When we rose the next morning the firing was over. It was said that all
was quiet, and we had the well-known proclamation, “To my dear people
of Berlin.” The horrors of the past night appeared, indeed, to have been
the result of an unfortunate mistake. The king himself explained that
the two shots by the troops, which had been taken for the signal to
attack the people, were from muskets which had gone off by some unlucky
accident--“thank God, without injuring any one.”
He closed with the words: “Listen to the paternal voice of your king,
residents of my loyal and beautiful Berlin; forget what has occurred,
as I will forget it with all my heart, for the sake of the great future
which, by the blessing of God, will dawn for Prussia, and, through
Prussia, for Germany. Your affectionate queen and faithful mother, who
is very ill, joins her heart-felt and tearful entreaties to mine.”
The king also pledged his royal word that the troops would be withdrawn
as soon as the Berlin people were ready for peace and removed the
barricades.
So peace seemed restored, for there had been no fighting for hours, and
we heard that the troops were already withdrawing.
Our departure for Dresden was out of the question--railway communication
had ceased. The bells which had sounded the tocsin all night with their
brazen tongues seemed, after such furious exertion, to have no strength
for summoning worshippers to church. All the houses of God were closed
that Sunday.
Our longing to get out of doors grew to impatience, which was destined
to be satisfied, for our mother had a violent headache, and we were sent
to get her usual medicine. We reached the Ring pharmacy--a little house
in the Potsdam Platz occupied by the well-known writer, Max Ring--in a
very few minutes. We performed our errand with the utmost care, gave the
medicine to the cook on our return, and hurried off into the city.
When we had left the Mauer-and Friedrichstrasse behind, our hearts
began to beat faster, and what we saw on the rest of the way through the
longest street of Berlin as far as the Linden was of such a nature that
the mere thought of it awakens in me to this day an ardent hope that I
may never witness such sights again.
Rage, hate, and destruction had celebrated the maddest orgies on our
path, and Death, with passionate vehemence, had swung his sharpest
scythe. Wild savagery and merciless destruction had blended with the
shrewdest deliberation and skillful knowledge in constructing the
bars which the German, avoiding his own good familiar word, called
barricades. An elderly gentleman who was explaining their construction,
pointed out to us the ingenuity with which some of the barricades had
been strengthened for defence on the one side, and left comparatively
weak on the other. Every trench dug where the paving was torn up had its
object, and each heap of stones its particular design.
But the ordinary spectator needed a guide to recognize this. At the
first sight, his attention was claimed by the confused medley and the
many heart-rending signs of the horrors practised by man on man.
Here was a pool of blood, there a bearded corpse; here a blood-stained
weapon, there another blackened with powder. Like a caldron where a
witch mixes all manner of strange things for a philter, each barricade
consisted of every sort of rubbish, together with objects originally
useful. All kinds of overturned vehicles, from an omnibus to a
perambulator, from a carriage to a hand-cart, were everywhere to be
found. Wardrobes, commodes, chairs, boards, laths, bookshelves, bath
tubs and washtubs, iron and wooden pipes, were piled together, and
the interstices filled with sacks of straw and rags, mattresses, and
carriage cushions. Whence came the planks yonder, if they were not
stripped from the floor of some room? Children and promenaders had sat
only yesterday on those benches and, the night before that, oil lamps
or gas flames had burned on those lamp-posts. The sign-boards on top had
invited customers into shop or inn, and the roll of carpet beneath was
perhaps to have covered some floor to-morrow. Oleander shrubs, which I
was to see later in rocky vales of Greece or Algeria, had possibly
been put out here only the day before into the spring sunshine. The
warehouses of the capital no doubt contained everything that could be
needed, no matter how or when, but Berlin seemed to me too small for all
the trash that was dragged out of the houses in that March night.
Bloody and terrible pictures rose before our minds, and perhaps there
was no need of Assessor Geppert’s calling to us sternly, “Off home with
you, boys!” to turn our feet in that direction.
So home we ran, but stopped once, for at a fountain, either in
Leipzigstrasse or Potsdamstrasse, a ball from the artillery had struck
in the wood-work, and around it a firm hand had written with chalk in
a semicircle, “TO MY DEAR PEOPLE OF BERLIN.” On the lower part of the
fountain the king’s proclamation to the citizens, with the same heading,
was posted up.
What a criticism upon it!
The address set forth that a band of miscreants, principally foreigners,
had by patent falsehood turned the affair in the Schlossplatz to the
furtherance of their evil designs, and filled the heated minds of his
dear and faithful people of Berlin with thoughts of vengeance for
blood which was supposed to have been spilled. Thus they had become the
abominable authors of actual bloodshed.
The king really believed in this “band of miscreants,” and attributed
the revolution, which he called a ‘coup monte’ (premeditated affair), to
those wretches. His letters to Bunsen are proof of it.
Among those who read his address, “To my Dear People of Berlin,” there
were many who were wiser. There had really been no need of foreign
agitators to make them take up arms.
