Some cities are like affected women. In their desire to appear original,
without possessing any originality, they ape the mannerism of one, the
gait of another, the gestures of a third, striking poses not their own.
While Paris, for example, has always been her natural self, with her
vices and virtues, her elegance and tawdriness, her brilliance and
superficial glitter, which spring from her native appetites; while
London, likewise, is always herself, as is Vienna and Munich and Venice
and Florence and Rome; Berlin, of all great cities, has never been her
real self. With the subtle artifices of the poseur she has always
imitated her envied rivals and at the same time ridiculed those whose
manners she simulated. Her lurking jealousy has always decided her
model. It is a safe prophecy that within a decade Berlin will pattern
her life after New York and will at the same time raise her voice in
derision against the materialism of the great American Metropolis.
Berlin a century ago, no different from Berlin of today, had broad
avenues, beautiful public gardens, spacious boulevards, gaudy palaces,
luxurious homes, busy restaurants, noisy cafés, all immaculately kept
with the orderliness of an army on parade, and with a palpable newness
that made one feel that the city and all her gardens, avenues,
boulevards, palaces, were laid out by cord and line, chiefly after the
design of an individual, without the least indication of the character
or ideas of the inhabitants.
During the Napoleonic wars, especially after Blücher’s hospitality in
the British capital, Berlin had become London-mad and copied her life
openly, but no sooner was the treaty of Paris concluded, and Napoleon’s
threatening shadow was definitely removed, than Berlin struck her former
pose. She again wished to vie with her hated rival, Paris. _Salons_ were
formed, art circles sprang into being, the Prussian began to scoff in
Voltairean style, simulated French wit, and presented plays of flagrant
immorality which to the Berliner seemed quite Parisian.
Superficial imitation, however, frequently brings about changes of a
deeper nature. With the adoption of foreign fashions came foreign ideas.
The spirit of revolt which had been smouldering in Paris—soon to break
out in roaring flames—had also permeated the _Kaiserstadt_. French
ideals had sifted in and Young Germany was awaking.
But whenever, and wherever, people fight for freedom the brave and the
strong perish that the cowardly and the weak may live. Officialdom is
ever ready to forgive the offenses of the truckler. At this period,
however, even the weaklings sought an outlet for their aroused
feelings—in polemics that did not disturb the Prussian officials.
Religion, philosophy, romanticism, were safe substitutes. At no epoch in
the history of Germany did the land abound in so many cults and sects as
during the last two decades of the reign of that weak and good-natured
king, Frederic William the Third. There were the Kantians, who discarded
all miracles and regarded Christianity as a mere philosophic doctrine;
the Hegelians, who were pantheistic yet clung to the romantic life story
of Jesus; the followers of Schleiermacher, who swung between Pantheism
and Rationalism, without touching either; and then there were the
unadulterated romanticists, who followed—without clear
understanding—Fichte, Schlegel and Schelling.
The vortex of all great discussions was the salon of Rahel Varnhagen von
Ense. Her house at No. 20 Friedrichstrasse was the Mecca of all people
of note and her “at home” was sought with eagerness. Not to have known
Rahel reflected upon one’s intellectual standing. And Karl August
Varnhagen von Ense was modest enough not to resent being known as
Rahel’s husband. His admiration for his wife’s personality equalled his
great love for her.
Rahel was as enigmatic and as paradoxical as the race from which she
sprang. With her, as with her race, the unexpected happened. The
daughter of a wealthy merchant and bearing the name of Rachel Levin at a
period when a Jewish name was the greatest social handicap in Berlin,
she had risen to a secure place in society. Princes courted her, artists
sought her counsel, men of letters craved her opinion. No less a
personage than Wolfgang von Goethe, at the very zenith of his fame, sent
in his card. Unlike her social rival, Henrietta Herz, it was not
physical beauty nor fascinating coquetry that helped her win her
position in society. Rather plain looking, save for her brilliant black
eyes, and small of stature, she possessed that indefinable charm which
is even more attractive than beauty; and although she had already
reached her fiftieth year her slender figure gave her a girlish
appearance.
With the tact of a clever hostess she engaged one guest in conversation
while her ears caught the drift of the talk of another.
“Rahel has discovered a new poetic genius,” her husband was saying.
His smile was not that of banter but rather of triumph. There was pride
in his small featured countenance.
A little man, with a large head and an ugly sharp face, was laughing
blandly, as an echo to von Ense’s remark.
“I see you are sceptical about new poetic geniuses, Pastor
Schleiermacher,” resumed von Ense.
“No,” said the little man, still laughing, “but I thought that with Herr
von Goethe still alive Frau Varnhagen would admit of no other poetic
genius.”
