“Yes, Heaven be praised, you have come to me,” she cried, exultingly, throwing her arms about his neck, and kissing him passionately. “You are here; I no longer dread the old king’s anger, and his fearful words fall as spent arrows at my feet. You are here, king of my heart; now I have only one thing to dread.”
“What is that, Wilhelmine?”
She bent close to his ear, and whispered: “I fear that you are untrue to me; that there is some ground for truth in those anonymous letters, which declare that you would discard me and my children also, for you love another–not one other, but many.”
“Jealousy, again jealous!” the prince sighed.
“Oh, no,” said she, tenderly, “I only repeat what is daily written me.”
“Why do you read it?” cried the prince, vehemently. “Why do you quaff the poison which wicked, base men offer you? Why do you not throw such letters into the fire, as I do when they slander you to me?”
“Because you know, Frederick,” she answered, proudly and earnestly– “you must know that that which they write against me is slander and falsehood. My life lies open before you; every year, every day, is like an unsullied page, upon which but one name stands inscribed– Frederick William–not Prince Frederick William. What does it benefit me that you are a prince? If you were not a prince, I should not be despised, my children would not be nameless, without fortune, and without justice. No, were you not a prince, I should not have felt ashamed and grief-stricken, with downcast eyes, before the lady who drove past in her splendid carriage, while I was humbly seated in a miserable wagon. No, were not my beloved a prince, he could have made me his wife, could have given me his name, and I should to-day be at his side with my children. Then, what benefit is it to me that you are a prince? I love you not that you are one, but notwithstanding it. And if I love you in spite of all this, you must know that my affection is ever-enduring and ever-faithful–that I can never forget you, never abandon you.”
“And do you believe, Wilhelmine, that I could ever abandon or forsake you? Is it not the same with me?”
She shook her head, sadly answering: “No, Frederick, it is unfortunately not the same. You have loved me, and perhaps you love me still, but with that gentle warmth which does not hinder glowing flames to kindle near it, and with their passionate fire overpower the slight warmth.”
“It may be so for the moment, I grant it,” the prince answered, thoughtfully; “but the quick, blazing fire soon consumes itself, leaving only a heap of ashes; then one turns to the gentle warmth with inward comfort, and rejoices in its quiet happiness.”
“You confess loving another?” said Wilhelmine, sorrowfully.
“No, I do not grant that,” the prince cried; “but you are a sensible, clever woman, and you know my heart is easily excited. It is only the meteoric light of the ignis fatuus, soon extinguished. Let it dance and flicker, but remember that the only warmth which cheers and brightens my heart is your love and friendship. You are my first and only love, and you will be my last–that I swear to you, and upon it you can rely. Every thing is uncertain and wavering in life. They have ruined me, lacerated my heart, and there is nothing more in the world which I honor. Only sycophants and hypocrites surround me, who speculate upon my future greatness; or spies, who would make their fortune today, and therefore spy and hang about me, in order to be paid by the reigning king, and who slander me in order to be favorites of his. No one at court loves me, not even my wife. How should she? She is well aware that I married her only at the command of my royal uncle, and she accepted me almost with detestation, for they had related to her the unhappiness of my first marriage, and the happiness of my first love! She has learned the story of my first wife, Elizabeth von Braunschweig, and that of my only love, Wilhelmine Enke! She obeyed, like myself, the stern command of another, and we were married, as all princes and princesses are, and we have had children, as they do. We lead the life of a political marriage, but the heart is unwed. We bow before necessity and duty, and, believe me, those are the only household gods in the families of princes. Happy the man who, besides these stern divinities, possesses a little secret temple, in which he can erect an altar to true love and friendship, and where he can enjoy a hidden happiness. This I owe to you, Wilhelmine; you are the only one in whom I have confidence, for you have proved to me that you love me without self-interest and without ambition. You have said it, and it is true, you love me, notwithstanding I am a prince. I confess to you, there are many lovely women of the court who are your rivals, and who would try to separate us in order to attract me to themselves. They are beautiful and seductive, and I am young and passionate; and if these lovely women have no respect for my dignity as a married man, how then should I have it, who married for duty, not for love? But there is one whom I respect for disinterestedness and fidelity! Do you not know who alone is disinterested and faithful?–who has never seen in me the prince, the future king–only the beloved one, the man–one who has never wavered, never counted the cost?–that you are, Wilhelmine Enke, therefore we are inseparable, and you have not to fear that I can ever forsake you, even if I am sometimes entangled in the magic nets of other beautiful women. The chains which bind us together cannot be torn asunder, for a wonderful secret power has consecrated them with the magic of true love–of heart-felt friendship.”
“Still they are chains, dearest,” sighed Wilhelmine. “You have named them thus! The chains will at last oppress you, and you will forget the magic power which binds you, and will be free. No holy bond, no oath, no marriage tie–nothing but your love binds you to me. I rejoice in it, and so long as you do not forsake me, I am conscious that it is your own free choice and not force which retains you.”
“I will give you an outward sign of our bond of union,” cried the prince. “I will do it today, as a twofold danger hangs over us–the king menaces you, and war menaces me.”
“Is it then true, do you go with the king to the field?” groaned Wilhelmine.
“Do you wish me to remain?” cried the prince, his eyes flashing. “Shall I here seek pleasure, with effeminate good nature, while the king, in spite of his age, exposes himself to all the fatigue of a campaign and the danger of battle? This war of the Bavarian succession is unfortunate, and no one knows whether the German empire will derive any important advantage from our sustaining by force of arms a little duchy. It is a question whether it would not be better to abolish the little principalities, in order to strengthen the greater German powers. The king will support Bavaria, because he envies Austria its possession, and, as he has decided upon war, it becomes his crown prince to yield to his decision without murmuring. Therefore, Wilhelmine, I will today witness to you the oath of fidelity. If God calls me to Him, if I fall in battle, this oath will be your legacy. I have nothing else to leave you, thanks to the parsimony of my noble uncle. I am a very poor crown prince, with many debts and little money, and not in a condition to reward your love and fidelity otherwise than with promises and hopes, and letters of credit for the future. Such a bill of exchange I will write for you–a legacy for my dear Wilhelmine. Give me pen and paper.”
Wilhelmine hastened to her writing table and brought him paper with writing materials. “There, my Frederick,” said she, “there is every thing necessary–only the ink, I fear, may be dried.”
The prince shook his head, smiling. “Such a lover’s oath as I will transcribe for you can be written with no common ink. See, here is my ink!”
The prince had suddenly made a slight incision in his arm, and, as the blood gushed out, he dipped his pen in it, and wrote; then handed it to Wilhelmine, saying: “Read it here, in the presence of God and ourselves.”
Wilhelmine pressed it to her lips, and read, with a solemn voice: “‘By my word of honor as a prince, I will never forsake you, and only death shall separate you from me.–Prince Frederick William of Prussia.'” [Footnote: “Memoires of the Countess Lichtenau.” p. 120.]
“By my word of honor as a prince, I will never forsake you, and only death shall separate me from you,” repeated the prince, as he bent over Wilhelmine, lifting her in his arms and placing her upon his knee. “Take the paper and guard it carefully,” said he. “When I die, and you have closed my eyes, as I trust you will, give this paper to my son and successor, for it is my legacy to you, and I hope my son will honor it and recognize in you the wife of my heart, and care for you.”
“Oh! speak not of dying, Frederick,” cried Wilhelmine, embracing him tenderly; “may they condemn me, and imprison me as a criminal, when you are no more! What matters it to me what befalls me, when I no longer possess you, my beloved one, my master? Not on that account will I preserve the precious paper, but for the love which it has given me, and of which it will one day be a proof to my children. This paper is my justification and my excuse, my certificate and my declaration of honor. I thank you for it, for it is the most beautiful present that I have ever received.”
“But will you make me no return, Wilhelmine? Will you not swear to me, as I have sworn to you?”
She took the knife from the table without answering, and pointing it to her left arm–
“Oh, not there!” cried the prince, as he sought to stay her hand. “Do not injure your beautiful arm, it would be a sacrilege.”
Wilhelmine freed herself from him, as he sought to hold her fast, and in the mutual struggle the knife sank deep into her left hand, the blood gushing out. [Footnote: The scar of this wound remained her whole life, as Wilhelmine relates in her memoirs.–See “Memoires of the Countess Lichtenau.”]
“Oh, what have you done?” cried the prince, terrified; “You are wounded!”
He seized her hand and drew the knife from the wound, screaming with terror as a clear stream of blood flowed over his own. “A physician! Send quickly for a physician,” cried he. “Where are my servants?”
Wilhelmine closed his lips at this instant with a kiss, and forced herself to smile in spite of the pain which the wound caused her. “Dearest, it is nothing,” she cried. “I have only prepared a great inkstand–let me write!”
She dipped her pen in the blood, which continued to flow, and wrote quickly a few lines, handing them to the prince.
“Read aloud what you have written. I will hear from your own mouth your oath. You shall write it upon my heart with your lips.”
Wilhelmine read: “By my love, by the heads of my two children, I swear that I will never forsake you–that I will be faithful to you unto death, and will never separate myself from you; that my friendship and love will endure beyond the grave; that I will ever be contented and happy so long as I may call myself your Wilhelmine Enke.”
“I accept your oath, dearest,” said the prince, pressing her to his heart. “This paper is one of my choicest jewels, and I will never separate myself from it. We have now sealed our love and fidelity with our blood, and I hope that you will never doubt me again. Remember this hour!”
“I will,” she earnestly promised, “and I swear to you never to torment and torture you again with my jealousy. I shall always know, and shall hold fast to it, that you will return to me.”
A violent knocking on the house door interrupted the stillness of the night. A voice in loud, commanding tones called to the night- watch.
“Here I am!” answered the porter. “Who calls me? And what is the matter?”
“Open the door,” commanded the voice again.
“It is our house,” whispered Wilhelmine, who had softly opened the window. “It is so dark, I can only see a black shadow before the door.”
“Do you belong to the house?” asked the night-watch. “I dare let no one in who does not belong there.”
“Lift up your lantern, and look at my livery. It is at the king’s order!”
Wilhelmine withdrew from the window, and hastened to the prince, who had retired to the back part of the room.
“It is Kretzschmar, the king’s footman and spy,” she whispered. “Hide yourself, that he does not discover you. Go there to the children.”
“No, Wilhelmine, I will remain here. I–“
Wilhelmine pressed her hand upon his mouth, and forced him into the side-room, bolting the door.
“Now,” said she, “I will meet my fate with courage; whatever may come, it shall find me firm and composed. My children are safe, for their father is with them.”
