VOLUME XII
GUSTAV FREYTAG
THEODOR FONTANE
[Illustration: FREDERICK THE GREAT PLAYING THE FLUTE
_From the Painting by Adolph von Menzel_]
THE GERMAN CLASSICS
OF
THE NINETEENTH AND
TWENTIETH CENTURY
Masterpieces of German Literature
TRANSLATED INTO ENGLISH
EDITOR-IN-CHIEF
KUNO FRANCKE, PH.D., LL.D., LITT.D.
Professor of the History of German Culture,
Emeritus, and Honorary Curator of the Germanic Museum,
Harvard University
ASSISTANT EDITOR-IN-CHIEF
WILLIAM GUILD HOWARD, A.M.
Professor of German, Harvard University
In Twenty Volumes Illustrated
ALBANY, N.Y.
J.B. LYON COMPANY
PUBLISHERS
Copyright 1914
CONTRIBUTORS AND TRANSLATORS
VOLUME XII
Special Writers
ERNEST F. HENDERSON, Ph.D., L.H.D., Author of _The History of Germany
in the Middle Ages; Short History of Germany_, etc.: The Life of
Gustav Freytag.
WILLIAM A. COOPER, A.M., Associate Professor of German, Leland
Stanford Junior University: The Life of Theodor Fontane.
Translators
ERNEST F. HENDERSON, Ph.D., L.H.D., Author of _The History of Germany
in the Middle Ages; Short History of Germany_, etc.: The Journalists.
WILLIAM A. COOPER, A.M., Associate Professor of German, Leland
Stanford Junior University: Effi Briest; Extracts from "My Childhood
Days."
E.H. BABBITT, A.B., Assistant Professor of German, Tufts College:
Doctor Luther; Frederick the Great.
MARGARETE MÜNSTERBERG:
Sir Ribbeck of Ribbeck; The Bridge by the Tay.
CONTENTS OF VOLUME XII
GUSTAV FREYTAG
The Life of Gustav Freytag. By Ernest F. Henderson
The Journalists. Translated by Ernest F. Henderson
Doctor Luther. Translated by E.H. Babbitt
Frederick the Great. Translated by E.H. Babbitt
THEODOR FONTANE
The Life of Theodor Fontane. By William A. Cooper
Effi Briest. Translated by William A. Cooper
Extracts from "My Childhood Days." Translated by William A. Cooper
Sir Ribbeck of Ribbeck. Translated by Margarete Münsterberg
The Bridge by the Tay. Translated by Margarete Münsterberg
ILLUSTRATIONS--VOLUME XII
Frederick the Great Playing the Flute.
By Adolph von Menzel. _Frontispiece_
Gustav Freytag. By Stauffer-Bern
At the Concert. By Adolph von Menzel
Nature Enthusiasts. By Adolph von Menzel
On the Terrace. By Adolph von Menzel
In the Beergarden. By Adolph von Menzel
Lunch Buffet at Kissingen. By Adolph von Menzel
Luther Monument at Worms. By Ernst Rietschel
Frederick William I Inspecting a School. By Adolph von Menzel
Court Ball at Rheinsberg. By Adolph von Menzel
Frederick the Great and His Round Table. By Adolph von Menzel
Frederick the Great on a Pleasure Trip. By Adolph von Menzel
Theodor Fontane. By Hanns Fechner
Fontane Monument at Neu-Ruppin
A Sunday in the Garden of the Tuileries. By Adolph von Menzel
Divine Service in the Woods at Kösen. By Adolph von Menzel
A Street Scene at Paris. By Adolph von Menzel
Procession at Gastein. By Adolph von Menzel
High Altar at Salzburg. By Adolph von Menzel
Bathing Boys. By Adolph von Menzel
Frau von Schleinitz "At Home." By Adolph von Menzel
Supper at a Court Ball. By Adolph von Menzel
EDITOR'S NOTE
This volume, containing representative works by two of the foremost
realists of midcentury German literature, Freytag and Fontane, brings,
as an artistic parallel, selections from the work of the greatest
realist of midcentury German painting: Adolph von Menzel.
KUNO FRANCKE.
THE LIFE OF GUSTAV FREYTAG
By ERNEST F. HENDERSON, PH.D., L.H.D.
