves the mind unemployed. We are more cruel than the wild beasts themselves. He who can murder an innocent animal in cold blood, would find it impossible to show mercy to his fellow-man. Is hunting a proper employment for a thinking creature? A gentleman who hunts can only be forgiven if he does so rarely, and then to distract his thoughts from sad and earnest business matters. It would be wrong to deny sovereigns all relaxation, but is there a greater pleasure for a monarch than to rule well, to enrich his state, and to advance all useful sciences and arts? He who requires other enjoyments is to be pitied.”
V. THE ENGRAVED CUP
Princess Amelia was alone in her boudoir--she was ever alone. She lay upon the sofa, gazed at the ceiling, and in utter despair reflected upon her miserable fate. For years she had looked anxiously forward to the conclusion of this unhappy war in which Austria and Prussia were so fiercely opposed. So long as they were active enemies, Trenck must remain a prisoner. But she had said to herself, “When peace is declared, the prisoners of war will be released, and Maria Theresa will demand that her captain, Frederick von Trenck, be set at liberty.”
Peace had been declared four months, and Trenck still lay in his subterranean cell at Magdeburg. All Europe was freed from the fetters of war. Trenck alone was unpardoned and forgotten. This thought made Amelia sad unto death, banished sleep from her couch, and made her a restless, despairing wanderer during the day. Amelia had no longer an object--the last ray of hope was extinguished. Peace had been concluded and Trenck was forgotten! God had denied her the happiness of obtaining Trenck’s freedom; He would not even grant her the consolation of seeing him released through others. For nine years Trenck had languished in prison--for nine years Amelia’s only thought, only desire, was to enable him to escape. Her life was consecrated to this one object. She thought not of the gold she had sacrificed--she had offered up not only her entire private fortune, but had made debts which her income was utterly inadequate to meet. Money had no value except as it was consecrated to her one great aim. She felt now that her heart had been crushed and broken in her useless efforts-that her hopes were trampled in the dust, and her existence worthless. Peace had visited all hearts but hers with new assurance of hope. It brought to her nothing but despair and desolation. While all others seemed to recommence life with fresh courage and confidence, Amelia withdrew to her apartments, brooding in dark discontent--hating all those who laughed and were glad-spurning from her with angry jealousy the contented and happy. The world was to her a vast tomb, and she despised all those who had the mad and blasphemous courage to dance on its brink.
Amelia avenged herself on those who avoided her, by pursuing them with spiteful jests and bitter sarcasm, hoping in this way to be relieved wholly from their presence. She wished to be alone and always alone. Her soul within her was desolate, and the outward world should take the same dark hue. She lived like a prisoner secluded in her own apartments; and when some great court festival compelled her to appear in public, she revenged herself by wounding all who approached her. The sufferings of others were a balsam to her heart, and she convinced herself that the pain she inflicted assuaged her own torments.
Amelia was alone; her maid of honor had just read aloud one of Moliere’s biting, satirical comedies, and received leave of absence for a few hours. The princess had also dismissed her chamberlain till dinner, and he had left the castle; only two pages waited in the anteroom, which was separated by two chambers from the boudoir. Amelia had the happy consciousness of being alone in her grief, and, fearing no disturbance, she could sigh and lament aloud. She dared give words to her rage and her despair; there were no other listeners than these dead, voiceless walls--they had been long her only confidants. The stillness was suddenly broken by a gentle knock at the door, and one of the pages entered.
With a frightened look, and begging earnestly to be pardoned for having dared to disturb the princess, he informed her that a stranger was without, who pleaded eagerly to be admitted.
“What does he wish?” said Amelia, roughly. “I have neither office nor dignity to bestow, and, at present, I have no money! Tell him this, and he will go away cheerfully.”
“The stranger says he is a jeweller, your highness,” said the page. “It is of great importance to him that you should look at his collection of gems; and if you will have the goodness to purchase a few trifles, you will make them the fashion in Berlin, and thus make his fortune.”
“Tell him he is a fool!” said Amelia, with a coarse laugh; “I have no desire to see his jewels! Dismiss him, and do not dare disturb me again. Well, why do you hesitate? Why are you still here?”