She took the light, and hastened into the anteroom, which was resounding with the loud ringing.
“Who is there?” she cried. “Who rings so late at night?”
“In the name of the king, open!”
Wilhelmine shoved back the bolt, opening the door.
“Come in,” she said, “and tell me who you are.”
“I think you recognize me,” said Kretzschmar, with an impudent smile. “You have often seen me at Potsdam in company with the king. I saw you this morning as the king did you the honor to speak with you, and I believe did not compliment you.”
“Did his majesty send you here to say this to me?”
“No, not exactly that,” answered he, smiling; “but, as you asked me, I was obliged to answer. I have come here with all speed as courier from Potsdam. I hope you will at least give me a good trinkgeld. I was commanded to deliver into your own hands this paper, for which I must have a receipt.” He drew from his breast pocket a large sealed document, which he handed to Wilhelmine. “Here is the receipt all ready, with the pencil; you have only to sign your name, and the business is finished.” He stretched himself with an air of the greatest ease upon the cane chair, near the door.
Wilhelmine colored with anger at the free conduct of the royal footman, and hastened to sign the receipt to rid herself of the messenger, and to read the letter.
“What will you give me for trinkgeld, Mamselle Enke?” asked the footman, as she gave him the receipt.
“Your own rudeness and insult,” answered Wilhelmine proudly, as she turned, without saluting him, to the sitting-room.
Kretzschmar laughed aloud. “She will play the great and proud lady,” said he. “She will get over that when in prison. The letter is without doubt an order of arrest, for when the king flashes and thunders as he did this morning, he usually strikes. I hope it will agree with you.” He slowly left the anteroom, and descended the stairs to mount his horse, which he had bound to a tree.
Wilhelmine hastened in the mean time to the prince. “Here is the letter addressed to me,” said she, handing him the sealed envelope. “I beg you to open it; courage fails me, everything trembles and swims before my eyes. Read it aloud–I will receive my sentence from your lips.”
The prince exclaimed, breaking the seal: “It is the handwriting of the secret cabinet secretary, Menken, and the message comes immediately from the king’s cabinet. Now, Wilhelmine, do not tremble; lean your head upon me, and let us read.”
“‘In the name of his majesty, Wilhelmine Enke is commanded, under penalty of severe punishment, not to leave her room or her dwelling, until the king shall permit her, and send some one to take her and all that belongs to her to her place of destination. She shall receive this order with patience and humility, and consider her apartment as a prison, which she shall not leave under severe penalty, nor allow any one to enter it. Whoever may be with her at the time of receiving the order, who do not belong there, shall speedily absent themselves, and if the same ride or drive to Potsdam, they shall immediately take a message to his royal highness the Prince of Prussia, and announce to him that his majesty expects him at Sans-Souci at ten o’clock tomorrow morning. The Minister von Herzberg will be in waiting to confer with the prince. The above is communicated to Wilhelmine Enke for her strict observance, and she will act accordingly.'”
A long silence followed the reading of this letter. Both looked down, thoughtfully recalling the contents.
“A prisoner,” murmured Wilhelmine, “a prisoner in my own house.”
“And for me the peremptory command to leave immediately for Potsdam, in order to be at Sans-Souci early in the morning. What can the king mean?”
“He will announce to you my imprisonment, my exile,” sighed Wilhelmine.
The crown prince shook his head. “No,” said he, “I do not believe it. If the king would send you to prison, he would not make such preparation; he would not commence with the house arrest, as if you were an officer, who had been guilty of some slight insubordination, but he would act with decision, as is his wont. He would at once have sent you to Spandau or some other prison, and left it to me to have taken further steps. No–the more I think it over, the more evident it is to me that the king is not really angry; he will only torment us a little, as it pleases his teasing spirit. The chief thing now is to obey, and give him no further occasion for anger. You must be very careful not to leave your apartment, or to allow any one to enter it. I shall start without delay for Potsdam. There are spies posted as well for you as myself; our steps are watched, and an exact account of them given. I must away quickly.”
“Must you leave me a prisoner? Oh, how hard and cruel life is!”
“Yes, it is, indeed, Wilhelmine. But I must also humbly submit and obey. Is not life hard for me, and yet I am crown prince, the heir to the throne! I shall be reprimanded and scolded like a footman. I must obey as a slave, and am not permitted to act according to my will. I am only a mere peg in the great machine which he directs, and the–“
“Hush! for mercy’s sake be quiet! What if some one should hear you? You know not if the spies may not be at the door.”
“True,” said the prince, bitterly. “I do not know! The nurse even, who suckles our child, may be a paid spy. The owner of this house may be in the king’s service, and creep to the door to listen. Therefore it is necessary, above all things, that we act according to the king’s commands. Farewell, Wilhelmine, I must set off at once. Kretzschmar is no doubt at the corner of the street to see whether I, as an obedient servant of his master, leave here. If I do it, he will take the news to Sans-Souci, and perhaps the king will be contented. Farewell, I go at once to the palace, to start from there for Potsdam.”
“Farewell, my beloved one! May God in heaven and the king upon earth be merciful to us! I will force myself to composure and humility. What I suffer is for you! This shall be my consolation. If we never meet again, Frederick William, I know you will not forget how much I have loved you!”
CHAPTER VI.
THE PARADE.
Since early morning a gay, warlike life had reigned at Potsdam and the neighborhood of Sans-Souci. From every side splendid regiments approached, with proud and stately bearing, in glittering uniforms, to take in perfect order the places assigned to them. With flying banners, drums beating, and shrill blasts of trumpets, they came marching on to the great parade–the last, for the king was about to leave for the field. Thousands of spectators poured forth, notwithstanding the early hour, from Potsdam; and from Berlin even they came in crowds, to take a last look of the soldiers–of their king, who was still the hero at sixty-nine–the “Alto Fritz,” whom they adored–though they felt the rigor of his government. It was a magnificent spectacle, indeed–this immense square, filled with regiments, their helmets, swords, and gold embroideries glittering in the May sun. Officers, mounted on richly caparisoned steeds, drew up in the centre, or galloped along the front of the lines, censuring with a thundering invective any deviation or irregularity. In the rear of the troops stood the equipages of the distinguished spectators on the one side, while on the other the people in compact masses swayed to and fro, gayly passing judgment upon the different regiments and their generals. The people–that means all those who were not rich enough to have a carriage, or sufficiently distinguished to claim a place upon the tribune reserved for noble ladies and gentlemen–here they stood, the educated and uneducated, shoemaker and tailor, savant and artist–a motley mixture! Two gentlemen of the high citizen class apparently were among the crowd. They were dressed in the favorite style, which, since the “Sorrows of Werther” had appeared, was the fashion–tight-fitting boots, reaching to the knee, with yellow tops; white breeches, over which fell the long-bodied green vest; a gray frock with long pointed tails and large metal buttons, well-powdered cue, tied with little ribbons, surmounted with a low, wide-brimmed hat. Only one of the gentlemen wore the gray frock, according to the faultless Werther costume, a young man of scarcely thirty years, of fine figure, and proud bearing; a face expressive and sympathetic, reminding one of the glorious portraits of men which antiquity has bequeathed to us. It seemed like the head of a god descended to earth, noble in every feature, full of grace and beauty; the slightly Roman nose well marked yet delicate; the broad, thoughtful brow; the cheeks flushed with the hue of youth and power; the well-defined chin and red lips, expressive of goodness, benevolence, roguery, and haughtiness; large, expressive eyes, flashing with the fire which the gods had enkindled. His companion was perhaps eight years younger, less well- proportioned, still of graceful appearance, in his youthful freshness, with frank, cheerful mien, clever, good-natured, sparkling eyes, and red, pouting lips, which never liked to cease chatting.
“See, Wolff! I beg,” said the young man, “see that old waddling duck, Mollendorf. I know the old fellow, he is from Gotha; he imagines himself of the greatest importance, and thinks Prussia begets fame and honor from his grace. He trumpets forth his own glories at a dinner, and abuses his king. He makes Frederick the Great an insignificant little being, that he may look over him.”
“Unimportant men always do that,” answered the other. “They would make great men small, and think by placing themselves on high pedestals they become great. The clown striding through the crowd on his stilts may even look over an emperor. But fortunately there comes a time when the dear clown must come down from his stilts, and then it is clear to others, if not to himself, what little, earth- born snips the men of yesterday are.”
“Only look, Wolff, there is just such a moment coming to that stiltsman Mollendorf. How the great man stoops, and how small he looks on his gray horse, for a greater springs past! Look at him well, Wolff–we shall dine with him, and he does not like to be stared at in the face.”
“Is that, then, Prince Henry passing?” asked Wolff, with animation; “That little general, who just galloped into the circle with his suite, is that the king’s brother?”
“Yes, that is just his misfortune that he is the king’s brother,” answered a deep, sonorous voice behind them.
Turning, they beheld a young, elegantly dressed man, in the light gray frock and gold-bordered, three-cornered hat, and a Spanish cane, with an ivory handle.
“What did you remark, sir?” asked Herr Wolff; his great, brown eyes flashing over the pale, intellectual face of the other, so that he was quite confused, yet, as if enchanted, could not turn away. “What did you remark, sir?” asked again Herr Wolff.
“I believe,” stammered the other, “that I said it was the misfortune of the prince that he was the brother only, as he was worthy of being mentioned for himself; but I beg, sir, be a little indulgent, and do not pry into my very soul with your godlike eyes. It will craze me, and I shall run through the streets of Berlin, crying that the Apollo-Belvedere has arrived at Potsdam, and invite all the poets and authors to come and worship him.”
“I believe you are right,” cried the youngest of the two gentlemen, laughing. “I believe myself it is the Apollo-Belvedere.”
“Be still, my dear sir, hush, and preserve our incognito,” interrupted his companion.
“But I cannot help it, Wolff. Am I to blame that this clever fellow sees through your mask, and discovers the divine spark which hides itself under a gray Werther costume?”
“I pray, sir, grant my request, and respect our incognito,” begged the other, gently but firmly.
“Well, well, you shall have your way,” laughed the other, good- naturedly, and turning to the pale young man, who still kept his eyes fixed on Herr Wolff in a sort of ecstacy, he said: “Let the authors and poets stay in Berlin; we will persuade the disguised Apollo to meet them there, and read them a lecture, for among the Berlin poets and critics there are wicked heretics, who, if the Deity Himself wrote tragedies and verses, would find some fault to object to.”
“Pray tell me, sir, do you think Prince Henry a great man?”
