THE MEMORIAL TO FREDERICK WILLIAM III
“I believe,” said Gualtieri, returning the letter to Gentz, “I believe
the minister wanted to teach you a lesson. He made you wait in order to
teach you the necessity of being punctual.”
“And I shall not forget the lesson.”
“You will be punctual hereafter?”
“On the contrary. This time I was half an hour behind time, and he paid
me one hundred dollars for it. Hereafter I shall be an hour too late;
he will make me wait an hour and pay me two hundred dollars for it.
I believe that is sound arithmetic. Don’t look at me so scornfully,
Gualtieri; this state of affairs will not last for any length of time;
there will be a time at no distant period when no minister will dare to
make me wait in his anteroom, nor to pay me such petty, miserable sums.
The ministers then will wait in my anteroom, and will be only too happy
if I accept the thousands which they will offer to me. I have formed the
fixed resolution to obtain a brilliant position and to coin wealth out
of my mind.”
“And I am sure you will succeed in accomplishing your purpose,” said
Gualtieri. “Yes, I am satisfied a brilliant future is in store for you.
You are a genius such as Germany has not seen heretofore, for you are a
political genius, and you may just as well confess that Germany greatly
lacks politicians who are able to wield their pen like a pointed
two-edged sword, to strike fatal blows in all directions and obtain
victories. Germany has already fixed her eyes upon you, and even in
England your name is held in great esteem since you published your
excellent translation of Burke’s work on the French Revolution. The
political pamphlets you have issued since that time, and the excellent
political magazine you have established, have met with the warmest
approval, and the public hopes and expects that you will render great
and important services to the country. Go on in this manner, my friend;
boldly pursue the path you have entered, and it will become for you a
path of glory, honor, and wealth.”
Gentz looked at him almost angrily.
“I hope,” he said, “you will not believe me to be an avaricious and
covetous man. I value money merely because it is an instrument wherewith
to procure enjoyment, and because, without it, we are the slaves of
misery, privations, and distress. Money renders us free, and now that
people would like to set up freedom as the religion of all nations,
every one ought to try to make as much money as possible, that alone
rendering him really free. The accursed French Revolution, which has
dragged all principles, all laws and old established institutions
under the guillotine, was under the necessity of leaving one power
unharmed--the power of money. The aristocracy, the clergy, nay, even
royalty had to bleed under the guillotine, but money never lost its
power, its influence, and its importance. Money speaks a universal
language, and the Sans-culotte and Hottentot understand it as well as
the king, the minister, and the most beautiful woman. Money never needs
an interpreter; it speaks for itself. See, my friend, that is the reason
why I love money and try to make as much as possible, not in order
to amass it, but because with it I can buy the world, love, honor,
enjoyment, and happiness. But not being one of those who find money in
their cradles, I must endeavor to acquire it and avail myself of the
capital God has given me in my brains. And that I shall and will do,
sir, but I pledge you my word, never in a base and unworthy manner. I
shall probably make people PAY very large sums of money for my services,
but never shall I SELL myself; all the millions of the world could not
induce me to write AGAINST MY PRINCIPLES, but all the millions of the
world I shall demand, when they ask me to write FOR MY PRINCIPLES! See,
my friend, that is my programme, and you may be sure that I shall live
up to it. I am an aristocrat by nature and conviction; hence I hate the
French Revolution which intended to overthrow every aristocracy, not
only that of pedigree, but also that of the mind, and therefore I have
sworn to oppose it as an indefatigable and indomitable champion, and to
strike it as many blows with my pen and tongue as I can. Hence I
shall never join the hymns of praise which the Germans, always too
complaisant, are now singing to the little Corsican, General Bonaparte.
Whatever you may say about his heroism and genius, I believe him to be
an enemy of Germany, and am, therefore, on my guard.”
“So you do not admire his victories, the incomparable plans of his
battles, which he conceives with the coolness of a wise and experienced
chieftain, and carries out with the bravery and intrepidity of a hero of
antiquity?”
“I admire all that, but at the same time it makes me shudder when I
think that it might some day come into the head of this man who conquers
every thing, to invade and conquer Germany also. I believe, indeed,
he would succeed in subjugating her, for I am afraid we have no man of
equal ability on our side who could take the field against him. Ah,
my friend, why does not one of our German princes resemble this French
general, this hero of twenty-seven years? Just think of it, he is no
older than our young king; both were born in the same year.”