Author of _A History of Germany in the Middle Ages; A Short History of
Germany, etc._
It is difficult to assign to Gustav Freytag his exact niche in the
hall of fame, because of his many-sidedness. He wrote one novel of
which the statement has been made by an eminent French critic that no
book in the German language, with the exception of the Bible, has
enjoyed in its day so wide a circulation; he wrote one comedy which
for years was more frequently played than any other on the German
stage; he wrote a series of historical sketches--_Pictures of the
German Past_ he calls them--which hold a unique place in German
literature, being as charming in style as they are sound in
scholarship. Add to these a work on the principles of dramatic
criticism that is referred to with respect by the very latest writers
on the subject, an important biography, a second very successful
novel, and a series of six historical romances that vary in interest,
indeed, but that are a noble monument to his own nation and that,
alone, would have made him famous.
As a novelist Freytag is often compared with Charles Dickens, largely
on account of the humor that so frequently breaks forth from his
pages. It is a different kind of humor, not so obstreperous, not so
exaggerated, but it helps to lighten the whole in much the same way.
One moment it is an incongruous simile, at another a bit of sly
satire; now infinitely small things are spoken of as though they were
great, and again we have the reverse.
It is in his famous comedy, _The Journalists_, which appeared in 1853,
that Freytag displays his humor to its best advantage. Some of the
situations themselves, without being farcical, are exceedingly
amusing, as when the Colonel, five minutes after declaiming against
the ambition of journalists and politicians, and enumerating the
different forms under which it is concealed, lets his own ambition run
away with him and is won by the very same arts he has just been
denouncing. Again, Bolz's capture of the wine-merchant Piepenbrink at
the ball given under the auspices of the rival party is very cleverly
described indeed. There is a difference of opinion as to whether or
not Bolz was inventing the whole dramatic story of his rescue by
Oldendorf, but there can be no difference of opinion as to the
comicality of the scene that follows, where, under the very eyes of
his rivals and with the consent of the husband, Bolz prepares to kiss
Mrs. Piepenbrink. The play abounds with curious little bits of satire,
quaint similes and unexpected exaggerations. "There is so much that
happens," says Bolz in his editorial capacity, "and so tremendously
much that does not happen, that an honest reporter should never be at
a loss for novelties." Playing dominoes with polar bears, teaching
seals the rudiments of journalism, waking up as an owl with tufts of
feathers for ears and a mouse in one's beak, are essentially
Freytagian conceptions; and no one else could so well have expressed
Bolz's indifference to further surprises--they may tell him if they
will that some one has left a hundred millions for the purpose of
painting all negroes white, or of making Africa four-cornered; but he,
Bolz, has reached a state of mind where he will accept as truth
anything and everything.
Freytag's greatest novel, entitled _Soll und Haben_ (the technical
commercial terms for "debit" and "credit"), appeared in 1856. _Dombey
and Son_ by Dickens had been published a few years before and is worth
our attention for a moment because of a similarity of theme in the two
works. In both, the hero is born of the people, but comes in contact
with the aristocracy not altogether to his own advantage; in both,
looming in the background of the story, is the great mercantile house
with its vast and mysterious transactions. The writer of this short
article does not hesitate to place _Debit and Credit_ far ahead of
_Dombey and Son_. That does not mean that there are not single
episodes, and occasionally a character, in _Dombey and Son_ that the
German author could never have achieved. But, considered as an
artistic whole, the English novel is so disjointed and uneven that the
interest often flags and almost dies, while many of the characters are
as grotesque and wooden as so many jumping-jacks. In Freytag's work,
on the other hand, the different parts are firmly knitted together; an
ethical purpose runs through the whole, and there is a careful
subordination of the individual characters to the general plan of the
whole structure. It is much the same contrast as that between an
old-fashioned Italian opera and a modern German tone-drama. In the one
case the effects are made through senseless repetition and through
_tours de force_ of the voice; in the other there is a steady
progression in dramatic intensity, link joining link without a gap.
But to say that _Debit and Credit_ is a finer book than _Dombey and
Son_ is not to claim that Freytag, all in all, is a greater novelist
than Dickens. The man of a single fine book would have to be
superlatively great to equal one who could show such fertility in
creation of characters or produce such masterpieces of description.