“Ah, princess, the poor man begs so earnestly for admittance; he says your highness knew him at Magdeburg, and that the governor, the Landgrave of Hesse, expressly charged him to show the jewels to your highness.”
These magical words aroused Amelia from her apathy. With a quick movement she arose from the sofa; she was endowed with new energy and vitality; she advanced toward the door, then paused, and looked silent and thoughtful.
“Admit the stranger!” said she, “I will see his treasures.”
The page left the room, and Amelia gazed after him breathlessly, and with a loudly-beating heart. It seemed to her an eternity before the stranger entered.
A tall, slender man, in simple but elegant costume, approached. He stood at the door, and bowed profoundly to the princess. Amelia looked at him steadily, and sighed deeply; she did not know this man. Again her hopes had deceived her.
“You said the Landgrave of Hesse sent you to me?” said she, roughly.
“Yes, princess,” said the man; “he commanded me to seek your highness as soon as I arrived in Berlin, and show you my collection, in order that you might have the privilege of selecting before all others.”
Amelia looked once more questioningly and fiercely upon the stranger, but he remained cold and indifferent.
“Well, sir, show me your gems!”
He placed a large casket upon a table in the middle of the room; he then unlocked it, and threw back the lid. In the different compartments, splendid jewels of wondrous beauty were to be seen--rings, pins, bracelets, and necklaces of rare workmanship and design.
“Diamonds,” cried Amelia, contemptuously; “nothing but diamonds!”
“But diamonds of a strange fire and wondrous design,” said the strange jeweller. “Will not your highness graciously draw nearer, and observe them?”
“I have no use for them: I wear no diamonds!” said Amelia: “if you have nothing else to show me, close the casket; I shall make no purchase.”
“I have, indeed, other and rarer treasures; some beautiful carved work, by Cellini, some ivory carving of the middle ages, and a few rare and costly cameos. Perhaps these may please the taste of your highness?”
The jeweller raised the first compartment, and taking out a number of beautiful and costly articles, he laid them upon the table, explained the workmanship and design of each piece, and called the attention of the princess to their wondrous beauty.
Amelia listened carelessly to his words. These things had no interest for her; she looked only at one object--a round packet, rolled in paper, which the stranger had taken with the other articles from the casket; this must be something particularly costly. It was carefully wrapped in silk paper, while every thing else lay confusedly together, and yet this seemed the only treasure which the jeweller did not seem disposed to exhibit. Amelia, however, remarked that he raised this mysterious packet several times, as if it was in his way; changed its place, but every time brought it nearer to her. It now lay immediately in front of her.
“What does that paper contain?” said she.
“Oh, that has no interest for your royal highness; that is a worthless object! Will you have the goodness to examine this seal? It represents the holy Saint Michael, treading the dragon under his feet, and it is one of the most successful and beautiful works of Benvenuto Cellini.”
Amelia did not look at the seal; she stretched out her hand toward the mysterious packet, and giving a searching look at the jeweller, she raised and opened it.
“A cup! a tin cup!” she exclaimed, in astonishment.
“As I remarked to your highness, a worthless object; unless the rare beauty of the workmanship should give it some value. The carving is indeed beautiful and most wonderful, when you know that it was done with a common nail, and not even in daylight, but in the gloom and darkness of a subterranean cell.”
Amelia trembled so violently, that the cup almost fell from her hand. The stranger did not remark her emotion, but went on quietly.
“Observe, your highness, how finely and correctly the outlines are drawn; it is as artistically executed as the copperplate of a splendid engraving. It is greatly to be regretted that we cannot take impressions from this tin cup; they would make charming pictures. The sketches are not only well executed, but they are thoughtfully and pathetically conceived and illustrated with beautiful verses, which are worthy of a place in any album. If your highness takes any interest in such trifles, I beg you will take this to the light and examine it closely.”
The princess did not answer: she stepped to the window, and turning her back to the jeweller, looked eagerly at the cup.
