On the 18th of March, the day of the fighting in the streets of Berlin,
we had been living for a year in the large suite of apartments at No. 7
Linkstrasse.
Of those who inhabited the same house with us I remember only the
sculptor Streichenberg, whose studio was next to our pretty garden, and
the Beyers, a married couple. He, later a general and commander of the
troops besieging Strasburg in 1870, was at that time a first lieutenant.
She was a refined, extremely amiable, and very musical woman, who had
met our mother before, and now entered into the friendliest relations
with her.
A guest of their quiet household, a little Danish girl, one of Fran
Beyer’s relatives, shared our play in the garden, and worked with us
at the flower beds which had been placed in our charge. I remember how
perfectly charming I thought her, and that her name was Detta Lvsenor.
All the details of our intercourse with her and other new acquaintances
who played with us in the garden have vanished from my memory, for the
occurrences of that time are thrown into shadow by the public events and
political excitement around us. Even children could not remain untouched
by what was impending, for all that we saw or heard referred to it
and, in our household, views violently opposed to each other, with the
exception of extreme republicanism, were freely discussed.
The majority of our conservative acquaintances were loud in complaint,
and bewailed the king’s weakness, and the religious corruption and
hypocritical aspirations which were aroused by the honest, but romantic
and fanatical religious zeal of Frederick William IV. I must have heard
the loudest lamentations concerning this cancer of society at this time,
for they are the most deeply imprinted in my memory. Even such men as
the Gepperts, Franz Kugler, H. M. Romberg, Drake, Wilcke, and others,
with whose moderate political views I became acquainted later, used to
join us. Loyal they all were, and our mother was so strongly attached
to the house of Hohenzollern that I heard her request one of the younger
men, when he sharply declared it was time to force the king to abdicate,
either to moderate his speech or cease to visit her house.
Our mother could not prevent, however, similar and worse speeches from
coming to our ears.
A particularly deep impression was made upon us by a tall man with a big
blond beard, whose name I have forgotten, but whom we generally met at
the sculptor Streichenberg’s when he took us with him in our play
hours into his great workshop. This man appeared to be in very good
circumstances, for he always wore patent-leather boots, and a large
diamond ring on his finger; but with his vivacious, even passionate
temperament, he trampled in the dust the things I had always revered. I
hung on his lips when he talked of the rights of the people, and of
his own vocation to break the way for freedom, or when he anathematized
those who oppressed a noble nation with the odious yoke of slavery.
Catch phrases, like “hanging the last king with the guts of the last
priest,” I heard for the first time from him, and although such speeches
did not please me, they made an impression because they awakened so much
surprise, and more than once he called upon us to be true sons of our
time and not a tyrant’s bondmen. We heard similar remarks elsewhere in
a more moderate form, and from our companions at school in boyish
language.
There were two parties there also, but besides loyalty another sentiment
flourished which would now be called chauvinism, yet which possessed
a noble influence, since it fostered in our hearts that most beautiful
flower of the young mind, enthusiasm for a great cause.
And during the history lessons on Brandenburg-Prussia our cheeks would
glow, for what German state could boast a grander, prouder history than
Prussia under the Hohenzollerns, rising by ability, faithfulness
to duty, courage, and self-sacrificing love of country from small
beginnings to the highest power?
The Liebe school had been attended only by children of good families,
while in the Schmidt school a Count Waldersee and Hoym, the son of a
capmaker and dealer in eatables, sat together on the same bench. The
most diverse tendencies were represented, and all sorts of satirical
songs and lampoons found their way to us. Such parodies as this in the
Song of Prussia we could understand very well:
“I am a Prussian, my colours you know,
From darkness to light they boldly go;
But that for Freedom my fathers died,
Is a fact which I have not yet descried.”
Nor did more delicate allusions escape us; for who had not heard, for
instance, of the Friends of Light, who played a part among the Berlin
liberals? To whose ears had not come some longing cry for freedom, and
especially freedom of the press?