Dickens reaches heights of passion to which Freytag could never
aspire; in fact the latter's temperament strikes one as rather a cool
one. Even Spielhagen, far inferior to him in many regards, could
thrill where Freytag merely interests.
Freytag's _forte_ lay in fidelity of depiction, in the power to
ascertain and utilize essential facts. It would not be fair to say
that he had little imagination, for in the parts of _The Ancestors_
that have to do with remote times, times of which our whole knowledge
is gained from a few paragraphs in old chronicles and where the
scenes and incidents have to be invented, he is at his best. But one
of his great merits lies in his evident familiarity with the
localities mentioned in the pages as well as with the social
environment of his personages. The house of T.D. Schröter in _Debit
and Credit_ had its prototype in the house of Molinari in Breslau, and
at the Molinaris Freytag was a frequent visitor. Indeed in the company
of the head of the firm he even undertook just such a journey to the
Polish provinces in troubled times as he makes Anton take with
Schröter. Again, the life in the newspaper office, so amusingly
depicted in _The Journalists_, was out of the fulness of his own
experience as editor of a political sheet. A hundred little natural
touches thus add to the realism of the whole and make the figures, as
a German critic says, "stand out like marble statues against a hedge
of yew." The reproach has been made that many of Freytag's characters
are too much alike. He has distinct types which repeat themselves both
in the novels and in the plays. George Saalfeld in _Valentine_, for
instance, is strikingly like Bolz in _The Journalists_ or Fink in
_Debit and Credit_. Freytag's answer to such objections was that an
author, like any other artist, must work from models, which he is not
obliged constantly to change. The feeling for the solidarity of the
arts was very strong with him. He practically abandoned writing for
the stage just after achieving his most noted success and merely for
the reason that in poetic narration, as he called it, he saw the
possibility of being still more dramatic. He felt hampered by the
restrictions which the necessarily limited length of an evening's
performance placed upon him, and wished more time and space for the
explanation of motives and the development of his plot. In his novel,
then, he clung to exactly the same arrangement of his theme as in his
drama--its initial presentation, the intensification of the interest,
the climax, the revulsion, the catastrophe. Again, in the matter of
contrast he deliberately followed the lead of the painter who knows
which colors are complementary and also which ones will clash.
[Illustration: GUSTAV FREYTAG. STAUFFER-BERN]
What, now, are some of the special qualities that have made
Freytag's literary work so enduring, so dear to the Teuton heart, so
successful in every sense of the word? For one thing, there are a
clearness, conciseness and elegance of style, joined to a sort of
musical rhythm, that hold one captive from the beginning. So evident
is his meaning in every sentence that his pages suffer less by
translation than is the case with almost any other author.
Freytag's highly polished sentences seem perfectly spontaneous, though
we know that he went through a long period of rigid training before
achieving success. "For five years," he himself writes, "I had pursued
the secret of dramatic style; like the child in the fairy-tale I had
sought it from the Sun, the Moon, and the Stars. At length I had found
it: my soul could create securely and comfortably after the manner
which the stage itself demanded." He had found it, we are given to
understand, in part through the study of the French dramatists of his
own day of whom Scribe was one just then in vogue. From them, says a
critic, he learned "lightness of touch, brevity, conciseness,
directness, the use of little traits as a means of giving insight into
character, different ways of keeping the interest at the proper point
of tension, and a thousand little devices for clearing the stage of
superfluous figures or making needed ones appear at the crucial
moment." Among his tricks of style, if we may call them so, are
inversion and elision; by the one he puts the emphasis just where he
wishes, by the other he hastens the action without sacrificing the
meaning. Another of his weapons is contrast--grave and gay, high and
low succeed each other rapidly, while vice and virtue follow suit.
No writer ever trained himself for his work more consciously and
consistently. He experimented with each play, watched its effect on
his audiences, asked himself seriously whether their apparent want of
interest in this or that portion was due to some defect in his work or
to their own obtuseness. He had failures, but remarkably few, and they
did not discourage him; nor did momentary success in one field
prevent him from abandoning it for another in which he hoped to
accomplish greater things. He is his own severest critic, and in his
autobiography speaks of certain productions as worthless which are
only relatively wanting in merit.