“Did not the king call him so in his ‘History of the Seven Years’ War?'” said the stranger. “Did he not publicly, in the presence of all his generals, say, ‘that Prince Henry was the only general who had not made a mistake during the whole war?'”
“Do you believe the king will say that of the prince just riding in with his suite, after the present war?” asked the young man, with earnestness.
“You mean the Prince of Prussia,” answered the other, shaking his head. “There are men who call this prince the ‘hope of Prussia,’ and regard him as a new Aurora in the clouded sky.”
“And you, sir, do you regard him so?” cried Herr Wolff.
“Do you mean that the Prince of Prussia will usher in a brighter day for Germany?”
“No,” answered the other. “I believe that day expires with Frederick the Great, and that a long night of darkness will succeed.”
“Why do you think so?”
“Because it is the course of nature that darkness succeeds light. Look at the prince, gentlemen–the divine light of genius is not stamped upon his brow, as formerly, and care will be taken that it is soon extinguished altogether.”
“Who will take care?”
“Those who are the enemies of light, civilization, and freedom.”
“Who are they?” asked Herr Wolff.
The other smiled, and answered: “Sir, so far as I, in all humility, call myself a scholar, I also owe to the god Apollo obedience, and must answer him, though it may endanger me. I answer, then, the enemies of light and civilization are the disguised Jesuits.”
“Oh, it is easy to perceive that you do not belong to them, or you would not thus characterize them, and–“
A mighty flourish of drums, and shrill blasts of horns and trumpets, drowned the youth’s words, and made all further conversation impossible. The king, followed by a brilliant suite, had just arrived at the parade. The regiments greeted their sovereign with loud blasts of trumpets, and the people shouted their farewell. Frederick lifted lightly his hat, and rode along the ranks of the well-ordered troops. He listened to the shouts with calm, composed manner; the Jupiter-flashes from his great eyes seemed to be spent forever. Mounted upon Caesar, his favorite horse, he looked today more bent, his back more bowed with the burden of years; and it was plainly visible that the hand which held the staff crosswise over the horse’s neck, holding at the same time the bridle, trembled from very weakness.
“That is Frederick,” said Herr Wolff to himself. “That is the hero before whom Europe has trembled; the daring prince who caused the sun to rise upon his country, and awaken the spirits to cheerful life. Oh, how lamentable; how much to be regretted, that a hero, too, can grow feeble and old! Oh, cruel fate, that the noblest spirits embodied in this fragile humanity, and–“
Suddenly he ceased, and looked at the king amazed and with admiration. The old man had become the hero again. The bowed form was erect, the face beamed with energy and conscious power, the eyes flashed with bold daring, strong and sonorous was the voice. The king had turned to his generals, who were drawn up around him in a large circle, saying: “Gentlemen, I come to take leave of you. We shall meet again upon the battle-field, where laurels bloom for the brave. I hope that we may all return, crowned with fresh laurels. Tell my soldiers that I count upon them–that I know they will prove the glory of the Prussian troops anew, and that on the day of battle they will see me at their head.–Farewell!”
“Long live the king!” cried the generals and staff officers, in one voice. The people and the soldiers joined the shout, the ladies waved their handkerchiefs. Herr Wolff and his companions tore off their hats with enthusiasm, and swung them high in the air.
The great eyes of the king, who passed at this moment, rested upon Herr Wolff. “My heart quaked as if I were the pillar of Memnon, and had been touched by the sun’s rays,” sighed he, as he followed the king with his fiery glance.
“The ceremony is now finished,” said the young man near him, “and we must leave, in order to be punctual to dinner at Prince Henry’s.”
“I wish the king had remained an hour longer,” sighed Herr Wolff again. “As I looked at him, it seemed as if I were listening to a song from Homer, and all my faculties were in unison in delight and enthusiasm. Happy those who dare approach him, and remain near him!”
“Then, according to your opinion, his servants must be very fortunate,” said the stranger, “and yet they say that he is not very kind to them.”
“Because the servant is a little man,” cried Herr Wolff, “and every one looks little to his belittling eyes.”
“Yes, there are many others no more elevated than servants in the king’s surroundings,” said the other. The youth reminded him that they must leave.
“Only wait a moment, friend,” begged Herr Wolff, as he turned to the stranger, saying, “I would like to continue our conversation of today. You live in Berlin. I will find you out if you will give me your name.”
“I pray you to visit me; my name is Moritz. I live in Kloster Strasse, near the gray convent.”
“Your name is Moritz?”, asked Herr Wolff, earnestly. “Then you are the author of the ‘Journey to England?'”
“Yes, the same, and my highest encomium is, that the work is not unknown to you, or the name of the author.”
“All Germany knows it, and do you think I could possibly remain a stranger to it?”
“But your name, sir,” said the stranger, with anxious curiosity. “Will you not give me your name?”
“I will tell you when we are in your own room,” said Herr Wolff, smiling.
“The air is yet enchanted and intoxicated with the breath of the Great Frederick; it should not be desecrated with another name.– Farewell, we will meet in Berlin.”
Not far from these gentlemen stood two others, wrapped in long military cloaks, both of striking and foreign appearance; the one, of slight delicate figure, of dark complexion, noble and handsome face, must be an Italian, as his very black hair and eyes betrayed; the other, tall, broad-shouldered, of Herculean stature, belonged to North Germany, as the blond hair, light blue eyes, and features indicated. A pleasing smile played around his thick, curled lips, and only when he glanced at his companion did it die away, and change to one of respectful devotion. At this instant the king passed. The Italian pressed the arm of his companion.
“The arch fiend himself,” he murmured softly, “the demon of unbelief, to whom nothing is sacred, and nothing intimidates. The contemptuously smiling spirit of negation, which is called enlightenment, and is but darkness, to whom belief is superstition, and enlightening only deception. Woe to him!”
“Woe to him!” repeated the other.
The king was followed by his brilliant and select staff in motley confusion. First, Prince Henry, and then the Prince of Prussia. As the latter passed the two gentlemen, the Italian pressed the arm of his companion still harder. “Look at him attentively, my son,” said he, “that is our future and our hope in this country.”
The Hercules turned hastily, with a look of astonishment, to the Italian. “The Prince of Prussia?” asked he, with amazement.
The Italian nodded. “Do you doubt it?” he added, reproachfully. “Would you doubt your lord and master, because he reveals to you what you cannot seize with your clouded spirit?”
“No, no, master, I am only surprised that you hope for good from this lost-in-sin successor to the throne.”
“Yes, you are poor, human children,” sighed the Italian, compassionately smiling; “prompt to judge, mistaking light for darkness, and darkness for light. I have already remarked that to the celebrated and austere Minister Sully, as he complained to me of the levity and immorality of the French king, Henry IV. I told him that austere morals and moral laws suffered exceptions, and that those through whom the welfare of humanity should be furthered, had to transfer their heavenly bliss of love to the earthly sphere. Sully would contest the question with me, but I defeated him, while I repeated to him what the beautiful and unhappy Queen of Scotland, Mary Stuart, once said to me.”
“Mary Stuart!” cried the other, vehemently.
“Yes, Mary Stuart,” answered the Italian, earnestly. “Come, my son, let us go. We have seen what we wished to see, and that is sufficient. Give me thy arm, and let us depart.”
They departed arm in arm, withdrawing from the crowd, and taking the broad walk which crossed to the park.
“You were about to relate to me the answer which Mary Stuart gave to you, sir,” said the Hercules, timidly.
“True; I will now relate it to you,” he answered, with sadness. “It was in Edinburgh I had surprised Mary (as I was admitted without ceremony), in her boudoir, as the handsome Rizzio sat at her feet, and sang love-songs to her. She was resting upon a gold-embroidered divan, and her figure appeared to great advantage in the heavenly blue, silver-embroidered gauze robe, which covered her beautiful limbs like a cloud. In her hair sparkled two diamonds, like two stars fallen from heaven, and more glowing still were her eyes, which tenderly rested upon Rizzio. Leaning upon her elbow, she inclined toward Rizzio, who, lute in hand, was looking up to her with a countenance expressive of the deepest love. It was a glorious picture, this young and charming couple, in their bliss of love; and never, in the course of this century, have I forgotten this exquisite picture–never have its bright tints faded from my memory. How often have I begged my friend, Antonio Vandyck, to make this picture eternal, with his immortal pencil. He promised to do it, but at the moment he was occupied with the portraits of Charles I. and his family–the grandson of Queen Mary. Later, as I was not with him, unfortunately, to save him, death seized him before he had fulfilled his promise. But her image is stamped upon my heart, and I see her now, as I saw her then, the beautiful queen, with the handsome singer at her feet. I had entered unawares, and stood a few moments at the door before they remarked me. As I approached, Rizzio suddenly ceased in the midst of a tender passage, and sprang to his feet. Mary signed to him, blushing, to withdraw. He glided noiselessly out, his lute under his arm, and I remained alone with the queen. I dared to chide her, gently, for her love affair with the handsome singer, and, above all, to exhort her to fidelity to her husband. Whereupon Mary answered me, with her accustomed smiling manner, ‘There is but one fidelity which one must recognize, and that is to the god of gods–Love! Where he is not, I will not be. The god Hymen is a tedious, pedantic fellow, who burns to ashes all the fresh young love of the heart, and all the enthusiasm of the soul, with his intolerable tallow torch, for Love stands not at his side. I am faithful to the god Amor, therefore I can never be faithful to the god Hymen, as it would be unfaithful to Love!’ That was the response of the beautiful Queen Mary. I could not contest the question, so I only looked at her and smiled. Suddenly, I felt a dagger, as it were, thrust at my heart, my spiritual eyes were opened, the lovely woman on the divan was fearfully changed. Instead of the gauze robe, sparkling with silver, a black cloth dress covered her emaciated limbs; instead of brilliants, sparkling in her hair, a mourning veil covered her whitened locks. The beauty and roundness of her neck had disappeared, and I saw around it a broad dark-red stripe. Her head moved, and fell at my feet dissevered. I saw it all, as distinctly as if it really happened, and seized with unspeakable pity I prostrated myself at her feet (who was unknowing of my vision), and besought her with all the anxiety and tenderness of friendship to leave Scotland, to fly from England, as there the death-tribunal awaited her. But Mary Stuart only laughed at my warning, and called me a melancholy fool, whom jealousy made prophetic. The more I begged and implored, the more wanton and gay the poor woman became. Then, as I saw all persuasion was vain, that no one could save her from her dreadful fate, I took a solemn oath that I would be at her side at the hour of her peril, and accompany her to the scaffold. Mary laughed aloud, and, with that mocking gayety so peculiarly her own, she accepted the oath, and reached me her white hand, sparkling with diamonds, to seal the vow with a kiss. I faithfully kept it. I had but just arrived in Rome when I received the account of her imprisonment. I presented myself immediately to the pope, the great Sixtus V., who then occupied the chair of St. Peter. Fortunately, he was my friend, and I had formerly been useful to him, in assisting him to carry out his great and liberal ideas for the welfare of humanity. As a return, I prayed the Holy Father to give me a consecrated hostie for the unhappy Queen Mary Stuart, and the permission to carry it to her in her prison. The Holy Father was incredulous of my sad presentiments, as Mary Stuart herself had been, but he granted me the request. I quitted Rome, and travelled with relays day and night. Reaching Boulogne, a Dover packet-boat had just raised anchor; I succeeded in boarding her, and arrived in London the next evening. The day following, the execution of the queen took place at Fotheringay. I was with her in her last hours, and from my hand she received the consecrated water of Pope Sixtus V. I had kept my oath. I accompanied her to the scaffold, and her head rolled at my feet, as I had seen it in my vision at Edinburgh. It was the 18th of April, 1587, and it seems to me as but yesterday. To the intuitive, seeing spirit, time and space disappear; eternity and immortality are to it omnipresent.”