“You must not count his years,” exclaimed Gualtieri, “count his great
days, his great battles. The enthusiasm of all Europe hails his coming,
for he fights at the head of his legions for the noblest boons of
manhood--for freedom, honor, and justice. No wonder, therefore, that he
is victorious everywhere; the enslaved nations everywhere are in hopes
that he will break their fetters and give them liberty.”
“He is a scourge God has sent to the German princes so that they may
grow wiser and better. He wishes to compel them to respect the claims of
their subjects to freedom and independence, that being the only way for
them to erect a bulwark against this usurper who fights his battles
not only with the sword, but also with ideas. Oh, I wish our German
sovereigns would comprehend all this, and that all those who have a
tongue to speak, would shout it into their ears and arouse them from
their proud security and infatuation.”
“Well, have not you a tongue to speak, and yet you are silent?” asked
Gualtieri, smiling.
“No, I have not been silent,” exclaimed Gentz, enthusiastically. “I
have done my duty as a man and citizen, and told the whole truth to the
king.”
“That means--”
“That means that I have written to the king, not with the fawning
slavishness of a subject, but as a man who has seen much, reflected
much, and experienced much, and who speaks to a younger man, called upon
to act an important part, and holding the happiness of millions of men
in his hands. It would be a crime against God and humanity, if we knew
the truth and should not tell it to such a man. Because I believe I know
the truth, I have spoken to the king, not in a letter which he may
read to-day and throw to-morrow into his paper-basket, but in a printed
memorial, which I shall circulate in thousands of copies as soon as I
have heard that it is in the hands of the king.”
“And you believe the king will accept this printed memorial of yours?”
“My friend, Counsellor Menken, has undertaken to deliver it to the
king.”
“In that case he will accept it, for he thinks very highly of Menken.
But what did you tell the king in this memorial?”
“I gave him sound advice about government affairs.”
“Advice! my friend, kings do not like to listen to advice, especially
when it is given to them spontaneously. Did you confine yourself to
general suggestions? You see I am very anxious to learn more about your
bold enterprise. Just read the memorial to me, friend Gentz!”
“Ah, that would be a gigantic task for you to hear it, and for myself
to read it, the memorial being quite lengthy. I ask the king therein in
impressive and fervent words--oh, I wept myself when I penned them--to
make his people happy and prosperous. I directed his attention to the
various branches of our administration; first, to military affairs--”
“And you advise him to make war?” asked Gualtieri, hastily.
“No, I advise him always to be armed and prepared, but to maintain
peace as long as it is compatible with his honor. Next I allude to
the condition of our judicial and financial affairs. I beseech him to
abstain from interference with the administration of justice, to insist
upon a constant equilibrium being maintained between the expenses and
revenues of the state, so as not to overburden his subjects with taxes,
and not to curtail the development of commerce and industry by vexatious
monopolies. Finally, I ask him to devote some attention to intellectual
affairs and to the press.”
“Oh, I expected that,” said Gualtieri, smiling, “and I should not
be surprised at all if you had been bold enough to ask the timid and
diffident young king to grant freedom of the press to his people.”
“Yes, that is what I ask him to do,” said Gentz, enthusiastically. “You
want me to read the whole memorial to you. Let me read at least what I
have said about the freedom of the press. Will you listen to it?”
“Oh, I am most anxious to hear it,” said Gualtieri, sitting down on the
sofa.
Gentz took several sheets of paper from his desk, sat down opposite his
friend and commenced reading in a loud and enthusiastic voice:
“Of all things repugnant to fetters, none can bear them as little as
human thought. The oppression weighing down the latter is not merely
injurious because it impedes what is good, but also because it promotes
what is bad. Compulsion in matters of faith may be passed over in
silence. It belongs to those antiquated evils on which now that there is
greater danger of an utter prostration of religious ideas than of their
fanatical abuse, only narrow-minded babblers are declaiming. Not so,
however, with regard to freedom of the press. Misled by unfounded
apprehensions, arising from the events of the times, even sagacious men
might favor a system which, viewed in its true light, is more injurious
to the interests of the government than it ever can be to the rights of
the citizens, even in its most deplorable abuses.”