It was, indeed, a masterpiece of art and industry. The surface was divided by small and graceful arabesques into ten departments, each one of which contained an enchanting and finely-executed picture. No chisel could have drawn the lines more correctly or artistically, or produced a finer effect of light and shade. Under each picture there was a little verse engraved in such fine characters, that they could only be deciphered with difficulty.
Amelia’s eyes seemed to have recovered the strength and power of earlier days. A youthful, vigorous soul lay in the glance which was fixed upon this cup; she understood every thing.
There was a cage with an imprisoned bird; beneath this a verse:
“Ce n’est pas un moineau, Garde dans cette cage, C’est un de ces oiseaux, Qui chantent dans L’orage. Ouvrez, amis des sages, Brisez fers et verroux; Les chants dans vos bocages, Rejailliront pour vous.”
[Footnote: “This is not a sparrow Kept in this cage. It is one of those birds Who sing in storms. Open, friend of the wise, Break iron and bolts, The songs in your woods Shall fly back to you.”]
In the next compartment was again a cage, containing a bird, and on the branch of a tree under which the cage was placed, perched another bird, with fluttering wings and open beak; underneath was written--
“Le rossignol chante, voici la raison, Pourquoi il est pris pour chanter en prison; Voyez le moineau qui fait tant de dommage, Jouir de la vie sans craindre la cage. Voila un portrait, Qui montre l’effet Du bonheur des fripons du desastre des sages.”
[Footnote: “The nightingale sings, and this is the reason That he is taken to sing in a prison. See now the sparrow, who does so much evil, Plays with life without fear of cages. See in this portrait, Which shows the effect Of the good luck of rogues, and the misfortune of sages.”]
Amelia could not control herself; she could look no longer. She rarely wept, but now her eyes were filled with tears. They fell upon the cup, as if to kiss the letters which had recalled so many touching and sad remembrances. But she had no time for tears, she must read on! With an involuntary movement, she dashed the tears from her eyes, and fixed them steadily upon the cup.
Here was another picture. In a cell lay a skeleton form, the hands and the feet bound with heavy chains. The figure had raised itself slightly from the straw bed and gazed with an agonized expression at the grating in the wall, behind which the grim-bearded face of a soldier was seen, who, with wide-open mouth seemed to be calling angrily to the prisoner. Beneath this stood some verses in German. [Footnote: See memoirs of Trenck, Thiebault, in which Trenck describes one of these cups and the fate which befell it. One of them was engraved for the Landgrave of Hesse, and in this way fell into the hands of the Emperor Joseph the Second, who kept it in his art cabinet. Another, which had been once in possession of the wife of Frederick the Great, Trenck afterward recovered in Paris. Some of these cups are still to be seen in art collections in Germany, and some are in the museum in Berlin.] “Oh fearful! most fearful!” sobbed Amelia; and, completely overcome, her head sank upon her breast. She cared not that the strange jeweller saw her tears and heard the despairing cry of her heart; she had nothing to fear; she had no more to lose. The assembled world might hear and see her great grief. But no, no; this must not be. His agony, his tortures, might perhaps be increased to punish her through him! She must not weep; she must not complain. Trenck lived; although in prison and in chains, he still lived; so long as he lived, she must conquer the despair of her heart.
As she thought thus, she dried her tears, and raised her head with proud resolve. She would be calm and self-possessed; perhaps this man, sent to her by the landgrave, had something still to say to her. She half turned her head toward him; he appeared not to be thinking of her, but was quietly engaged placing his treasures again in his casket.
“Can you tell me who engraved this cup?”
“Certainly, your royal highness. A poor prisoner, who has been confined for nine years in a subterranean cell in the fortress of Magdeburg, engraved it. He is called Frederick von Trenck. Your highness has perhaps never heard the name, but in Magdeburg every child knows it, and speaks it with wonder and admiration! No one has seen him, but every one knows of his daring, his heroism, his unfaltering courage, and endurance, his herculean strength, and his many and marvellous attempts to escape. Trenck is the hero of the nursery as well as the saloon. No lady in Magdeburg is acquainted with him, but all are enthusiastic in his praise, and all the officers who know him love and pity him. Many are ready to risk their lives for him!”