Given up to his souvenirs and visions, the Italian appeared not to know where he wandered, and turned unintentionally to the retired, lonely places in the park. His companion heeded not the way either, occupied with the strange account of the Italian. A dreadful feeling of awe and horror took possession of his soul, and, with devoted respect, he hung upon the words which fell from the lips of his companion.
“It was in the year 1587,” said he, as the Italian ceased; “almost two hundred years since, and you were present?”
The Italian replied: “I was present. I have witnessed so many dreadful scenes, and been present at so many executions, that this sad spectacle was not an unusual one to me, and would not have remained fixed in my memory had I not loved, devotedly and fervently, the beautiful Queen Mary Stuart. For those who live in eternity, all horrors have ceased; time rushes past in centuries, which seem to them but a day.”
“Teach me so to live, master; I thirst for knowledge,” cried his companion, fervently.
“I know it, my son; I penetrate thy soul, and I know that thou thirstest. Therefore I am here to quench thy thirst, and feed thy hungry heart.” He remained standing upon the grass-plot, which he had reached by lonely paths, and which was encircled by trees and bushes. Not a sound interrupted the peaceful morning stillness of the place, except the distant music of the departing regiments dying away on the air. “I will teach thee to live in eternity!” resumed the Italian, solemnly. “My predecessor the apostle, George Schrepfer, has initiated thee in temporal life, and the knowledge of the present. By the pistol-shot, which disclosed to him the invisible world, and removed him from our earthly eyes, has he to thee, his most faithful and believing disciple, given the great doctrine of the decay of all things earthly, and prepared thee for the doctrine of the imperishableness of the celestial. The original of humanity sends me, to make known to thee this holy doctrine. When I met thee in Dresden, at the side of the Countess Dorothea von Medem, thee, whom I had never seen, I recognized by the blue flame which trembled above thy head, and which was nothing else than the soul of thy teacher, Schrepfer, wrestling in anguish, which has remained with thee, and hopes for delivery from thee. I greeted thee, therefore, not as a stranger but as a friend. No one called thy name, and yet it was known to me. I took thee by the hand, greeting thee. Hans Rudolph von Bischofswerder, be welcome. The blue flame which glows upon thy brow, guides me to thee, and the pistol- shot under the oaks centuries old, at Rosenthal, near Leipsic, was the summons which my spirit received among the pyramids of Egypt, and which recalled me to Europe, to my own, and thou art one of them.”[Footnote: George Schrepfer, the founder of the Secret Free Mason Lodge (at the same time proprietor of a restaurant and a conjuror), invited his intimate disciples and believers in the year 1774, to whom Bischofswerder belonged, to meet him at Rosenthal, near Leipsic. He assembled them around him, beneath some old oaks, to take leave of them, as now he would render himself in the invisible realm, whence, as a spirit, he would distribute to some of his disciples gold, to others wisdom. He then commanded them to conceal their faces and pray. The praying ones suddenly heard a loud report, and, as they looked up Schrepfer fell dead. He had shot himself with a pistol.]
“And as thou spakest, oh master, I recognized thee, and I called–‘ Thou art here, who hast been announced to me. Thou art the master, and my master Schrepfer was the prophet, who preceded thee and prophesied thee. Thou art the great Kophta–thou art Count Alexander Cagliostro!’ As I uttered the name, the lights were extinguished, deep darkness and profound stillness reigned. The two countesses Dorothea von Medem and her sister, Eliza von der Necke, clung trembling to me, neither of them daring to break the silence even with a sigh. Suddenly the darkness disappeared, and, with trembling flashes of light, there stood written on the wall: ‘Memento Domini Oagliostro et omnis mansuetudinis ejus.’ We sank upon our knees, and implored thee to aid us. By degrees the strange, secret characters disappeared, and darkness and silence reigned. The stillness disquieted me at last, and I called for lights. As the servant entered, the two countesses lay fainting upon the floor, and thou hadst disappeared.”
“Only to appear to thee at another time,” said Cagliostro, “to receive thee with solemn ceremonies into the magic circle–to initiate thee in the secret wisdom of spirits, and prepare thee for the invisible lodge. Recall what I said to thee, three days since, in Dresden. Do you still remember it?”
“I recall it. Thou saidst: ‘The secret service calls me to Mittau, with the Countess Medem, to raise hidden treasure, of which the spirit has given me knowledge, and decipher important magical characters on the walls of a cloister. Before I leave, I will lead thee upon the way which thou hast to follow in order to find the light, and let it illuminate the soul which is worthy. Follow me, and I will lead thee to the path of glory, power, and immortality.’ These were thy words, master.”
“I have now led thee hither,” Cagliostro said to him, gently; “thy soul doubts and trembles, for thou art blind seeing eyes, and deaf with hearing ears.”
“My soul doubts not, oh master–it comprehends not. I have followed thee, devotedly and believingly. Thou knowest it, master, for thou readest the souls of thy children, and seest their hidden thoughts. Thou hast said to me in Dresden, ‘Renounce your service to the Duke of Courland.’ I did it, and from equerry and lord chamberlain to the duke, became a simple, private gentleman. I have renounced my titles and dignities for thee, in happy trust in thee. My future lies in thy hands, and, anxious to learn the mysteries of immortality, as a grateful, trustful scholar, I would receive happiness and unhappiness at thy hand.”
“Thou shalt receive not only happiness,” said Cagliostro, solemnly, “but thou art one of the elect. The blue flame glows upon thy brow, it will illuminate thy soul, and lead thee to the path of glory, power, and might. To-day thou art a simple, private gentleman, as thou sayst, but to-morrow thou wilt become a distinguished lord, before whom hundreds will bow. Fame awaits thee–which thou hast longed for–as power awaits thee. Whom have I named to thee as our future and our hope in this land?”
“Prince Frederick William of Prussia,” answered Herr von Bischofswerder, humbly.
“As I spake this name, thou trembledst, and calledst him ‘one lost in sin.’ Knowest thou, my son, from sin comes penitence, and from penitence elevation and purificatiom. Thou art called and chosen to convert sinners, and lead back the earth-born child to heaven. Engrave these words upon thy memory, fill thy soul with them, as with glowing flames, repeat them in solitude the entire day, then heavenly spirits will arise and whisper the revelations of the future. Then, when thou art consecrated, I will introduce thee into the sacred halls of sublime wisdom. Thou shalt be received as a scholar in the temple hall, and it depends upon thee whether thou advancest to the altar which reaches to the invisible world of miracles.”
“Oh, master,” cried Bisehofswerder, with a countenance beaming with joy, and sinking upon his knees, “wilt thou favor me, and introduce me to the temple hall? Shall I be received in the sacred world of spirits?”
“Thou shalt, Hans Rudolph yon Bischofswerder. The grand master of our order will bestow upon thee this happiness, and to-night shall the star of the future rise over thee. Hold thyself in readiness. At midnight, present thyself at the first portal of the royal palace in Berlin. A man will meet thee, and thou shalt ask, ‘Who is our hope?’ If he answers thee, ‘The Prince of Prussia,’ then he is the messenger which I shall have sent thee–follow him. Bow thy head in humility, shut thine eyes to all earthly things, turn thy thoughts inward, and lift them up to the great departed, which hovers over thy head, and speak with the blue flame which glows upon thy brow!”
Bischofswerder bowed still lower, covered his face with his hands, as if inwardly praying, and knelt. Cagliostro bent over him, laid his hand upon his head, breathing three times upon his blond hair.
“I have breathed upon thee with the breath of my spirit,” said he. “Thy spirit receives power. Receive it in holy awe, in devotion, and remain immovable.”
Bischofswerder continued motionless, with bowed head and concealed face. Cagliostro raised himself, his black eyes fixed upon his disciple, and noiselessly disappeared. Herr von Bischofswerder still remained kneeling. After some time he raised his head, shyly looking about, and, as he found himself alone, he rose. “He has soared away,” he murmured, softly. “I shall see him again, and he will consecrate me–the consecration of immortals!”
CHAPTER VII.
THE MIRACULOUS ELIXIR.
The king withdrew from the parade slowly, followed by his generals, in the direction of Sans-Souci. The streets of Potsdam were lined with the people, shouting their farewell to the king, who received them with a smiling face. Arriving at the grand entrance, he turned to his suite, saying, “Gentlemen, we shall meet again in Bohemia; I must now take leave of you, and forego the pleasure of receiving you again to-day. A king about to leave for the field has necessary arrangements to make for the future. I have much to occupy me, as I set out early to-morrow morning. You, also, have duties to attend to. Farewell, gentlemen.”
He raised his worn-out three-cornered hat, saluted his generals with a slight inclination of the head, and turned into the broad avenue which led to the park of Sans-Souci. No one followed him but two mounted footmen, who rode at a respectful distance, attentively regarding the king, of whom only the bowed back and hat were visible. Half way down the avenue his staff was raised above his hat, the sign the footmen awaited to dismount with the greyhounds, which rode before them upon the saddle. At the shrill barking of the animals, Frederick reined in his horse, and turned to look for them. They bounded forward, one upon each side of the king, who regarded them right and left, saying: “Well, Alkmene, well Diana, let us see who will be the lady of honor to-day.”
