The information that the German _Diet_ had prohibited the publication of
his books had so upset him that he could not think clearly. It seemed to
him that some sinister fate was always interfering with his work. At
first it was the parrot, who chattered volubly, and when he had trained
him to keep still in the morning, a whole brood of children moved in on
the floor below and insisted on doing all their crying during the hours
he had set aside for writing; and when by chance everyone was quiet it
usually happened that just then he was not in the mood for writing. He
thought it strange that all noises came when he was in the best of
moods. Yes, it must be the fates who were always pursuing him. This
morning everything had moved so smoothly. He had felt as if he had been
on wings, his thoughts came flying, and the expressions he wanted were
coming so spontaneously that he could scarcely write fast enough when
that idiot of a postman began his clamorous ringing! Well, the bad news
could have waited until his morning’s work was done! Ah! fate, cruel
fate, had been tormenting him from his very cradle!
He was walking down the street rather rapidly, his inner agitation
gaining momentum. It was early in December and the air was cold and
refreshing. He could not understand why the _Diet_ should have decreed
against his writings, especially now when he was preaching moderation.
Goethe’s and Lessing’s works had never been forbidden! Goethe had always
been anti-Christian, quite pagan, and Lessing was a veritable
iconoclast, and yet the government had never taken measures against
them! An unpleasant thought was intruding upon him. He tried to force
this unpleasant thought away. In the past six years he had banished this
unpleasant thought by sheer force whenever it sought admission into his
brain. His life in Paris would not permit him to dwell upon this
unpleasant thought. But now it took hold of him in spite of himself. The
Prussians would not forgive his Jewish blood! The mark of Cain was on
his brow! Genius or no genius, it did not matter. Ah, those narrow
minded tyrants! They shall see—the whole pack of them—he would smite
those Philistines hip and thigh!
As he proceeded on his walk he was mentally wording a reply to the
Prussian _Diet_. He felt himself a Luther standing before the King.
Indeed, like the man of Worms, he would not recant. He was smiting the
Philistines. He was not sparing them. His words were molten lead. He
would pour it red hot upon their stupid heads. He would avenge himself
on all of them—on the Aristocrats and the Democrats. They had both
combined to annihilate him but he would pull the temple down upon them.
Under the heat of composition his face brightened, his eyes were aglow,
his step became more elastic and rapid He was almost glad that this had
happened. His fire was kindled with greater fury.
But he soon remembered that his funds were exhausted. His uncle
Leopold’s quarter-annual stipend was two months away, the _Revue des
Deux Mondes_ had already advanced him for his next contribution, his
publisher would certainly not send him a _sou_ at present, and the four
hundred _Thaler_ he had borrowed from a friend were nearly gone. His
gait slackened, his countenance fell, the light was out of his eyes.
Yes, he must seek counsel. He must not act too rashly. His left hand was
troubling him and he was afraid the paralysis of his two fingers was
spreading. He must seek counsel.
He thought of a few influential friends, who were then in Paris. They
were admirers of his and, he was sure, would be glad to intercede for
him. But, no, he would ask no assistance from a Prussian. He would—the
thought of Princess Pampini came to him like a ray of light. She could
give him the right advice. If influence was needed she could use it. She
had powerful friends in Paris, men close to King Louis Philippe. Thiers
and Guizot were frequent callers at her home. And he soon remembered
that he had received a note from her, reproaching him for his absence
from her _soirées_. The thought of the princess cheered him. He directed
his steps toward Rue de Courcelles, her present dwelling.