The princess sighed deeply, and a ray of joy and hope lighted up her countenance. She listened with suppressed breath to the jeweller’s words--they sounded like far-off music, pleasant but mournful to the soul.
The stranger continued: “Some time since, in order to dispel the tediousness of his prison-life, he began to engrave poems and figures upon his tin cup with a nail which he had found in the earth while making his last attempt to undermine the floor of his cell. During one of his visits of observation, the commandant discovered this cup; he was delighted with the engravings, took the cup and sent Trenck another, hoping he would continue the exercise of his art. Trenck seized the occasion joyfully, and since then he has been constantly occupied as an engraver. Every officer desires to have a cup engraved by him, as a souvenir. Every lady in Magdeburg longs for one, and prefers it to the most costly jewel. These cups are now the mode--indeed, they have become an important article in trade. If one of the officers can be induced to sell his cup, it will cost twenty louis d’or. Trenck gets no money for his work, but he has gained far greater advantages. These cups give him the opportunity of making known to the world the cruel tortures to which he is subject; they have given him speech, and replaced the writing materials of which they have deprived him. They have answered even a better and holier purpose than this,” said the jeweller, in a low voice, “they have procured him light and air. In order to give him sufficient light for his work, the officers open the doors into the first corridor, in which there is a large window; one of the upper panes of this window is open every morning. As the days are short in the casemates, the commandant looks through his fingers, when the officers bring lights to the poor prisoner. Trenck feels as if his wretched prison-cell was now changed into the atelier of an artist.”
Amelia was silent and pressed the cup tenderly to her lips; the stranger did not regard her, but continued his recital quietly.
“An officer of the garrison told me all this, your highness, when he sold me this cup. They make no secret of their admiration and affection for Trenck; they know they would be severely punished if the higher authorities discovered that they allowed Trenck any privileges or alleviations, but they boast of it and consider it a humane action.”
“May God reward them for it!” sighed Amelia. “I will buy this cup, sir. I do not wish to be behind the ladies of Magdeburg, and as it is the mode to possess a cup engraved by Trenck, I will take this. Name your price.”
The jeweller was silent for a moment, then said:
“Pardon me, your highness, I dare not sell you this cup, or rather I implore your highness not to desire it. If possible, I will make it an instrument for Trenck’s release.”
“How can this be done?” said Amelia, breathlessly.
“I will take this cup to General Riedt, the Austrian ambassador in Berlin. As all the world is interesting itself for Trenck, I do not see why I should not do the same, and endeavor to obtain his release. I shall therefore go to General Riedt with this cup. I am told he is a noble gentleman and a distant relation of Trenck; he cannot fail to sympathize with his unfortunate cousin. When he hears of his cruel sufferings he will certainly strive to deliver him. General Riedt is exactly the man to effect this great object; he is thoroughly acquainted with all the by-ways and intrigues of the court of Vienna. Maria Theresa classes him among her most trusted confidants and friends. Whoever desires to free Trenck must consult with General Riedt and win him.”
Amelia raised her head and looked up quickly at the stranger; his eyes were fixed upon her with a searching and significant expression; their glances met and were steadily fixed for one moment, then a scarcely perceptible smile flitted over the face of the jeweller, and the princess nodded her head. Each felt that they were understood.
“Have you nothing more to say?” said Amelia.
“No, your highness, I have only to beg you will pardon me for not selling you this cup. I must take it to General Riedt.”
“Leave it with me,” said Amelia, after a few moments’ reflection. “I myself will show it to him and seek to interest him in the fate of his unhappy relative. If I succeed, the cup is mine, and you will not wish to sell it to General Riedt Do you agree to this? Go, then, and return to me at this hour to-morrow, when I will either pay you the price of the cup, or return it to you, if I am so unhappy as to fail.”
The jeweller bowed profoundly. “I will punctually obey your highness’s commands. To-morrow at this hour I will be here.”
The stranger took his casket and left the room. The princess gazed after him till the door closed.
“That man is silent and discreet, I believe he can be trusted,” she murmured. “I will write at once, and desire an interview with General Riedt.”