THE GERMAN PHILOSOPHER.
Profound silence reigned in the small room; books were to be seen
everywhere on the shelves, on the tables, and on the floor; they formed
almost the only decoration of this room which contained only the most
indispensable furniture.
It was the room of a German SAVANT, a professor at the far-famed
University of Jena.
He was sitting at the large oaken table where he was engaged in writing.
His form, which was of middle height, was wrapped in a comfortable
dressing-gown of green silk, trimmed with black fur, which showed here
and there a few worn-out, defective spots. A small green velvet cap,
the shape of which reminded the beholder of the cap of the learned
Melancthon, covered his expansive, intellectual forehead, which was
shaded by sparse light-brown hair.
A number of closely-written sheets of paper lay on the table before him,
on which the eyes of the SAVANT, of the philosopher, were fixed.
This SAVANT in the lonely small room, this philosopher was George
Frederick William Hegel.
For two days he had not left his room; for two days nobody had been
permitted to enter it except the old waitress who silently and softly
laid the cloth on his table, and placed on it the meals she had brought
for him from a neighboring restaurant.
Averting his thoughts from all worldly affairs, the philosopher had
worked and reflected, and heard nothing but the intellectual voices that
spoke to him from the depths of his mind. Without, history had walked
across the battle-field with mighty strides and performed immortal
deeds; and here, in the philosopher’s room, the mind had unveiled its
grand ideas and problems.
On the 14th of October, and in the night of the 14th and 15th, Hegel
finished his “Phenomenology of the Mind,” a work by which he intended to
prepare the world for his bold philosophical system, and in which,
with the ringing steps of a prophet, he had accomplished his first walk
through the catacombs of the creative intellect.
All the power and strength of reality, in his eyes, sprang from this
system, which he strove to found in the sweat of his intellectual
brow,--and his system had caused him to forget the great events that had
occurred in his immediate neighborhood.
Now he had finished his work; now he had written the last word. The pen
dropped from his hands, which he folded over his manuscript as if to
bless it silently.
He raised his head, which, up to this time, he had bent over the paper,
and his blue eyes, so gentle and lustrous, turned toward heaven with a
silent prayer for the success of his work. His fine, intellectual face
beamed with energy and determination; the philosopher was conscious of
the struggle to which his work would give rise in the realm of thought,
but he felt ready and prepared to meet his assailants.
“The work is furnished,” he exclaimed, loudly and joyfully; “it shall
now go out into the world!”
He hastily folded up his manuscript, wrapped a sheet of paper around it,
sealed it and directed it.
Then he looked at his watch.
“Eight o’clock,” he said, in a low voice; “if I make haste, the
postmaster will forward my manuscript to-day.”
He divested himself of his gown, and dressed. Then he took his hat and
the manuscript and hastened down into the street toward the post-office.
Absorbed as he was in his reflections, he saw neither the extraordinary
commotion reigning in the small university town, nor the sad faces of
the passers-by; he only thought of his work, and not of reality.
He now entered the post-office; all the doors were open; all the
employes were chatting with each other, and no one was at the desk to
attend to the office business and to receive the various letters.
Hegel, therefore, had to go to the postmaster, who had not noticed him
at all, but was conversing loudly and angrily with several gentlemen who
were present.
“Here is a package which I want you to send to Hamburg,” said the
philosopher, handing his package to the postmaster. “The stage-coach has
not set out yet, I suppose?”
The postmaster stared at him wonderingly. “No,” he said, “it has not set
out yet, and will not set out at all!”
It was now the philosopher’s turn to look wonderingly at the postmaster.
“It will not set out?” he asked. “Why not?”
“It is impossible, in the general confusion and excitement. There
are neither horses nor men to be had to-day. Everybody is anxious and
terrified.”
“But what has happened?” asked the philosopher, in a low voice.
“What? Then you do not know yet the terrible events of the day, Mr.