On the morning of the 18th their rejoicing and cheering came from full
hearts, but when they saw or learned that the crowd had been fired into
on the Schlossplatz, their already heated blood boiled over; the people
so long cheated of their rights, who had been put off when half the rest
of Germany had their demands fulfilled, could bear it no longer.
I must remind myself again that I am not writing a history of the Berlin
revolution. Nor would my own youthful impressions justify me in forming
an independent opinion as to the motives of that remarkable and somewhat
incomprehensible event; but, with the assistance of friends more
intimately acquainted with the circumstances, I have of late obtained
a not wholly superficial knowledge of them, which, with my own
recollections, leads me to adopt the opinion of Heinrich von Sybel
concerning the much discussed and still unanswered question, whether the
Berlin revolution was the result of a long-prepared conspiracy or the
spontaneous outburst of enthusiasm for liberty among the citizens. He
says: “Both these views are equally well founded, for only the united
effort of the two forces could insure a possibility of victory.”
Here again the great historian has found the true solution. It was for
the interest of the Poles, the French, and other revolutionary spirits,
to bring about a bloody conflict in Berlin, and there were many of them
in the capital that spring, among whom must have been men who knew how
to build barricades and organize revolts; and it can hardly be doubted
that, at the decisive moment, they tried to enhance the vengefulness and
combativeness of the people by strong drink and fiery speeches, perhaps,
in regard to the dregs of the populace, by money. There is weighty
evidence in support of this. But it is still more certain--and, though
I was but eleven years old and brought up in a loyal atmosphere, I,
too, felt and experienced it--that before the 18th of March the general
discontent was at the highest point. There was no controlling it.
If the chief of police, Von Minutoli, asserts that he knew beforehand
the hour when the revolution was to break out, this is no special
evidence of foresight; for the first threat the citizens had ventured to
utter against the king was in the address drawn up at the sitting of the
popular assembly in Kopenickstrasse, and couched in the following terms
“If this is granted us, and granted at once, then we will guarantee a
genuine peace.” To finish the proposition with a statement of what would
occur in the opposite case, was left to his Majesty; the assembly had
simply decided that the “peaceful demonstration of the wishes of the
people” should take place on the 18th, at two o’clock, several thousand
citizens taking part in it. While the address was handed in, and until
the reply was received, the ambassadors of the people were to remain
quietly assembled in the Schlossplatz. What was to happen in case the
above-mentioned demands were not granted is nowhere set down, but there
is little doubt that many of those present intended to trust to the
fortune of arms. The address contained an ultimatum, and Brass is right
in calling it, and the meeting in which it originated, the starting
point of the revolution. Whoever had considered the matter attentively
might easily say, “On the 18th, at two o’clock, it will be decided
either so or so.” The king had come to his determination earlier than
that. Sybel puts it beyond question that he had been forced to it by the
situation in Europe, not by threats or the compulsion of a conflict in
the streets. Nevertheless it came to a street fight, for the enemies
of order were skillful enough to start a fresh conflagration with the
charred beams of the house whose fire had been put out. But all their
efforts would have been in vain had not the conduct of the Government,
and the events of the last few days, paved the way.
Among my mother’s conservative friends, and in her own mind, there was a
strong belief that the fighting in Berlin had broken out in consequence
of long-continued stirring of the people by foreign agitators; but I can
affirm that in my later life, before I began to reflect particularly
on the subject, it always seemed to me, when I recalled the time which
preceded the 18th of March, as if existing circumstances must have led
to the expectation of an outbreak at any moment.
It is difficult in these days to form an idea of the sharp divisions
which succeeded the night of the revolution in Berlin, just as one can
hardly conceive now, even in court circles, of the whole extent and
enthusiastic strength of the sentiment of Prussian loyalty at that time.
These opposite principles separated friends, estranged families long
united in love, and made themselves felt even in the Schmidt school
during the short time that we continued to go there.
Our bold excursion over the barricades was unpunished, so far as I
remember. Perhaps it was not even noticed, for our mother, in spite of
her violent headache, had to make preparations for the illumination of
our tolerably long row of windows. Not to have lighted the house would
have imperilled the window-panes. To my regret, we were not allowed to
see the illumination. I have since thought it a peculiarly amusing trick
of fate that the palace of the Russian embassy--the property of the
autocrat Nicholas--was obliged to celebrate with a brilliant display of
lights the movement for liberty in a sister country.
On Monday, the 20th, we were sent to school, but it was closed, and we
took advantage of the circumstance to get into the heart of the city.
The appearance of the town-hall peppered with balls I have never
forgotten. Most of the barricades were cleared away; instead, there were
singular inscriptions in chalk on the doors of various public buildings.
At the beginning of Leipzigstrasse, at the main entrance of the
Ministry of War, we read the words, “National Property.” Elsewhere, and
particularly at the palace of the Prince of Prussia, was “Property of
the Citizens” or “Property of the entire Nation.”
An excited throng had gathered in front of the plain and simple palace
to whose high ground-floor windows troops of loyal and grateful Germans
have often looked up with love and admiration to see the beloved
countenance of the grey-haired imperial hero. That day we stood among
the crowd and listened to the speech of a student, who addressed us
from the great balcony amid a storm of applause. Whether it was the same
honest fellow who besought the people to desist from their design of
burning the prince’s palace because the library would be imperilled,
I do not know, but the answer, “Leave the poor boys their books,” is
authentic.