Freytag's orderly treatment of his themes affords constant pleasure to
the reader. He proceeds as steadily toward his climax as the builder
does toward the highest point of his roof. He had learned much about
climaxes, so he tells us himself, from Walter Scott, who was the first
to see the importance of a great final or concluding effect.
We have touched as yet merely on externals. Elegance of style,
orderliness of arrangement, consecutiveness of thought alone would
never have given Freytag his place in German literature. All these had
first to be consecrated to the service of a great idea. That idea as
expressed in _Debit and Credit_ is that the hope of the German nation
rests in its steady commercial or working class. He shows the dignity,
yes, the poetry of labor. The nation had failed to secure the needed
political reforms, to the bitter disappointment of numerous patriots;
Freytag's mission was to teach that there were other things worth
while besides these constitutional liberties of which men had so long
dreamed and for which they had so long struggled.
Incidentally he holds the decadent noble up to scorn, and shows how he
still clings to his old pretensions while their very basis is
crumbling under him. It is a new and active life that Freytag
advocates, one of toil and of routine, but one that in the end will
give the highest satisfaction. Such ideas were products of the
revolution of 1848, and they found the ground prepared for them by
that upheaval. Freytag, as Fichte had done in 1807 and 1808,
inaugurated a campaign of education which was to prove enormously
successful. A French critic writes of _Debit and Credit_ that it was
"the breviary in which a whole generation of Germans learned to read
and to think," while an English translator (three translations of the
book appeared in England in the same year) calls it the _Uncle Tom's
Cabin_ of the German workingman. A German critic is furious that a
work of such real literary merit should be compared to one so flat and
insipid as Mrs. Stowe's production; but he altogether misses the
point, which is the effect on the people of a spirited defense of
those who had hitherto had no advocate.
Freytag has been called an opportunist, but the term should not be
considered one of reproach. It certainly was opportune that his great
work appeared at the moment when it was most needed, a moment of
discouragement, of disgust at everything high and low. It brought its
smiling message and remained to cheer and comfort. _The Journalists_,
too, was opportune, for it called attention to a class of men whose
work was as important as it was unappreciated. Up to 1848, the year of
the revolution, the press had been under such strict censorship that
any frank discussion of public matters had been out of the question.
But since then distinguished writers, like Freytag himself, had taken
the helm. Even when not radical, they were dreaded by the
reactionaries, and even Freytag escaped arrest in Prussia only by
hastily becoming a court official of his friend the Duke of
Saxe-Coburg and Gotha--within whose domains he already owned an estate
and was in the habit of residing for a portion of each year--and thus
renouncing his Prussian citizenship. Even Freytag's _Pictures from the
German Past_ may be said to have been opportune. Already, for a
generation, the new school of scientific historians--the Rankes, the
Wattenbachs, the Waitzs, the Giesebrechts--had been piling up their
discoveries, and collating and publishing manuscripts describing the
results of their labors. They lived on too high a plane for the
ordinary reader. Freytag did not attempt to "popularize" them by cheap
methods. He served as an interpreter between the two extremes. He
chose a type of facts that would have seemed trivial to the great
pathfinders, worked them up with care from the sources, and by his
literary art made them more than acceptable to the world at large. In
these _Pictures from the German Past_, as in the six volumes of the
series of historical romances entitled _The Ancestors_, a patriotic
purpose was not wanting. Freytag wished to show his Germans that they
had a history to be proud of, a history whose continuity was unbroken;
the nation had been through great vicissitudes, but everything had
tended to prove that the German has an inexhaustible fund of reserve
force. Certain national traits, certain legal institutions, could be
followed back almost to the dawn of history, and it would be found
that the Germans of the first centuries of our era were not nearly so
barbarous as had been supposed.
And so with a wonderful talent for selecting typical and essential
facts and not overburdening his narrative with detail he leads us down
the ages. The hero of his introductory romance in _The Ancestors_ is a
Vandal chieftain who settles among the Thuringians at the time of the
great wandering of the nations--the hero of the last of the series is
a journalist of the nineteenth century. All are descendants of the one
family, and Freytag has a chance to develop some of his theories of
heredity. Not only can bodily aptitudes and mental peculiarities be
transmitted, but also the tendency to act in a given case much as the
ancestor would have done.