And though that ever-recurring word Pressfreiheit (freedom of the press)
was altered by the wags for us boys into Fressfreiheit (liberty to stuff
yourself); though, too, it was condemned in conservative circles as a
dangerous demand, threatening the peace of the family and opening the
door to unbridled license among writers for the papers, still we had
heard the other side of the question; that the right freely to express
an opinion belonged to every citizen, and that only through the power of
free speech could the way be cleared for a better condition of things.
In short, there was no catchword of that stormy period which we ten and
twelve-year-old boys could not have interpreted at least superficially.
To me it seemed a fine thing to be able to say what one thought right,
still I could not understand why such great importance should be
attributed to freedom of the press. The father of our friend Bardua was
entitled a counsellor of the Supreme Court, but then he had also filled
the office of a censor, and what a nice, bright boy his son was!
Among our comrades was also the son of Prof. Hengstenberg, who was the
head of the pietists and Protestant zealots, whom we had heard mentioned
as the darkest of all obscurants, and his influence over the king
execrated. By the central flight of steps at the little terrace in front
of the royal palace stood the fine statues of the horse-tamers, and the
steps were called Hengstenberg (Hengste, horses, and Berg, mountain).
And this name was explained by the circumstance that whoever would
approach the king must do so by the way of “Hengstenberg.”
We knew that quip, too, and yet the son of this mischievous enemy of
progress was a particularly fine, bright boy, whom we all liked, and
whose father, when I saw him, astonished me, for he was a kindly man and
could laugh as cheerfully as anybody.
It was all very difficult to understand; and, as we had more friends
among the conservatives than among the democrats, we played usually with
the former, and troubled ourselves very little about the politics of
our friends’ fathers. There was, however, some looking askance at each
other, and cries of “Loyal Legioner!” “Pietist!” “Democrat!” “Friend of
Light!” were not wanting.
As often happens in the course of history, uncomprehended or only
half-comprehended catchwords serve as a banner around which a great
following collects.
The parties did not come to blows, probably for the sole reason that
we conservatives were by far the stronger. Yet there was a fermentation
among us, and a day came when, young as I was, I felt that those who
called the king weak and wished for a change were in the right.
In the spring of 1847 every one felt as if standing on a volcano.
When, in 1844, it was reported that Burgomaster Tschech had fired at
the king--I was then seven years old--we children shared the horror and
indignation of our mother, although in the face of such a serious event
we boys joined in the silly song which was then in everybody’s mouth,
and which began somewhat in this fashion:
“Was there ever a man so insolent
As Tschech, the mayor, on mischief bent?”
What did we not hear at that time about all the hopes that had been
placed on the crown-prince, and how ill he had fulfilled them as king!
How often I listened quietly in some corner while my mother discussed
such topics with gentlemen, and from the beginning of the year 1847
there was hardly a conversation in Berlin which did not sooner or later
touch upon politics and the general discontent or anxiety. But I had no
need to listen in order to hear such things. On every walk we took they
were forced upon our ears; the air was full of them, the very stones
repeated them.
Even we boys had heard of Johann Jacoby’s “Four Questions,” which
declared a constitution a necessity.
I have not forgotten the indignation called forth, even among our
acquaintances of moderate views, by Hassenpflug’s promotion; and if his
name had never come to my ears at home, the comic papers, caricatures,
and the talk everywhere would have acquainted me with the feelings
awakened among the people of Berlin by the favour he enjoyed. And added
to this were a thousand little features, anecdotes, and events which all
pointed to the universal discontent.
The wars for freedom lay far behind us. How much had been promised to
the people when the foreign foe was to be driven out, and how little had
been granted! After the July revolution of 1830, many German states had
obtained a constitution, while in Prussia not only did everything
remain in the same condition, but the shameful time of the spying by
the agitators had begun, when so many young men who had deserved well
of their country, like Ernst Moriz, Arndt, and Jahn, distinguished and
honourable scholars like Welcker, suffered severely under these odious
persecutions. One must have read the biography of the honest and
laborious Germanist Wackernagel to be able to credit the fact that that
quiet searcher after knowledge was pursued far into middle life by
the most bitter persecution and rancorous injuries, because as a
schoolboy--whether in the third or fourth class I do not know--he had
written a letter in which was set forth some new division, thought out
in his childish brain, for the united German Empire of which he dreamed.