Both dogs sprang with loud barking to the horse, as if understanding the words of their master. Alkmene, stronger, or more adroit, with one bound leaped to the saddle; while poor Diana landed upon the crouper, and, as if ashamed, with hanging head and tail, withdrew behind the horse. “Alkmene has won!” said Kretzschmar to his companion. “Yes, Alkmene is the court-lady to-day, and Diana the companion,” he nodded. “She will be cross, and I do not blame her.”
“Nor I,” said Kretzschmar; “there is a great difference between the court-lady and the companion. The lady remains with the king all day; he plays with her, takes her to walk, gives her bonbons, and the choice morsels of chicken, and only when she has eaten sufficient, can the companion enter to eat the remainder.” [Footnote: This was the daily order of rank with the favorite dogs, for whose service two dog-lackeys, as they were called, were always in waiting. They took them to walk]
“One could almost envy the king’s greyhounds!” sighed the second footman. “We get dogs’ wages, and they the chicken and good treatment. It is a pity!”
“The worst of it is, the king forbids us to marry!” said Kretzschmar sadly. “All the others would leave him, but I pay no attention to old Fritz’s snarling and scolding, for he pays for it afterward; first, it rains abusive words, then dollars, and if the stupid ass hits me over the head, he gives me at least a ducat for it. Why should not one endure scoldings when is well paid for it? I remain the fine handsome fellow that I am, if the old bear does call me an ass! His majesty might well be satisfied if he had my fine figure and good carriage.”
“Yes, indeed, we are very different fellows from old Fritz!” said the second lackey, with a satisfied air. “A princess once thought me a handsome fellow! It is eleven years since, as I entered the guards on account of my delicate figure. I was guard of honor in the anteroom of the former crown princess of Prussia. It was my first experience. I did not know the ways of the lords and ladies. Suddenly, a charming and beautifully-dressed lady came into the anteroom, two other young ladies following her, joking and laughing, quite at their pleasure. All at once the elegantly-attired lady fixed her large black eyes upon me, so earnestly, that I grew quite red, and looked down. ‘See that handsome boy,’ she cried. ‘I will bet that it is a girl dressed up!’ She ran up to me, and began to stroke my cheek with her soft hand, and laughed. ‘I am right. He has not the trace of a beard; it is a girl!’ And before I knew it she kissed me, then again, and a third time even. I stood still as if enchanted, and, as I thought another kiss was coming, whack went a stout box on my ear. ‘There is a punishment for you,’ said she, ‘that you may know enough to return a kiss when a handsome lady gives you when the king did not wish them with him; in summer, in an open wagon, the dogs upon the back-seat, and the footmen upon the forward seat, and whenever they reproved them, to bring them to order, they addressed them in the polite manner of one, and not stand like a libber,’ and with that she boxed me again. The other two ladies laughed, which made me angry, and my ears were very warm. ‘If that happens again,’ said I, ‘by thunder, she will find I do not wait to be punished!’ I laid down the arms, and at once sprang after the lady, when–the folding-doors were thrown open, and two gentlemen, in splendid gold-embroidered dresses, entered. As they saw the little lady, they stood astonished, and made the three prescribed bows. I smelt the rat, and put on my sword quickly, and stood stiff as a puppet. The gentlemen said, that they must beg an interview with her royal highness, to deliver the king’s commands. The princess went into an adjoining room. One of the court-ladies stopped before me a moment, and said: ‘If you ever dare to tell of this, you shall be put in the fortress. Remember it, and keep silent.’ I did so, and kept it a secret until to-day.”
“Did the princess ever punish you again?” asked Kretzchmar, with a bold, spying look.
“No, never,” answered the lackey Schultz. “The princess was ordered to Stettin the next day, where she still lives as a prisoner for her gay pranks.” I remembered her punishment, and when a lady has kissed me, I have bravely returned it.”
The footmen had followed the king up the slowly ascending horse-path to the terrace, and now they sprang quickly forward. Kretzschmar swung himself from his saddle, threw Schultz the reins, and, as the king drew up at the side-door of the palace of Sans-Souci, he stood ready to assist him to dismount. The king had given strict orders that no one should notice his going or coming, and to-day, as usual, he entered without pomp or ceremony into his private room, followed by Kretzschmar alone. He sank back into his armchair, the blue damask covering of which was torn and bitten by the dogs, so that the horse-hair stood out from the holes.
“Now relate to me, Kretzschmar, how your expedition succeeded. Did you go to Berlin to see Mademoiselle Enke last night?”
“Yes, your majesty, I was there, and have brought you the writing.”
“Was she alone?” asked the king, bending over to caress Alkmene, who lay at his feet.
“Well,” answered Kretzschmar, grinning, “I do not know whether she was alone or not. I only know that, as I waited a little on the corner of the street, I saw a gentleman go out, wrapped in a cloak, a tall, broad-shouldered gentleman, whom I–“
“Whom you naturally did not recognize,” said the king, interrupting him; “it was a dark night, and no moon, so that you could not see.”
“At your service, your majesty, I could see no one; I would only add that the unknown may have been at Mademoiselle Enke’s.”
“And he may not have been,” cried the king, harshly. “What else did you learn?”
“Nothing at all worth speaking about. Only one thing I must say, the lackey Schultz is a prattling fool, and speaks very disrespectfully.”
“Did he talk with you?”
“Yes, your majesty, with me.”
“Then he knows well that it would be welcome. What did he say?”
“He related to me a love-affair with the crown princess of Prussia eleven years since. He plumes himself upon the crown princess having stroked his beard.”
“Be quiet!” commanded the king, harshly. “If Schultz was drunk, and talked in a crazy manner, how dare you repeat it to me? Let this happen again, and I will dismiss you my service. Remember it, you ass!”
“Pardon me, your majesty, I thought I must relate all that I hear of importance.”
“That was not important, and not worth the trouble of talking about. If Schultz is such a drunken fellow I did not know it, and he is to be pitied. You can go now; I give you a day to make your farewells to your friends, and to console them with the hope of meeting you again. Put every thing in order that concerns you. If you have debts, pay them.”
“I have no money to pay them, your majesty,” sighed Kretzschmar.
The king stepped to the iron coffer, of which no one possessed the key but himself, and looking within said: “You cannot have much money to-day, as the drawer which contains the money for the gossips and spies is quite empty, and you have had a good share of it. Five guldens remain for you.”
“Alas! your majesty, it is too little; twenty-five guldens would not pay my debts.”
The king closed the drawer, saying: “Judas only received twenty shillings for betraying his Master. Twenty-five is quite enough for Kretzschmar for betraying his comrade.”
Kretzschmar slunk away. The king fixed his great eyes upon him until the door closed. “Man is a miserable race; for gold he would sell his own brother–would sell his own soul, if there could be found a purchaser,” he murmured. “Why do you growl, Alkmene, why trouble yourself, mademoiselle? I was not speaking of your honorable race; only of the pitiful race of men. Be quiet, my little dog, be quiet; I love you, and you are my dear little dog,” he said, pressing her caressingly to his breast.
The footman Schultz appeared to announce the equerry Von Schwerin.
“Bid him enter,” nodded the king.
Von Schwerin entered, with a smiling face. “Have you accomplished what I confided to you?”
With a profound bow Von Schwerin drew a roll of paper from his breast-pocket, and handed it to the king, saying, “I am so fortunate as to have accomplished your commands.”
“Will Count Schmettau give up the villa at once?”
“Yes, your majesty, the new occupant could take possession to-day, with all the furniture and house arrangements, for seven thousand five hundred dollars. Here is the bill of sale, only the purchaser’s name is wanting. I have obeyed your majesty’s commands, and acted as if I were the purchaser.”
“Schmettau is not such a stupid fellow as to believe that, for he knows that you cannot keep your money. You say the contract is ready, only the signature of the purchaser is wanting and the money?”
“Pardon me, your majesty, the name of the present possessor has not been inserted. I did not presume to write it without the unmistakable command of your majesty.”
“Do you know the name?” asked the king.
“I do not, but the generosity of my most gracious king and master allows me to divine it, and my heart is filled to bursting with thankfulness and joy. My whole life will not be long enough to prove to you my gratitude.”
“What for?” asked the king, staring at Von Schwerin, quite surprised; “you cannot suppose that I have purchased the villa for you?”
Herr von Schwerin smilingly nodded. “I think so, your majesty.”
Frederick laughed aloud. “Schwerin, you are an uncommonly cunning fellow. You see the grass grow before the seed is sown. This time you deceived yourself–the grass has not grown. What good would it do you? You do not need grass, but thistles, and they do not grow at Charlottenburg. Take the contract to my minister Von Herzberg, whom you will find in the audience-room, and then walk a little upon the terrace to enjoy the fresh air. I promised you the privilege. First go to Von Herzberg, and say to him to send the Prince of Prussia to me immediately upon his arrival. Why do you wear so mournful a face all of a sudden? Can it be possible that my chief equerry has so lowered himself as to go among the mechanics, and build chateaux en Espagne? You know such houses are not suitable for our northern climate, and fall down. Now, do what I told you, and then go upon the terrace.”
The equerry glided away with sorrowful mien to Von Herzberg, and communicated the king’s commands to him.
“You have made a good purchase,” said the minister, in a friendly manner. “His majesty will be very much pleased with the extraordinary zeal and the great dexterity with which you have arranged the matter. Count Schmettau has just been here, and he could not sufficiently commend your zeal and prudence, and the sympathy and interest which you showed in the smallest matters, as if the purchase were for yourself. The count wishes to reserve two oil paintings in the saloon, which are an heirloom from his father. We cannot but let the count retain them.”
“Arrange it as you will,” answered the equerry, fretfully; “I have nothing more to do with the affair–it lies in your hands.”
“But where are you going in such haste?” said Herzberg, as the equerry bowed hastily, and strode through the room toward the door.
“His majesty commanded me to go upon the terrace,” he replied, morosely.
Herr von Herzberg looked after him surprised. “Something must have occurred, otherwise he is very tractable. Ah! there comes the prince. I will go to meet him, and communicate to him the king’s command–I will await your royal highness here until you have spoken with the king, if you will have the grace to seek me.”
“I will return by all means, if you will have the kindness to wait for me,” replied the prince, smiling, and hastened to the interview with his royal uncle.
Frederick was seated in his arm-chair, upon his lap Alkmene, when the crown prince entered. “Bon jour, mon neveu! pardon me,” said he, with a friendly nod, “that I remain seated, and do not rise to greet the future King of Prussia.”
“Sire, Heaven grant that many years pass before I succeed to the title which my great and unapproachable predecessor has borne with so much wisdom and fame, that one can well doubt the being able to emulate his example, and must content himself to live under the shadow of his intelligence and fame!”