“What, even aside from all other considerations, peremptorily and
absolutely condemns any law muzzling the press, is the important
fact that it is impossible to enforce it. Unless there be a regular
inquisition watching over the execution of such a law, it is now-a-days
utterly impossible to carry it out. The facilities for bringing ideas
before the public are so great, as to render any measure destined to
curtail this publicity a mere matter of derision. But if these laws
prove ineffectual they may yet exasperate the people, and that is
precisely their most dangerous feature; they exasperate without
deterring. They instigate those against whom they are directed to offer
a resistance which frequently not only remains successful, but moreover
becomes glorious and honorable. The most wretched productions, whose
real value would not secure a life of two hours, obtain general
circulation because it seems to have required some degree of courage to
write them. The most insignificant scribblers will be looked upon as men
of mind, and the most venal writers suddenly become ‘martyrs of truth.’
A thousand noxious insects, whom a sunbeam of truth and real sagacity
would have dispersed, favored by the darkness created for them with
deplorable short-sightedness, insinuate themselves into the unarmed
minds of the people, and instil their poison to the last drop, as though
it were a forbidden delicacy of the most exquisite character. The only
antidote, the productions of better writers, loses its strength because
the uninformed only too easily mistake the advocates of salutary
restrictions for the defenders of such as are manifestly unjust and
oppressive.”
“Let freedom of the press, therefore, be the immovable principle of your
government, not as though the state or mankind, in this age so prolific
in books, were interested in the publication of a thousand works more or
less, but because your majesty is too great to maintain an unsuccessful,
and therefore disastrous struggle, with petty adversaries. Every one
should be held responsible, strictly responsible for unlawful acts and
writings assuming such a character, but mere opinion should meet with
no other adversary than its opposite, and if it be erroneous, with the
truth. Never will such a system prove dangerous to a well-regulated
state, and never has it injured such a one. Where it apparently became
pernicious, destruction had preceded it already, and mortification and
putrefaction had set in.” [Footnote: Memorial respectfully presented
to his majesty Frederick William III., on his accession to the throne,
November 16, 1797, by Frederick Gentz.]
“Well?” asked Gentz, with glowing cheeks and flashing eyes, when he had
ceased reading, “what do you think of my exposition of the freedom of
the press? Is it not clear, convincing, and unanswerable? Will not the
king see that my words contain the truth, and hence follow them?”
Gualtieri looked at his friend with an air of compassionate tenderness.
“Oh, you are a full-grown child,” he said; “you still believe in the
possibility of realizing Utopian dreams, and your faith is so honest,
so manly! You want to force a scourge upon a timid young king, who most
ardently desires to maintain peace, and to remain unnoticed, and tell
him, ‘With this scourge drive out the evil spirits and expel the lies,
so as to cause daylight to dawn, and darkness to disappear!’--as though
that daylight would not be sure to lay bare all the injuries and ulcers
of which our own poor Prussia is suffering, and for which she greatly
needs darkness and silence.”
“What! you think the king will take no notice of my demands?”
“I believe,” said Gualtieri, shrugging his shoulders, “that you are a
highly-gifted visionary, and that the king is a tolerably intelligent
and tolerably sober young gentleman, who, whenever he wants to skate,
does not allow himself to be dazzled and enticed by the smooth and
glittering surface, but first repeatedly examines the ice in order to
find out whether it is firm enough to bear him. And now good-by, my
poor friend. I came here to congratulate you for having regained your
liberty, and for belonging again to the noble and only happy order
of bachelors; but instead of hearing you rejoice, I find in you a
philanthropic fanatic, and an enthusiastic advocate of a free press.”
“But that does not prevent you from wishing me joy at my return to a
bachelor’s life,” exclaimed Gentz, laughing. “Yes, my friend, I am free;
life is mine again, and now let the flames of pleasure close again over
my head--let enjoyment surround me again in fiery torrents, I shall
exultingly plunge into the whirlpool and feel as happy as a god! We
must celebrate the day of my regeneration in a becoming manner; we must
celebrate it with foaming champagne, pates de foie gras, and oysters;
and if we want to devote a last tear to the memory of my wife, why, we
shall drink a glass of Lacrymce Christi in her honor. You must come and
see me to-night, Gualtieri. I shall invite a few other friends, and
if you will afford us a rare pleasure, you will read to us some of La
Fontaine’s Fables, which no one understands to recite so well as you.”