Such men as Kamptz and Dambach kept their places by casting suspicion
upon others and condemning them, but they little dreamed when they
summoned before their execrable tribunal the insignificant student Fritz
Reuter, of Mecklenburg, how he would brand their system and their names.
Most of these youths who had been plunged into misery by such rascally
abuse of office and the shameful way in which a king naturally anything
but malignant, was misled and deceived, were either dead and gone,
or had been released from prison as mature men. What hatred must have
filled their souls for that form of government which had dared thus
to punish their pure enthusiasm for a sacred cause--the unity and
well-earned freedom of their native land! Ah, there were dangerous
forces to subdue among those grey-haired martyrs, for it was their fiery
spirit and high hearts which had brought them to ruin.
Those who had been disappointed in the results of the war for liberty,
and those who had suffered in the demagogue period, had ventured to hope
once more when the much-extolled crown-prince, Frederick William IV,
mounted the throne. What disappointment was in store for them; what new
suffering was laid upon them when, instead of the rosy dawn of freedom
which they fancied they had seen, a deeper darkness and a more reckless
oppression set in! What they had taken for larks announcing the breaking
of a brighter day turned out to be bats and similar vermin of the night.
In the state the exercise of a boundless arbitrary power; in the Church,
dark intolerance; and, in its train, slavish submission, favour-seeking,
rolling up of the eyes, and hypocrisy as means to unworthy ends, and
especially to that of speedy promotion--the deepest corruption of
all--that of the soul.
What naturally followed caused the loyalists the keenest pain, for the
injury done to the strong monarchical feeling of the Prussian people
in the person and the conduct of Frederick William IV was not to be
estimated. Only the simple heroic greatness and the paternal dignity of
an Emperor William could have repaired it.
In the year preceding the revolution there had been a bad harvest,
and frightful stories were told of famine in the weaving districts
of Silesia. Even before Virchow, in his free-spoken work on the
famine-typhus, had faithfully described the full misery of those
wretched sufferers, it had become apparent to the rulers in Berlin that
something must be done to relieve the public distress.
The king now began to realize distinctly the universal discontent, and
in order to meet it and still further demands he summoned the General
Assembly.
I remember distinctly how fine our mother thought the speech with which
he opened that precursor of the Prussian Chambers, and the address
showed him in fact to be an excellent orator.
To him, believing as he did with the most complete conviction in
royalty by the grace of God and in his calling by higher powers, any
relinquishing of his prerogative would seem like a betrayal of his
divine mission. The expression he uttered in the Assembly in the course
of his speech--“I and my people will serve the Lord”--came from the very
depths of his heart; and nothing could be more sincerely meant than the
remark, “From one weakness I know myself to be absolutely free: I do not
strive for vain public favour. My only effort is to do my duty to the
best of my knowledge and according to my conscience, and to deserve the
gratitude of my people, though it should be denied me.”
The last words have a foreboding sound, and prove what is indeed evident
from many other expressions--that he had begun to experience in his own
person the truth of the remark he had made when full of hope, and hailed
with joyful anticipations at his coronation--“The path of a king is full
of sorrow, unless his people stand by him with loyal heart and mind.”
His people did not do that, and it was well for them; for the path
indicated by the royal hand would have led them to darkness and to the
indignity of ever-increasing bondage, mental and temporal.
The prince himself is entitled to the deepest sympathy. He wished to do
right, and was endowed with great and noble gifts which would have done
honour to a private individual, but could not suffice for the ruler of a
powerful state in difficult times.
Hardly had the king opened the General Assembly in April, 1848, and, for
the relief of distress among the poorer classes in the capital, repealed
the town dues on corn, when the first actual evidences of discontent
broke out. The town tax was so strictly enforced at that time at all
the gates of Berlin that even hacks entering the city were stopped and
searched for provisions of meat or bread--a search which was usually
conducted in a cursory and courteous manner.