Rahel, who was giving her attention to one of Hegel’s discourses—Hegel
was always delivering discourses, even in drawingrooms—caught the gist
of Schleiermacher’s ironic remark and her smiling eyes seemed to say,
“Wait until Professor Hegel gets through with his monologue and you
shall get your deserts.”
However, the opportunity had not yet come. Professor Hegel was still
laboring to complete his sentence in his strong Swabian accent, speaking
haltingly, with jerking gestures, and, swaying his body awkwardly, he
continued:
“As I was saying, when I think a thought, for instance, I am not
thinking my own thought but only part of the universal thought of all
human intelligence, and while the thought strikes me as my own it is
only the thought of the universe I am thinking, and when I think of God,
or rather of the absolute, the idea of the consciousness of one, I am
only thinking as part of the whole which is God—in other words, my
consciousness of this thought and the opposite of this very thought are
one and the same thing, both being the same consciousness of an integral
whole——”
Rahel welcomed the guests while giving part of her mind to Hegel, who
was laboring through the labyrinth of his thoughts, seeking a way out.
Fortunately Hegel minded no intrusions nor interruptions, and with his
shoulders stooped, his prematurely aged, wrinkled countenance undergoing
the visible contortions of a twitching pair, proceeded:
“In other words, though directed _an sich_, concerning and pertaining to
one’s self as an incomplete and imperfect existence—such thought, as I
have clearly demonstrated, is different and yet identical, all forming
complementary parts of a whole, as segments make up a circle, and yet
without a circle there can be no segments——”
“Clearly so,” struck in the hostess.
“Yes, Pastor Schleiermacher,” she turned her keen eyes upon the little
savant, “I have discovered a new poetic genius. Venus may shine even
though the greater lustre is that of Jupiter.”
She wished him to know that she had overheard his pleasantly about the
bard of Weimar.
“Who is this new genius—a Berliner?”
Several other faces turned upon the hostess.
“No, a recent arrival. He hails originally from the Rhineland but he has
just come from Goettingen, a student of Jurisprudence——”
“With no past?”
“All future,” laughed Rahel. “Yes, he has something pelled from
Goettingen——”
“Then there is indeed hope for him,” struck in Gubitz, editor of the
“_Gesellschafter_.”
“I expect him here this evening,” Rahel soon added seriously. “He has
real talent. He promised to bring a few of his poems and I may induce
him to read them to us.”
When Rahel praised the most critical paused to consider. She had been
the first to proclaim Goethe’s supremacy when to the literary world at
large he was still “only one of the poets.”
Soon Albert was announced and every one divined that he was the object
of Rahel’s admiration. Even Hegel, who was still elucidating his trend
of thought, raised his eyes to get a glimpse of the newcomer.
Dressed in a velvet frock coat and frilled shirt, with lace falling over
his white, beautifully shaped hands, with a broad laid-down collar, he
looked taller than he actually was. In his face was boyishness with
something indefinable about the deep corners of his mouth that already
spoke of world-weariness, and the peculiar twinkle in his narrowed eyes
accentuated the suggestion of cynicism.
Rahel, with the _savoir faire_ of the hostess of a celebrated salon,
made a special effort to put the young man at his ease. She realized
that in spite of his innate pride—the pride she well understood—the
gathering of so many notables, so many years his seniors, embarrassed
him. She meant to be his patroness. Inwardly she was already proud of
him. She was not displeased with the manner in which he met the
brilliant assemblage. She could see he was not over-modest but she was
enough of a student of human nature to know that while true genius may
understand its own limitations it is never humble enough to reveal them
to others. Again, she was pleased because he did not betray his Semitic
lineage. She had not yet outlived her secret wish to obliterate her
racial past, though in her heart of hearts—deeper than she permitted
herself to penetrate—she was proud that he was of her race.
She kept close to him all evening, eagerly watching over him lest he
might make some _faux pas_ and put himself in a wrong light before the
critical audience. She was conscious of his youth and of his readiness
of speech, and knew the prejudice of elders against a talkative young
man, no matter how scintillating. For after a momentary constraint
Albert joined in the conversation with his wonted recklessness and
offered opinions that might be construed as presumptive in a man of his
age. And she was particularly glad that he had made a favorable
impression upon Gublitz. The editor was not as pedantic as most of the
coterie and possessed enough of cynicism himself to appreciate the young
poet’s bitter tongue. She was counting on the editor of the
“_Gesellschafter_” to be of service to her protégé.
Though she urged him to read a few of his poems she was pleased when
Albert declined, and she was still more gratified when he handed her a
packet for her personal perusal.