“I shall do so,” said Gualtieri, extending his hand to Gentz. “I shall
read to you one of La Fontaine’s Fables, the first two lines of which
eloquently express the whole history of your past.”
“Let me hear those two lines.”
Gualtieri covered his head, and standing in the door he had opened, he
said with a deep pathos and in a profoundly melancholy voice:
“Deux coqs vivaient en paix; une poule survint,
Et voila la guerreallumec”--
and nodding a last adieu, he disappeared. Gentz laughed. “Indeed, he is
right,” he exclaimed; “that is the end of wedded life. But, thank God,
mine is over, and, I swear by all my hopes, never will I be such a fool
as to marry again! I shall remain a bachelor as long as I live; for he
who belongs to no woman owns all women. It is time, however, to think of
to-night’s banquet. But in order to give a banquet, I must first procure
new furniture for my rooms, and this time I won’t have any but beautiful
and costly furniture. And how shall I get it? Ah, parbleu, I forgot the
six hundred dollars I received from the minister. I shall buy furniture
for that sum. No, that would be very foolish, inasmuch as I greatly
need it for other purposes. The furniture dealers, I have no doubt,
will willingly trust me, for I never yet purchased any thing of them.
Unfortunately, I cannot say so much in regard to him who is to furnish
me the wines and delicacies for the supper, and I have only one hundred
dollars in my pocket. The other five hundred dollars I must send to
that bloodsucker, that heartless creditor Werner. But must I do so? Ah!
really, I believe it would be rank folly. The fellow would think he had
frightened me, and as soon as I should owe him another bill, he would
again besiege my door, and raise a fresh disturbance here. No; I will
show him that I am not afraid of him, and that his impudent conduct
deserves punishment. Oh, John! John!”
The door was opened immediately, and the footman entered.
“John,” said Gentz, gravely, “go at once to Mr. Werner. Tell him some
friends are coming to see me to-night. I therefore want him to send me
this evening twenty-four bottles of champagne, three large pates de foie
gras, two hundred oysters, and whatever is necessary for a supper. If he
should fill my order promptly and carefully, he can send me to-morrow a
receipt for two hundred dollars, and I will pay him the money. But if
a single oyster should be bad, if a single bottle of champagne should
prove of poor quality, or if he should dare to decline furnishing me
with the supper, he will not get a single groschen. Go and tell him
that, and be back as soon as possible.”
“Meantime, I will write a few invitations,” said Gentz, as soon as he
was alone. “But I shall invite none but unmarried men. In the first
place, the Austrian minister, Prince von Reuss. This gentleman contents
himself with one mistress, and as he fortunately does not suspect that
the beautiful Marianne Meier is at the same time my mistress, he is a
great friend of mine. Yes, if he knew that--ah!” he interrupted himself,
laughing, “that would be another illustration of La Fontaine’s fable of
the two cocks and the hen. Well, I will now write the invitations.”
He had just finished the last note when the door opened, and John
entered, perfectly out of breath.
“Well, did you see Mr. Werner?” asked Gentz, folding the last note.
“Yes, sir. Mr. Werner sends word that he will furnish the supper
promptly and satisfactorily, and will deliver here to-night twenty-four
bottles of his best champagne, three large pates de foie gras, two
hundred oysters, etc., but only on one condition.”
“What! the fellow actually dares to impose conditions?” exclaimed Gentz,
indignantly. “What is it he asks?”
“He asks you, sir, when he has delivered every thing you have ordered,
and before going to supper, to be kind enough to step out for a moment
into the anteroom, where Mr. Werner will wait for you in order to
receive there his two hundred dollars. I am to notify him if you accept
this condition, and if so, he will furnish the supper.”
“Ah, that is driving me to the wall,” exclaimed Gentz, laughing. “Well,
go back, to the shrewd fellow and tell him that I accept his conditions.
He is to await me in the anteroom, and as he would, of course, make a
tremendous noise in case I should disappoint him, he may be sure that I
shall come. So go to him, John.”
“As for myself,” said Gentz, putting on his cloak, “I shall go and
purchase several thousand dollars’ worth of furniture; my rooms shall
hereafter be as gorgeous as those of a prince. By the by, I believe I
have been too generous. If I had offered Werner one hundred dollars, he
would have contented himself with that sum.”