And it is also true, unhappily, that it was difficult to save from
destruction the house of the man whose Hohenzollern blood asserted
itself justly against the weakness of his royal brother. Through those
days of terror he was what he always had been and would remain, an
upright man and soldier, in the highest and noblest meaning of the
words.
What we saw and heard in the palace and its courts, swarming with
citizens and students, was so low and revolting that I dislike to think
of it.
Some of the lifeless heroes were just being borne past on litters,
greeted by the wine-flushed faces of armed students and citizens. The
teachers who had overtaken us on the way recognized among them college
friends who praised the delicious vintage supplied by the palace guards.
My brother and I were also fated to see Frederick William IV. ride down
the Behrenstrasse and the Unter den Linden with a large black, red, and
yellow band around his arm.
The burial of those who had fallen during the night of the revolution
was one of the most imposing ceremonies ever witnessed in Berlin. We
boys were permitted to look at it only for a short time, yet the whole
impression of the procession, which we really ought not to have been
allowed to see, has lingered in my memory.
It was wonderful weather, as warm as summer, and the vast escort which
accompanied the two hundred coffins of the champions of freedom to
their last resting-place seemed endless. We were forbidden to go on the
platform in front of the Neuenkirche where they were placed, but the
spectacle must have produced a strange yet deeply pathetic impression.
Pastor Sydow, who represented the Protestant clergy as the Prelate
Roland did the Catholics, and the Rabbi Dr. Sachs the Jews, afterwards
told me that the multitude of coffins, adorned with the rarest flowers
and lavishly draped with black, presented an image of mournful splendour
never to be forgotten, and I can easily believe it.
This funeral remains in my memory as an endless line of coffins and
black-garbed men with banners and hats bound with crape, bearing
flowers, emblems of guilds, and trade symbols. Mounted standard bearers,
gentlemen in robes--the professors of the university--and students in
holiday attire, mingled in the motley yet solemn train.
How many tears were shed over those coffins which contained the earthly
remains of many a young life once rich in hopes and glowing with warm
enthusiasm, many a quiet heart which had throbbed joyously for man’s
noblest possession! The interment in the Friedrichshain, where four
hundred singers raised their voices, and a band of music composed of the
hautboy players of many regiments poured mighty volumes of sound
over the open graves of the dead, must have been alike dignified and
majestic.
But the opposition between the contending parties was still too great,
and the demand upon the king to salute the dead had aroused such anger
in my mother’s circle, that she kept aloof from these magnificent and
in themselves perfectly justifiable funeral obsequies. It seemed almost
unendurable that the king had constrained himself to stand on the
balcony of the palace with his head bared, holding his helmet in his
hand, while the procession passed.
The effect of this act upon the loyal citizens of Berlin can scarcely be
described. I have seen men--even our humble Kurschner--weep during the
account of it by eye-witnesses.
Whoever knew Frederick William IV. also knew that neither genuine
reconciliation nor respect for the fallen champions of liberty induced
him to show this outward token of respect, which was to him the deepest
humiliation.
The insincerity of the sovereign’s agreement with the ideas, events, and
men of his day was evident in the reaction which appeared only too
soon. His conviction showed itself under different forms, but remained
unchanged, both in political and religious affairs.
During the interval life had assumed a new aspect. The minority had
become the majority, and many a son of a strictly conservative man was
forbidden to oppose the “red.” Only no one needed to conceal his loyalty
to the king, for at that time the democrats still shared it. A good word
for the Prince of Prussia, on the contrary, inevitably led to a brawl,
but we did not shrink from it, and, thank Heaven, we were among the
strongest boys.
This intrusion of politics into the school-room and the whole tense life
of the capital was extremely undesirable, and, if continued, could not
fail to have an injurious influence upon immature lads; so my mother
hastily decided that, instead of waiting until the next year, we should
go to Keilhau at once.
She has often said that this was the most difficult resolve of her life,
but it was also one of the best, since it removed us from the motley,
confusing impressions of the city, and the petting we received at home,
and transferred us to the surroundings most suitable for boys of our
age.
The first of the greater divisions of my life closes with the Easter
which follows the Berlin revolution of March, 1848.
Not until I attained years of maturity did I perceive that these
conflicts, which, long after, I heard execrated in certain quarters as a
blot upon Prussian history, rather deserved the warmest gratitude of
the nation. During those beautiful spring days, no matter by what
hands--among them were the noblest and purest--were sown the seeds of
the dignity and freedom of public life which we now enjoy.
The words “March conquests” have been uttered by jeering lips, but
I think at the present time there are few among the more far-sighted
conservatives who would like to dispense with them. To me and, thank
Heaven, to the majority of Germans, life deprived of them would seem
unendurable. My mother afterward learned to share this opinion, though,
like ourselves, in whose hearts she early implanted it, she retained to
her last hour her loyalty to the king.