It cannot be denied that as Freytag proceeds with _The Ancestors_ the
tendency to instruct and inform becomes too marked. He had begun his
career in the world by lecturing on literature at the University of
Breslau, but had severed his connection with that institution because
he was not allowed to branch out into history. Possibly those who
opposed him were right and the two subjects are incapable of
amalgamation. Freytag in this, his last great work, revels in the
fulness of his knowledge of facts, but shows more of the thoroughness
of the scholar than of the imagination of the poet. The novels become
epitomes of the history of the time. No type of character may be
omitted. So popes and emperors, monks and missionaries, German
warriors and Roman warriors, minstrels and students, knights,
crusaders, colonists, landskechts, and mercenaries are dragged in and
made to do their part with all too evident fidelity to truth.
We owe much of our knowledge of Freytag's life to a charming
autobiography which served as a prefatory volume to his collected
works. Freytag lived to a ripe old age, dying in 1895 at the age of
seventy-nine. Both as a newspaper editor and as a member of parliament
(the former from 1848 to 1860, the latter for the four years from 1867
to 1871) he had shown his patriotism and his interest in public
affairs. Many of his numerous essays, written for the _Grenzboten_,
are little masterpieces and are to be found among his collected works
published in 1888. As a member of parliament, indeed, he showed no
marked ability and his name is associated with no important measure.
Not to conceal his shortcoming it must be said that Freytag, at the
time of the accession to the throne of the present head of the German
Empire, laid himself open to much censure by attacking the memory of
the dead Emperor Frederick who had always been his friend and patron.
In conclusion it may be said that no one claims for Freytag a place in
the front rank of literary geniuses. He is no Goethe, no Schiller, no
Dante, no Milton, no Shakespeare. He is not a pioneer, has not changed
the course of human thought. But yet he is an artist of whom his
country may well be proud, who has added to the happiness of hundreds
of thousands of Germans, and who only needs to be better understood to
be thoroughly enjoyed by foreigners.
England and America have much to learn from him--the value of long,
careful, and unremitting study; the advantage of being thoroughly
familiar with the scenes and types of character depicted; the charm of
an almost unequaled simplicity and directness. He possessed the rare
gift of being able to envelop every topic that he touched with an
atmosphere of elegance and distinction. His productions are not
ephemeral, but are of the kind that will endure.
* * * * *
_GUSTAV FREYTAG_
* * * * *
#THE JOURNALISTS#
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ
BERG, _retired Colonel_.
IDA, _his daughter_.
ADELAIDE RUNECK.
SENDEN, _landed proprietor_.
_
PROFESSOR OLDENDORF, _editor-in-chief_. |
|
CONRAD BOLZ, _editor_. |
|
BELLMAUS, _on the staff._. |
|
KÄMPE, _on the staff_. } of the newspaper
| _The Union_.
KÖRNER, _on the staff_. |
|
PRINTER HENNING, _owner_. |
|
MILLER, _factotum_. _|
_
BLUMENBERG, _editor_. |
} of the newspaper
SCHMOCK, _on the staff_. _| _Coriolanus_.
PIEPENBRINK, _wine merchant and voter_.
LOTTIE, _his wife_.
BERTHA, _their daughter_.
KLEINMICHEL _citizen and voter_.
FRITZ, _his son_.
JUDGE SCHWARZ.
_A foreign ballet-dancer._
KORB, _secretary for Adelaide's estate_.
CARL, _the Colonel's man-servant._
_A waiter._
_Club-guests._ _Deputations of citizens_.
_Place of action: A provincial capital._
THE JOURNALISTS[1] (1853)
TRANSLATED BY ERNEST F. HENDERSON, PH.D., L.H.D.
ACT I
SCENE I
_A summer parlor in the_ COLONEL'S _house. Handsome furnishings. In
the centre of rear wall an open door, behind it a verandah and garden;
on the sides of rear wall large windows. Right and left, doors; on the
right, well in front, a window. Tables, chairs, a small sofa_.
IDA _is sitting in front on the right reading a book. The_ COLONEL
_enters through centre door with an open box in his hand in which are
dahlias_.
COLONEL.
Here, Ida, are the new varieties of dahlias our gardener has grown.
You'll have to rack your brains to find names for them. Day after
tomorrow is the Horticultural Society meeting, when I am to exhibit
and christen them.
IDA.