Frederick slowly shook his head. “The people will not be satisfied, nor the coffers filled by fame. No one can live upon the great deeds of his ancestors; he must be self-sustaining, not seek for the laurels in the past, but upon the naked field of the future, which lies before him. Sow the seeds of future laurels; fame troubles me but little, and I advise you, my nephew, not to rely upon it. One must begin anew each day, and make fresh efforts for vigorous deeds.”
The crown prince bowed, and seated himself upon the tabouret, which the king, with a slight wave of the hand, signified to him.
“I will endeavor, sire, to follow the elevated sentiments of your majesty, that I may not dishonor my great teacher.”
“You express yourself too modestly, my nephew, and I know that you think otherwise; that your fiery spirit will never be contented to dishonor yourself or your ancestors. Fate is favorable to you, and offers the opportunity to confirm, what I judge you to be–a brave soldier, a skilful captain–in a word, a true Hohenzollern! I would make you a commander of a division of my army, and I shall follow every movement–every operation, with lively interest.”
A ray of joy beamed upon the face of the prince; Frederick saw it with satisfaction, and his heart warmed toward his nephew. “He has at least courage,” he said to himself; “he is no sybarite to quail before the rough life of war.”
“Will your majesty so greatly favor me as to accord me an independent position in the campaign?”
“I offer you what belongs to you as a general and heir to the throne. On me it devolves to direct the plans and operations, and on you to detail them and direct the execution. I shall rejoice to see that you understand the profession of war practically as well as theoretically. Therefore, this war is so far welcome, that it will give my crown prince an opportunity to win his first laurels, and adorn the brow which, until now, has been crowned with myrtle.”
“Your majesty, I–“
“Be silent–I do not reproach you, my nephew; I understand human nature, and the seductive arts of women. It is time that you seek other ornament–myrtle becomes a youthful brow, and the helmet adorns the man crowned with laurels.”
“I have long desired it, and I am deeply grateful to your majesty for the opportunity to win it. This campaign is good fortune to me.”
“War is never a good fortune,” sighed the king–” for the people it is great misfortune. I would willingly have avoided it for their sake. But the arrogance and the passion for territorial aggrandizement of the young Emperor of Germany forces me to it. I dare not, and will not suffer Austria to enrich herself through foreign inheritance, ignoring the legitimate title of a German prince. Bavaria must remain an independent, free German principality, under a sovereign prince. It is inevitably necessary for the balance of power. I cannot yield, therefore, as a German prince, that Austria increase her power in an illegitimate manner, but I will cast my good sword in the scales, that the balance is heavier on the side upon which depends the existence of Germany, that she may not be tossed in the air by Austria’s weight. These are my views and reasons for the war upon which I now enter with reluctance. When the greatness and equilibrium of Germany are at stake, no German prince should dare hesitate. Austria has already cost Germany much blood, and will cause her to shed still more. Believe it, my nephew, and guard yourself against Austria’s ambition for territorial aggrandizement. You see, I am like all old people, always teaching youth, while we have much to learn ourselves. We are all pupils, and our deeds are ever imperfect.”
“Your majesty cannot believe that of himself. The sage of Sans-Souci is the type, the master, and teacher of all Europe.”
“My son,” replied the king, “the great men of antiquity recognized it as the acme of wisdom, that they must be mindful that ‘in the midst of life we are in death.’ At the gay festivities and the luxurious feasts they were interrupted in the merry song and voluptuous dance, with the warning: ‘Remember, O man, that thou must die!’ Let us profit by their wisdom! I have startled you from the banquet of life, and I doubt not that many singers and dancers will be enraged that I should put an end to the feasts of roses and the merry dance in such an abominable manner. It would be an evil omen in our warlike undertaking, if the rosy lips of the beauties should breathe curses to follow us; therefore, we must try to conciliate them, and leave a good souvenir in their hearts. You smile, my prince, and you think it vain trouble for an old fellow; that I cannot win the favor of the ladies under any pretension; so you must undertake for me the reconciliation and the hush-money.”
“I am prepared for any thing which your majesty imposes upon me; only I would defend myself against the interpretation which you give my smile–and–“
“Which was very near the truth,” interrupted the king. “I have called you from the banquet of life, and I have interrupted the dancers, crowned with roses in the midst of their dance, which they would finish before you. I pray you, then, indemnify the enraged beauties, and let us go forth with a quiet conscience, that we in no respect are indebted to any one.”
“Oh, sire, it will be impossible for me to go to the field with a quiet conscience upon this point.”
“Permit me to extend to you the means to do so,” replied the king, graciously smiling. “Take this little box; it contains a wonderful elixir, proof against all the infirmities and weaknesses of humanity, of one of the greatest philosophers of human nature. By the right use of it, tears of sorrow are changed to tears of joy, and a Megerea into a smiling angel, as by enchantment. Before going to the war, I pray you to prove the miraculous elixir upon one of the angry beauties. For, I repeat, we must put our house in order, and leave no debts behind us. The debts of gratitude must not be forgotten. Let us say ‘Gesegnete Mahlzeit’ when we have been well feasted.”
The king handed the prince a little box, of beautiful workmanship, and smiled as he rather vehemently thanked him, and at the same time tried to open it.
“I remark with pleasure that you have a tolerably innocent heart, as you betray curiosity about the wonderful elixir. I supposed men, to say nothing of beautiful women, had long since instructed you that it was the only balsam for all the evils of life. My minister Herzberg will give you the key of the little box, and advise you as to the right use of the elixir. Farewell, with the hope of soon seeing you again, my nephew. I start for Silesia to-morrow, as I must travel slower than you young people. You will follow me in a few days. Again farewell!”
Extending his meagre white hand to the prince, he withdrew it quickly, as the latter was about to press it to his lips, and motioned to the door kindly.
CHAPTER VIII.
THE GOLDEN RAIN.
Prince Frederick William betook himself, with painful curiosity, to the audience-room, where the Minister von Herzberg awaited him.
“Your excellency,” said he, “his majesty refers me to you, for the true explanation of the miraculous elixir contained in this little box, and about which I am naturally very curious, and beg of you the key to open it.”
“Will your royal highness,” said the minister, smiling, “have the grace to grant me a few moments’ conversation, which may serve as an explanation, for his majesty has not in reality given me a key?”
“I pray you, my dear excellency, to explain it,” cried the prince, impatiently.
“Pardon me if I probe the tenderest feelings of your heart, my prince. The command of the king imposes this duty upon me. He has known for a long time of your connection with a certain person, to whom you are more devoted than to your wife.”
“Say, rather, his majesty has twice forced me to marry two unloved and unknown princesses, when he knew that I already loved this certain person. Twice I have married, because the command of his king is law to the crown prince of Prussia. For my love and my sympathy there is no law but that of my own heart, and this alone have I followed.”
“His majesty does not reproach you. The philosopher of Sans-Souci understands human nature, and he feels indulgent toward your weakness. He is quite satisfied that you have chosen this person, as friend and favorite, to console yourself for an unhappy marriage. Her low birth is a guaranty that she will never mingle in politics, an act which would be visited with his majesty’s highest displeasure. While his majesty permits you to continue this intimacy, and recognizes the existence of this woman, he wishes her to be provided for as becomes the mistress of a crown prince, and not as the grisette of a gentleman. She should have her own house, and the livery of her lord.”
“As if it were my fault that this has not already been arranged!” cried the prince. “Am I not daily and hourly tormented with poverty, and scarcely know how to turn, between necessary expenses and urgent creditors? You know well yourself, your excellency, how stingy and parsimonious the king is to the crown prince. He scarcely affords me the means to support my family in a decent, to say nothing of a princely, manner. How dependent we all are, myself, my wife, and my children upon the king, whose economy increases, while our wants and expenses also increase every year! It is sufficiently sad that I cannot reward those who have proved to me during ten years their fidelity and love, but I must suffer them to live in dependence and want.”
“His majesty understands that, and thinks that as your royal highness is to go to the field, and will be exposed, as a brave commander, to the uncertain fate of battle, that you should assure the future of all those who are dear to you, and arrange a certain competency for them. A good opportunity now offers to you. Count Schmettau will sell his villa at Charlottenburg, and it would be agreeable to his majesty that you should purchase it, and assign it to those dearest to you. In order to give you as little trouble as possible, his majesty has had the matter already arranged, through his equerry, Count Schmettau, and the purchase can be made this very hour. Here is the bill of sale; only the name of the present possessor is wanting, the signature of the purchaser, and the payment of seven thousand five hundred thalers.”
“The names can be quickly written; but, your excellency,” cried the prince, “where will the money come from?”
“I have just given your royal highness the key to the little box: have the goodness to press hard upon the rosette.”
The prince touched the spring, the cover flew back–it contained only a strip of paper! Upon it was written, in the king’s own handwriting, “Bill of exchange upon my treasurer. Pay to the order of the Prince of Prussia twenty thousand thalers.” [Footnote: “Memoirs of the Countess Lichtenau,” vol.1] The prince’s face lighted up with joy. “Oh! the king has indeed given me a miraculous elixir, that compensates for all misfortunes, heals all infirmities, and is a balsam for all possible griefs. I will bring it into use immediately, and sign the bill of sale.” He signed the paper, and filled with haste the deficiency in the contract. “It is done!” he cried, joyfully, “the proprietress, Wilhelmine Enke; purchaser, Frederick William of Prussia. Nothing remains to be done but to draw upon the king’s treasury, and pay Count Schmettau.”
“Your royal highness is spared even that trouble. Here are twenty rolls, and each roll contains one hundred double Fredericks d’or, and, when your highness commands it, I will reserve seven rolls and pay Count Schmettau; then there remain thirteen for yourself. Here is the contract, which you will give in person to the possessor.”
“First, I must go to the king,” said the prince; “my heart urges me to express my gratitude to him, and my deep sense of his goodness and tenderness. I feel ashamed without being humbled, like a repentant son, who has doubted the generosity and goodness of his father, because he has sometimes severely reprimanded his faults. I must go at once to the king.”
“He will not receive your royal highness,” answered Herzberg, smiling. “You know our sovereign, who so fully deserves our admiration and love. His favor and goodness beam upon us all, and he desires neither thanks nor acknowledgment. He performs his noble, glorious deeds in a harsh manner, that he may relieve the recipients of his bounty from the burden of gratitude; and often when he is the most morose and harsh, is he at heart the most gracious and affectionate. You and yours have experienced it to-day. He appeared to be angry, and enveloped himself in the toga of a severe judge of morals; but, under this toga, there beat the kind, noble heart of a friend and father, who punishes with rigorous words, and forgives with generous, benevolent deeds.”