In my sister Paula’s journal I have an almost daily account of that
period, with frequent reference to political events, but it is not my
task to write a history of the Berlin revolution.
Those of my sister’s records which refer to the revolutionary period
begin with a mention of the so-called potato revolution, which occurred
ten days after the opening of the General Assembly, though it had no
connection with it.
[Excessive prices had been asked for a peck of potatoes, which
enraged the purchasers, who threw them into the gutter and laid
hands on some of the market-women. The assembled crowd then
plundered some bakers’ and butchers’ shops, and was finally
dispersed by the military. A certain Herr Winckler is said
to have lost his life. Many windows were broken, etc.]
This riot took place on the 21st of April, and on the 2d of May Paula
alludes to a performance at the opera-house, which Ludo and I attended.
It was the last appearance of Fran Viardot Garcia as Iphigenia, but I
fear Paula is right in saying that the great singer did her best for
an ungrateful public, for the attention of the audience was directed
chiefly to the king and queen. The latter appeared in the theatre for
the first time since a severe illness, the enthusiasm was great, and
there was no end to the cries of “Long live the king and queen!” which
were repeated between every act.
I relate the circumstance to show with what a devoted and faithful
affection the people of Berlin still clung to the royal pair. On the
other hand, their regard for the Prince of Prussia, afterward Emperor
William, was already shaken. He who alone remained firm when all about
the king were wavering, was regarded as the embodiment of military rule,
against which a violent opposition was rising.
Our mother was even then devoted to him with a reverence which bordered
upon affection, and we children with her.
We felt more familiar with him, too; than with any other members of the
ruling house, for Fraulein Lamperi, who was in a measure like one of our
own family, was always relating the most attractive stories about him
and his noble spouse, whose waiting-woman she had been.
Of Frederick William IV it was generally jokes that were told, some of
them very witty ones. We once came in contact with him in a singular
way.
Our old cook, Frau Marx, who called herself “the Marxen,” was nearly
blind, and wished to enter an institution, for which it was necessary to
have his Majesty’s consent. Many years before, when she was living in
a count’s family, she had taught the king, as a young prince, to churn,
and on the strength of this a petition was drawn up for her by my
family. This she handed into the king’s carriage, in the palace
court-yard, and to his question who she was, she replied, “Why, I’m old
Marxen, and your Majesty is my last retreat.” This speech was repeated
to my mother by the adjutant who came to inquire about the petitioner,
and he assured her that his Majesty had been greatly amused by the old
woman’s singular choice of words, and had repeated it several times to
persons about him. Her wish was fulfilled at once.
The memory of those March days of 1848 is impressed on my soul in
ineffaceable characters. More beautiful weather I never knew. It seemed
as if May had taken the place of its stormy predecessor. From the 13th
the sun shone constantly from a cloudless sky, and on the 18th the
fruit-trees in our garden were in full bloom. Whoever was not kept in
the house by duty or sickness was eager to be out. The public gardens
were filled by afternoon, and whoever wanted to address the people had
no need to call an audience together. Whatever rancour, indignation,
discontent, and sorrow had lurked under ground now came forth, and
the buds of longing and joyful expectation hourly unfolded in greater
strength and fuller bloom.
The news of the Paris revolution, whose confirmation had reached
Berlin in the last few days of February, had caused all this growth and
blossoming like sunshine and warm rain. There was no repressing it,
and the authorities felt daily more and more that their old measures of
restraint were failing.
The accounts from Paris were accompanied by report after report from
the rest of Germany, shaking the old structure of absolutism like the
repeated shocks of a battering-ram.