This light-colored one here should be called the "Adelaide."
COLONEL.
Adelaide Buneck, of course. Your own name is out of the running, for
as a little dahlia you have long been known to the flower-trade.
IDA.
One shall be called after your favorite writer, "Boz."
COLONEL.
Splendid! And it must be a really fine one, this yellow one here with
violet points. And the third one--how shall we christen that?
IDA (_stretching out her hand entreatingly to her father_).
"Edward Oldendorf."
COLONEL.
What! The professor? The editor? Oh no, that will not do! It was bad
enough for him to take over the paper; but that he now has allowed
himself to be led by his party into running for Parliament--that I can
never forgive him.
IDA.
Here he comes himself.
COLONEL (_aside_).
It used to be a pleasure to me to hear his footstep; now I can hardly
keep from being rude when I see him.
_Enter_ OLDENDORF.
OLDENDORF.
Good morning, Colonel!
IDA (_with a friendly greeting_).
Good morning, Edward. Help me to admire the new dahlias that father
has grown.
COLONEL.
But do not trouble the professor. Such trifles no longer interest him;
he has bigger things in his head.
OLDENDORF.
At all events I have not lost my ability to enjoy what gives you
pleasure.
COLONEL (_grumbling to himself_).
You have not given me much proof of that. I fear you take pleasure in
doing the very things that vex me. You are doubtless quite busy now
with your election, Mr. Future Member of Parliament!
OLDENDORF.
You know, Colonel, that I myself have less than any one else to do
with it.
COLONEL.
Oh, I don't believe that! It is the usual custom in such elections, I
imagine, to pay court to influential persons and shake hands with the
voters, to make speeches, scatter promises, and do all the other
little devil's tricks.
OLDENDORF.
You yourself do not believe, Colonel, that I would do anything
discreditable?
COLONEL.
Not? I am not so sure, Oldendorf. Since you have turned journalist,
edit your _Union_ and daily reproach the State with its faulty
organization, you are no longer what you used to be.
OLDENDORF (_who up to this point has been conversing with_ IDA _about
the flowers, but now turns to the_ COLONEL).
Does what I now say or write conflict with my former views? It would
be hard to convince me of that. And still less can you have noticed
any change in my feelings or in my conduct toward you.
COLONEL (_obdurate_).
Well, I don't see what reason you would have for that. I am not going
to spoil my morning by quarreling. Ida may try to straighten things
out with you. I am going to my flowers. [_Takes the box and exit
toward the garden._]
OLDENDORF.
What has put your father in such a bad humor? Has something in the
newspaper vexed him again?
IDA.
I do not think so. But it annoys him that now in politics you again
find it necessary to advocate measures he detests and attack
institutions he reveres. (_Shyly._) Edward, is it really impossible
for you to withdraw from the election?
OLDENDORF.
It is impossible.
IDA.
I should then have you here, and father could regain his good humor;
for he would highly appreciate the sacrifice you were making for him,
and we could look forward to a future as peaceful as our past has
been.
OLDENDORF.
I know that, Ida, and I feel anything but pleasure at the prospect of
becoming member for this town; yet I cannot withdraw.
IDA (_turning away_).
Father is right. You have changed entirely since becoming editor of
the paper.
OLDENDORF.
Ida! You too! If this is going to cause discord between us I shall
indeed feel badly.
IDA.
Dear Edward! I am only grieving at losing you for so long.
OLDENDORF.
I am not yet elected. If I do become member and can have my way, I
will take you to the capital and never let you leave my side again.
IDA.
Ah, Edward, we can't think of that now! But do spare father.
OLDENDORF.
You know how much I stand from him; and I don't give up hope of his
becoming reconciled to me. The election once over, I will make another
appeal to his heart. I may wrest from him a favorable answer that will
mean our marriage.
IDA.
But do humor his little foibles. He is in the garden near his dahlia
bed; express your delight over the gay colors. If you go at it
skilfully enough perhaps he may still call one the "Edward Oldendorf."
We have been talking of it already. Come! [_Exeunt both._]
_Enter_ SENDEN, BLUMENBERG, CARL, SCHMOCK.
SENDEN (_entering_).
Is the Colonel alone?
CARL.
Professor Oldendorf is with him.
SENDEN.