“For this I must thank him–he must listen to me!” cried the prince.
“He will be angry if your royal highness forces him to receive thanks when he would avoid them. He has expressly commanded me to entreat you never to allude to the affair, and never to speak of it to others, as it would not be agreeable to his majesty to have the family affairs known to the world. You would best please his majesty by following exactly his wishes, and when you meet him never allude to it. As I have said, this is the express wish and command of the king.”
“Which I must naturally follow,” sighed the prince, “although I acknowledge that it is unpleasant to me to receive so much kindness from him without at least returning my most heart-felt thanks. Say to the king, that I am deeply, sensibly moved with his tender sympathy and generosity. And now I will hasten to Wilhelmine Enke; but, it occurs to me that it may not be possible; the king has made her a prisoner in her own house.”
“Do not trouble yourself about that. If it is your royal highness’s pleasure, drive at once to Charlottenburg. You will find the new possessor there and she will relate to you her interview with the mayor of Berlin.”
“Oh! I shall drive at once to the villa. I am curious to learn what Von Kircheisen has told her.”
“I imagined that you would be, and ordered your carriage here, as you could not well ride upon horseback with the heavy rolls of gold; and if it is your pleasure, I will order the footman to place the box, into which I have put them, in the carriage.”
“No, no; I beg you to let me carry them,” cried the prince, seizing the box with both hands. “It is truly heavy, but an agreeable burden, and if it lames my arm I shall bethink myself of the miraculous elixir, which will give me courage and strength. Farewell, your excellency; I shall hurry on to Charlottenburg!”
The prince hastened to his carriage, and ordered the coachman to drive at full speed to the villa. Thanks to this order, he reached it in about an hour. No one was there to receive him upon his arrival. The hall was empty, and the rooms were closed. The prince passed on to the opposite end, where there was a door open, and stood upon a balcony, with steps descending into the garden, which, with its flower-beds, grass-plots, shrubbery, and the tall trees, formed a lovely background. The birds were singing, the trees rustled, and variegated butterflies fluttered over the odorous flowers. Upon the turf, forming a beautiful group, was Wilhelmine playing with her daughter, and the nurse with the little boy upon her lap, who laughingly stretched out his arms toward his mother.
“Wilhelmine–Wilhelmine!” cried the prince.
With a cry of joy she answered, and flew toward the house. “You have come at last, my beloved lord,” she cried, almost breathless, mounting the steps. “I beg you to tell me what all this means? I am dying of curiosity!”
“I also,” said the prince, smiling. “Have the goodness to lead me to one of the rooms, that I may set down this box.”
“What does that hobgoblin contain, that it prevents your embracing me?”
“Do not ask, but hasten to assist me to relieve myself of the burden.” They entered the house, and Wilhelmine opened the wide folding-doors, which led into a very tastefully-furnished room. Frederick William set the box upon the marble table, and sank upon a divan with Wilhelmine in his arms. “First of all, tell me what Von Kircheisen said to you?”
“He commanded me, in the name of the king, to give up my dwelling at Berlin and at Potsdam, and to avoid showing myself in public at both places, that those who had the right to the love and fidelity of the Prince of Prussia should not be annoyed at the sight of me; that I should live retired, and leave the appointed residence as little as possible, for then the king would be inclined to ignore my existence, and take no further notice of me. But, if I attempted to play a role, his majesty would take good care that it should be forever played out.”
“Those were harsh, cruel words,” sighed Frederick William.
“Harsh, cruel words,” repeated Wilhelmine, sorrowfully. “They pierced my soul, and I shrieked at last from agony. Herr von Kircheisen was quite frightened, and begged me to excuse him, that he must thus speak to me, but the king had commanded him to repeat his very words. The carriage was at the door, he said, ready to convey me to my future dwelling, for I must immediately leave Berlin, and the king be informed of my setting out. The coachman received the order, and here I am, without knowing what I am to do, or whether I shall remain here.”
“Yes, Wilhelmine, you are to remain here; at last we have a home, and a resting-place for our love and our children. This house is yours–you are mistress here, and you must welcome me as your guest.”
“This house is mine!” she cried, joyfully. “Did you give it to me? How generous, and how extravagant you are! Protect me with the gift of your love, as if you were Jupiter and I Danae!”
“A beautiful picture, and, that it may be a reality, I will play the role of Jupiter and open the box.”
He took a roll of gold, and let it fall upon Wilhelmine’s head, her beautiful shoulders, and her arms, like a shower of gold. She shrieked and laughed, and sought to gather up the pieces which rolled ringing around her upon the floor. The prince seized another roll, and another still, till she was flooded with the glistening pieces. Then another and another, until Wilhelmine, laughing, screamed for grace, and sprang up, the gold rolling around her like teasing goblins.
CHAPTER IX.
GERMAN LITERATURE AND THE KING.
The Minister Herzberg had, in the mean time, an interview with the king, informing him of the concluded purchase of the Schmettau villa, and of the emotion and gratitude of the crown prince at his royal munificence.
“That affair is arranged, then,” said Frederick. “If Fate wills that the prince should not return from this campaign, then this certain person and the two poor worms are provided for, who are destined to wander through the world nameless and fatherless.”
“Let us hope that fate will not deal so harshly with the prince, or bring such sorrow upon your majesty.”
“My dear sir, Fate is a hard-hearted creature, the tears of mankind are of no more importance to her than the raindrops falling from the roof. She strides with gigantic power over men, crushing them all in dust–the great as well as the little–the king as well as the beggar. For my part I yield to Fate without a murmur. Politicians and warriors are mere puppets in the hands of Providence. We act without knowing why, for we are unknowingly the tools of an invisible hand. Often the result of our actions is the reverse of our hopes! Let all things take their course, as it best pleases God, and let us not think to master Fate. [Footnote: The king’s words.– “Posthumous Works,” vol. x., p. 256.] That is my creed, Herzberg, and if I do not return from this infamous campaign, you will know that I have yielded to Fate without murmuring. You understand my wishes in all things; the current affairs of government should go on regularly. If any thing extraordinary occurs, let me be informed at once. Is there any news, Herzberg?”
“Nothing worth recounting, sire, except that the young Duke of Weimar is in town.”
“I know it; he has announced himself. I cannot speak with him. I have asked my brother Henry to arrange the conditions under which he will allow us to enlist men for my army in his duchy. I hope he will be reasonable, and not prevent it. That is no news that the Duke of Weimar has arrived!”
“Not only the duke has arrived, but he has brought his dear friend with him whom the people in Saxe-Weimar say makes the good and bad weather.”
“Who is the weather-maker?”
“Your majesty, this weather-maker is the author of ‘The Sorrows of Young Werther,’ Johann Wolfgang Goethe, who for four years has aroused the hearts and excited the imaginations of all Germany. If I am not deceived, a great future opens for this poet, and he will be a star of the first magnitude in the sky of German literature. I believe it would be well worth the trouble for your majesty to see him.”
“Do not trouble me with your German literature, and your stars of the first magnitude! We must acknowledge our poverty with humility; belles-lettres have never achieved success upon our soil. Moreover, this star of the first magnitude–this Herr Goethe–I remember him well; I wish to know nothing of him. He has quite turned the heads of all the love-sick fools with his ‘Sorrows of Young Werther.’ You cannot count that a merit. The youth of Germany were sufficiently enamoured, without the love-whining romances of Herr Goethe to pour oil on the fire.”
“Pardon me, sire, that I should presume to differ from you; but this book which your majesty condemns has not only produced a furor in Germany, but throughout Europe–throughout the world even. That which public opinion sustains in such a marked manner cannot be wholly unworthy. ‘Vox populi, vox dei,’ is a true maxim in all ages.”
“It is not true!” cried the king. “The old Roman maxim is not applicable to our effeminate, degraded people. Nowadays, whoever flatters the people and glorifies their weaknesses, is a good fellow, and he is extolled to the skies. Public opinion calls him a genius and a Messiah. Away with your nonsense! The ‘Werther’ of Herr Goethe has wrought no good; it has made the healthy sick, and has not restored invalids to health. Since its appearance a mad love- fever has seized all the young people, and silly sentimentalities and flirtations have become the fashion. These modern Werthers behave as if love were a tarantula, with the bite of which they must become mad, to be considered model young men. They groan and sigh, take moonlight walks, but they have no courage in their souls, and will never make good soldiers. This is the fault of Herr Werther, and his abominable lamentations.
It is a miserable work, and not worth the trouble of talking about, for no earnest man will read it!”
“Pardon me, sire; your majesty has graciously permitted me to enter the lists as knight and champion of German literature, and sometimes to defend the German Muse, who stands unnoticed and unknown under the shadow of your throne; while the French lady, with her brilliant attire and painted cheeks, is always welcomed. I beg your majesty to believe that, although this romance may have done some harm, it has, on the other hand, done infinite service. A great and immortal merit cannot be denied to it.”
“What merit?” demanded the king, slowly taking a pinch of snuff; “I am very curious to know what merit that crazy, love-sick book has.”
“Sire, it has the great merit to have enriched the German literature with a work whose masterly language alone raises it above every thing heretofore produced by a German author. It has emancipated our country’s literature from its clumsy, awkward childhood, and presented it as an ardent, inspired youth, ready for combat, upon the lips of whom the gods have placed the right word to express every feeling and every thought–a youth who is capable of probing the depths of the human heart.”
“I wish all this might have remained in the depths,” cried Frederick, annoyed. “You have defended the German Muse before; but you remember that I am incorrigible. You cannot persuade me that bungling is master-work. It is not the poverty of the mind, but the fault of the language, which is not capable of expressing with brevity and precision. For how could any one translate Tacitus into German without adding a mass of words and phrases? In French it is not necessary; one can express himself with brevity, and to the point.”
“Sire, I shall permit myself to prove to you that the brevity of Tacitus can be imitated in the German language. I will translate a part of Tacitus, to give your majesty a proof.”
“I will take you at your word! And I will answer you in a treatise upon German literature, its short-comings, and the means for its improvement. [Footnote: This treatise appeared during the Bavarian war of succession, in the winter of 1779] Until then, a truce. I insist upon it–good German authors are entirely wanting to us Germans. They may appear a long time after I have joined Voltaire and Algarotti in the Elysian Fields.” [Footnote: The king’s words.– See “Posthumous Works,” vol. II., p. 293.]
“They are already here,” cried Herzberg, zealously. “We have, for example, Lessing, who has written two dramas, of which every nation might be proud–‘Minna von Barnhelm, and Emilia Calotti.'”