Freedom of the press was not yet granted, but tongues had begun to
move freely-indeed, often without any restraint. As early as the 7th of
March, and in bad weather, too, meetings began to be held in tents. As
soon as the fine spring days came we found great crowds listening to
bearded orators, who told them of the revolution in Paris and of the
addresses to the king--how they had passed hither and thither, and
how they had been received. They had all contained very much the same
demands--freedom of the press, representatives of the people to be
chosen by free election, all religious confessions to be placed on an
equal footing in the exercise of political rights, and representation of
the people in the German Confederacy.
These demands were discussed with fiery zeal, and the royal promise,
just given, of calling together the Assembly again and issuing a law
on the press, after the Confederate Diet should have been moved to a
similar measure, was condemned in strong terms as an insufficient and
half-way procedure--a payment on account, in order to gain time.
On the 15th the particulars of the Vienna revolution and Metternich’s
flight reached Berlin; and we, too, learned the news, and heard our
mother and her friends asking anxiously, “How will this end?”
Unspeakable excitement had taken possession of young and old--at home,
in the street, and at school--for blood had already flowed in the
city. On the 13th, cavalry had dispersed a crowd in the vicinity of
the palace, and the same thing was repeated on the two following days.
Fortunately, few were injured; but rumour, ever ready to increase and
enhance the horrible desire of many fanatics to stir up the fire of
discontent, had conspired to make wounded men dead ones, and slight
injuries severe.
These exaggerations ran through the city, arousing indignation; and the
correspondents of foreign papers, knowing that readers often like best
what is most incredible, had sent the accounts to the provinces and
foreign countries.
But blood had flowed. Hatred of the soldiery, to which, however, some
among the insurgents had once been proud to belong, grew with fateful
rapidity, and was still further inflamed by those who saw in the
military the brazen wall that stood between them and the fulfillment of
their most ardent wishes.
A spark might spring the open and overcharged mine into the air; an
ill-chosen or misunderstood expression, a thoughtless act, might bring
about an explosion.
The greatest danger threatened from fresh conflicts between the army and
the people, and it was to the fear of this that various young or
elderly gentlemen owed their office of going about wherever a crowd
was assembled and urging the populace to keep the peace. They were
distinguished by a white band around the arm bearing the words,
“Commissioner of Protection,” and a white rod a foot and a half
long designed to awaken the respect accorded by the English to their
constables. We recognized many well-known men; but the Berlin populace,
called by Goethe insolent, is not easily impressed, and we saw
constables surrounded by street boys like an owl with a train of little
birds fluttering teasingly around it. Even grown persons called them
nicknames and jeered at their sticks, which they styled “cues” and
“tooth-picks.”
A large number of students, too, had expressed their readiness to join
this protective commission, either as constables or deputies, and had
received the wand and band at the City Hall.
How painful the exercise of their vocation was made to them it would be
difficult to describe. News from Austria and South Germany, where the
people’s cause seemed to be advancing with giant strides to the desired
goal, hourly increased the offensive strength of the excited populace.
On the afternoon of the 16th the Potsdam Platz, only a few hundred steps
from our house, was filled with shouting and listening throngs, crowded
around the sculptor Streichenberg, his blond-bearded friend, and other
violently gesticulating leaders. This multitude received constant
reenforcements from the city and through Bellevuestrasse. On the
left, at the end of the beautiful street with its rows of budding
chestnut-trees, lay “Kemperhof,” a pleasure resort where we had often
listened to the music of a band clad in green hunting costume. Many must
have come thence, for I find that on the 16th an assemblage was held
there from which grew the far more important one on the morning of the
17th, with its decisive conclusion in Kopenickerstrasse.
At this meeting, on the afternoon of the 17th, it was decided to set
on foot a peaceful manifestation of the wishes of the people, and a new
address to the king was drawn up. It was settled that on the 28th of
March, at two o’clock, thousands of citizens with the badges of the
protective commission should appear before the palace and send in a
deputation to his Majesty with a document which should clearly convey
the principal requirements of the people.
What they were to represent to the king as urgently necessary was: The
withdrawal of the military force, the organization of an armed citizen
guard, the granting of an unconditional freedom of the press, which had
been promised for a lifetime, and the calling of the General Assembly. I
shall return to the address later.