Professor?” exclaimed the postmaster, in dismay.
“I do not know any thing about them,” said the philosopher, timidly, and
almost ashamed of himself. “Perhaps you did not hear, in your study, the
thunders of the artillery?”
“I heard occasionally a dull, long-continued noise, but I confess I did
not pay any attention to it. What has occurred?”
“A battle has occurred,” exclaimed the postmaster, “and when I say a
battle, I mean two battles; one was fought here at Jena, and the other
at Auerstadt; but here they did not know that a battle was going on at
Auerstadt, and at Auerstadt, like you, Mr. Professor, they did not hear
the artillery of Jena.”
“And who has won the battle?” asked Hegel, feelingly.
“Who but the conqueror of the world, the Emperor Napoleon!” exclaimed
the postmaster. “The Prussians are defeated, routed, dispersed; they
are escaping in all directions; and when two French horsemen are
approaching, hundreds of Prussians throw their arms away and beg for
mercy! The whole Prussian army has exploded like a soap-bubble. The king
was constantly in the thickest of the fray; he wished to die when he saw
that all was lost, but death seemed to avoid him. Two horses were killed
under him, but neither sword nor bullet struck him. He is retreating
now, but the French are at his heels. God grant that he may escape!
The commander-in-chief, the Duke of Brunswick, was mortally wounded;
a bullet struck him in the face and destroyed his eyes. Oh, it is a
terrible disaster! Prussia is lost, and so is Saxe-Weimar, for the
Emperor Napoleon will never forgive our duke that, instead of joining
the Confederation of the Rhine, he stood by Prussia and fought against
France. Our poor state will have to atone for it!”
Hegel had listened sadly to the loquacious man, and his features had
become gloomier and gloomier. He felt dizzy, and a terrible burden
weighed down his breast. He nodded to the postmaster and went out again
into the street.
But his knees were trembling under him. He slowly tottered toward his
residence.
All at once a brilliant procession entered the lower part of the street.
Drums and cheers resounded. A large cavalcade was now approaching.
At its head, mounted on a white horse with a waving mane and quivering
nostrils, rode the man of the century, the man with the marble face of a
Roman IMPERATOR, the Julius Caesar of modern history.
His eyes were beaming with courage and pride; a triumphant smile was
playing on his lips. It was the TRIUMPHATOR making his entry into the
conquered city.
The philosopher thought of the history of ancient Rome, and it seemed to
him as though the face of the modern Caesar were that of a resuscitated
statue of antiquity.
Napoleon now fixed his flashing eyes on the philosopher, who felt that
this glance penetrated into the innermost depths of his heart. [The
writer heard the account of this meeting with the Emperor Napoleon from
the celebrated philosopher himself in 1829. He described in plain, yet
soul-stirring words, the profound, overwhelming impression which the
appearance of the great emperor had made upon him, and called this
meeting with Napoleon one of the most momentous events of his life.
The writer, then a young girl, listened at the side of her father with
breathless suspense to the narrative which, precisely by its simplicity
made so profound an impression upon her, that, carried away by her
feelings, she burst into tears. The philosopher smiled, and placed his
hand on her head. “Young folks weep with their hearts,” he said, “but we
men wept at that time with our heads.” The authoress.]
Seized with awe, Hegel took off his hat and bowed deeply.
The emperor touched his hat smilingly, and thanked him; then he galloped
on, followed by the whole brilliant suite of his marshals and generals.
The German philosopher stood still, as if fixed to the ground, and gazed
after him musingly and absorbed in solemn reflections.
He himself, the Napoleon of ideas, had yet to win his literary battles
in the learned world of Germany.
The emperor, the Napoleon of action, had already won his battles, and
Germany lay at his feet. Vanquished, crushed Germany seemed to have
undergone her last death-struggle in the battles of Jena and Auerstadt.
End of Project Gutenberg’s Louisa Of Prussia and Her Times, by Louise Muhlbach