“I know nothing of them,” said the king, with indifference. “I have never heard of your Lessing.”
“Your majesty, this wonderful comedy, ‘Minna von Barnhelm,’ was written for your majesty’s glorification.”
“The more the reason why I should not read it! A German comedy! That must be fine stuff for the German theatre, the most miserable of all. In Germany, Melpomene has untutored admirers, some walking on stilts, others crawling in the mire, from the altars of the goddess. The Germans will ever be repulsed, as they are rebels to her laws, and understand not the art to move and interest the heart.”
“But, sire, you have never deigned to become acquainted with ‘Minna von Barnhelm’ nor ‘Emilia Calotti.'”
“Well, well, Herzberg, do not be so furious; you are a lover of German literature, and some allowance must be made for those who are in love. You will not persuade me to read your things which you call German comedies and tragedies. I will take good care; my teeth are not strong enough to grind such hard bits. Now do not be angry, Herzberg. The first leisure hours that I have in this campaign I shall employ on my treatise.”
“And the first leisure hours that I have,” growled the minister, “I shall employ to translate a portion of Tacitus into our beautiful German language, to send to your majesty.”
“You are incorrigible,” said Frederick, smiling. “We shall see, and until then let us keep the peace, Herzberg. When one is about to go to war, it is well to be at peace with one’s conscience and with his friends; so let us be good friends.”
“Your majesty, your graciousness and kindness make me truly ashamed,” said the minister, feelingly. “I beg pardon a thousand times, if I have allowed myself to be carried away with unbecoming violence in my zeal for our poor neglected German literature.”
“I approve of your zeal, and it pleases me that you are a faithful knight, sans peur et sans reproche. I do not ascribe its poverty to the German nation, who have as much spirit and genius as any nation, the mental development of which has been retarded by outward circumstances, which prevented her rising to an equality with her neighbors. We shall one day have classical writers, and every one will read them to cultivate himself. Our neighbors will learn German, and it will be spoken with pleasure at courts; and it can well happen that our language, when perfectly formed, will spread throughout Europe. We shall have our German classics also.” [Footnote: The king’s words–see “Posthumous Works,” vol. III.]
The king smiled, well pleased, as he observed by stolen glances the noble, intelligent face of Herzberg brighten, and the gloomy clouds dispersed which had overshadowed it.
“Now, is it not true that you are again contented?” said the king, graciously.
“I am delighted with the prophecy for the German language, your majesty; and may I add something?”
“It will weigh on your heart if you do not tell it,” said the king.
“I prophesy that this Goethe will one day belong to the classic authors, and therefore I would beg once more of your majesty to grant him a gracious look, and invite him to your presence. If you find no pleasure in ‘The Sorrows of Werther,’ Goethe has created other beautiful works. He is the author of the tragedy of ‘Stella.'”
“That sentimental, immoral piece, which we forbid the representation of in Berlin, because it portrays a fellow who made love to two women at once, playing the double role of lover to his wife and his paramour, while he had a grown-up daughter! It is an immoral piece, which excites the tear-glands, and ends as ‘Werther,’ by the hero blowing his brains out. It is directed against all morals, and against marriage; therefore it was forbidden.” [Footnote: The tragedy of “Stella” was represented in Berlin with great applause, and denounced by the king as immoral, in the year 1776, and the further representation forbidden.–See Plumke, “History of the Berlin Theatres.”]
“But, sire, Herr Goethe has not only written ‘Stella,’ but ‘Clavigo’ also, which–“
“Which he has copied exactly from the ‘Memoires de Beaumarchais,'” interrupted the king. “That is not a German, but a French production.”
“Allow me to cite a genuine German production, which Johann Wolfgang Goethe has written. I mean the drama ‘Gotz von Berlichingen.’ “
“Stop!–it is sufficient. I do not wish to hear any thing more,” cried the king, indignant, and rising. “It is bad enough that such pieces should appear upon the German stage as this ‘Gotz von Berlichingen.’ They are nothing less than abominable imitations of the bad English pieces of Shakespeare! The pit applauds them, and demands with enthusiasm these very disgusting platitudes. [Footnote: The king’s own words.–See “Posthumous Works,” vol. iii.] Do not be angry again, you must have patience with the old boy! I shall rejoice heartily if this Herr Goethe becomes a classic writer one day, as you say. I shall not live to witness it. I only see the embryo where you see the full-grown author. We will talk further about it when we meet in the Elysian Fields; then we will see, when you present this Herr Johann Wolfgang Goethe, as a German classic writer, to Homer, Horace, Virgil, and Corneille, if they do not turn their backs upon him. Now adieu, Herzberg! So soon as circumstances permit, I shall send for you to go to Silesia, and then you can give me your German translation of Tacitus.”
The king nodded in a friendly manner to his minister, and slowly walked back and forth, while he took leave and withdrew. After a few moments he rang, and the summons was immediately answered by the footman Schultz.
The king fixed upon him one of those searching glances of his fiery eyes which confounded and confused the footman. He remained standing and embarrassed, with downcast look.
“What are you standing there for?” asked the king. “Did I not ring for you, and do you not know what you have to do?” Frederick continued to regard him, with flashing eyes, which increased the lackey’s confusion.
He forgot entirely that the summons was for his majesty’s lunch, and all that he had to do was to open the door to the adjoining room, where it stood already prepared.
Frederick waited a moment, but the footman still stood irresolute, when his majesty indicated to him to approach.
He approached, staggering under the puzzling glance of his master.
“Oh! I see what it is,” said Frederick, shrugging his shoulders; “you are drunk again, as you often are, and–“
“Your majesty,” cried Schultz, amazed, “I drunk!”
“Silence!–will you be bold enough to reason with me? I say that you are drunk, and I want no drunken footmen. They must be well-behaved, sober fellows, who keep their ears open and their mouths shut–who are neither drunkards nor gossips, and do not take for truth what they have experienced in their drunken fits. I do not want such fellows as you are at all; you are only fit food for cannon, and for that you shall serve. Go to General Alvensleben, and present yourself to enter the guards. You are lucky to go to the field at once; to-morrow you will set off. Say to the general that I sent you, and that you are to enter as a common soldier.”
“But, your majesty, I do not know what I have done,” cried Schultz, whiningly. “I really am not drunk. I–“
“Silence!” thundered the king. “Do as I command you! Go to General Alvensleben, and present yourself to enter the guards at once. Away with you! I do not need drunken, gossiping footmen in my service. Away with you!”
The footman slunk slowly away, his head hanging down, with difficulty restraining the tears which stood in large drops in his eyes.
The king followed him with his glance, which softened and grew gentler from sympathy. “I pity him, the poor fellow! but I must teach him a lesson. I want no gossips around me. He need only wear the uniform two weeks or so, that will bring him to reason. Then I will pardon him, and receive him into my service again. He is a good-natured fellow, and would not betray any one as Kretzschmar betrayed him.”
The king stepped to the window to look at the gentleman who was eagerly engaged in conversation with the castellan of Sans-Souci. At this instant the footman entered with a sealed note for the king. “From his royal highness Prince Henry,” said he.
“Who brought it?”
“The gentleman who speaks with the castellan upon the terrace. I wait your majesty’s commands.”
“Wait, then.” The note ran thus: “Your majesty, my dearly-beloved brother: The bearer, Johann Wolfgang Goethe, one of the literati, and a poet, and at this time secretary of legation to the duchy of Saxe-Weimar, is a great favorite of the duke’s, our nephew. I met him returning from the parade in company with the duke, who expressed to me the strong desire his secretary had to visit the celebrated house of the great philosopher of Sans-Souci, and see the room once occupied by Voltaire. I could not well refuse, and therefore address these few lines to your majesty before returning to Berlin with the duke, who will dine with me, accompanied by his secretary.” I am your majesty’s most humble servant and brother, HENRY.”
“Tell the castellan that I grant him permission to show the house and park to the stranger; he shall take care not to come in my way, so that I shall be obliged to meet him. Tell this aside, that you may not be overheard. Hasten, for they have already been waiting some time.”
The king walked again to the window, and, hidden by the curtain, peeped out. “So, this is Herr Goethe, is it? What assurance! There he stands, sketching the house. What wonderful eyes the man has! With what a proud, confident manner he looks around! What a brow! Truly he is a handsome fellow, and Herzberg may be right after all. That brow betokens thought, and from those eyes there flashes a divine light. But he looks overbearing and proud. Now, I am doubly pleased that I refused Herzberg to have any thing to do with him. Such presumptive geniuses must be rather kept back; then they feel their power, and strive to bring themselves forward. Yes! I believe that man has a future. He looks like the youthful god Apollo, who may have condescended to descend to earth! He shall not entrap me with his beautiful head. If he is the man who makes good and bad weather in Weimar, he shall learn that rain and sunshine at Sans- Souci do not depend upon him; that the sun and clouds here do not care whether Herr Goethe is in the world or not. For sunshine and storm we depend upon the Great Weather-Maker, to whom we must all bow; evil and good days in Prussia shall emanate from me, so long as I live. Sometimes I succeed in causing a little sunshine,” continued the king. “I believe the Prince of Prussia has to-day felt the happy influence of the sun’s rays; and while it is dull and lonely at Sans-Souei, may it be brighter and more cheerful at Charlottenburg! Eh bien! old boy,” said the king, stopping, “you are playing the sentimental, and eulogizing your loneliness. Well, well, do not complain.–Oh, come to me, spirits of my friends, and hold converse with me! Voltaire, D’Argens, and my beloved Lord-Marshal Keith! Come to me, departed souls, with the memories of happier days, and hover with thy cheering, sunny influence over the wrinkled brow of old Fritz!”
While the lonely king implored the spirits of his friends, to brighten with their presence the quiet, gloomy apartment at Sans- Souci, the sun shone in full splendor at Charlottenburg–the sunshine beaming from the munificence of Frederick. Wilhelmine Enke had passed the whole day in admiring the beautiful and tasteful arrangement of the villa. Every piece of furniture, every ornament, she examined attentively–all filled her with delight. The prince, who accompanied her from room to room, listened to her outbursts of pleasure, rejoicing.
“I wish that I could often prepare such happiness for you, dearest, for my heart is twice gladdened to see your beaming face.”
“Reflected from your own. You are my good genius upon earth. You have caused the poor, neglected child to become the rich and happy woman. To you I owe this home, this foot of earth, which I can call my own. Here blossom the flowers for me–here I am mistress, and those who enter must come as my guests, and honor me. All this I owe to you.”