Take in our names. [_Exit_ CARL.] This everlasting Oldendorf! I say,
Blumenberg, this connection of the old gentleman with the _Union_ must
stop. We cannot really call him one of us so long as the professor
frequents this house. We need the Colonel's influential personality.
BLUMENBERG.
It is the best-known house in town--the best society, good wine, and
art.
SENDEN.
I have my private reasons, too, for bringing the Colonel over to our
side. And everywhere the professor and his clique block our way.
BLUMENBERG.
The friendship shall cease. I promise you that it shall cease,
gradually, within the next few weeks. The first step has already been
taken. The gentlemen of the _Union_ have fallen into the trap.
SENDEN.
Into what trap?
BLUMENBERG.
The one I set for them in our paper. [_Turning upon_ SCHMOCK _who is
standing in the doorway._] Why do you stand here, Schmock? Can't you
wait at the gate?
SCHMOCK.
I went where you did. Why should I not stand here? I know the Colonel
as well as you do.
BLUMENBERG.
Don't be forward and don't be impudent. Go and wait at the gate, and
when I bring you the article, quickly run with it to the
press--understand?
SCHMOCK.
How can I help understanding when you croak like a raven?
[_EXIT_.]
[Illustration: _Permission F Bruckmann, A -G, Munich_
AT THE CONCERT ADOLPH VON MENZEL.]
BLUMENBERG (_to_ SENDEN).
He is a vulgar person, but he is useful! Now that we are alone,
listen! The other day when you brought me to call here, I begged the
Colonel just to write down his ideas on the questions of the day.
SENDEN.
Yes, alas! You piled on the flattery much too thick, but the old
gentleman did, nevertheless, at last take fire.
BLUMENBERG.
We begged him to read to us what he had written; he read it to us, we
praised it.
SENDEN.
It was very tiresome all the same.
BLUMENBERG.
I begged it of him for our paper.
SENDEN.
Yes, unfortunately! And now I must carry these bulky things to your
press. These articles are too heavy; they won't do the _Coriolanus_
any good.
BLUMENBERG.
Yet I printed them gladly. When a man has written for a paper he
becomes a good friend of that paper. The Colonel at once subscribed
for the _Coriolanus_, and, the next day, invited me to dinner.
SENDEN (_shrugging his shoulders_).
If that is all you gain by it!
BLUMENBERG.
It is merely the beginning.--The articles are clumsy; why should I not
say so?
SENDEN.
God knows they are!
BLUMENBERG.
And no one knows who the author is.
SENDEN.
That was the old gentleman's stipulation. I imagine he is afraid of
Oldendorf.
BLUMENBERG.
And precisely what I anticipated has come to pass. Oldendorf's paper
has today attacked these articles. Here is the latest issue of the
_Union_.
SENDEN.
Let me look at it. Well, that will be a fine mix-up! Is the attack
insulting?
BLUMENBERG.
The Colonel will be sure to consider it so. Don't you think that that
will help us against the professor?
SENDEN.
Upon my honor you are the slyest devil that ever crept out of an
inkstand!
BLUMENBERG.
Give it to me, the Colonel is coming. _Enter the_ COLONEL.
COLONEL.
Good morning, gentlemen!--[_aside_] and that Oldendorf should just
happen to be here! If only he will remain in the garden! Well, Mr.
Editor, how is the _Coriolanus_?
BLUMENBERG.
Our readers admire the new articles marked with an arrow. Is there any
chance that some more--
COLONEL (_drawing a manuscript from his pocket and looking round_).
I rely on your discretion. As a matter of fact I wanted to read it
through again on account of the structure of the sentences.
BLUMENBERG.
That can best be done in the proof-reading.
COLONEL.
I think it will do. Take it; but not a word--
BLUMENBERG.
You will let me send it at once to press. [_At the door._] Schmock!
[SCHMOCK _appears at the door, takes the manuscript and exit
quickly._]
SENDEN.
Blumenberg is keeping the sheet up to the mark, but, as he has
enemies, he has to fight hard to defend himself.
COLONEL (_amused_).
Enemies? Who does not have them? But journalists have nerves like
women. Everything excites you; every word that any one says against
you rouses your indignation! Oh come, you are sensitive people!
BLUMENBERG.
Possibly you are right, Colonel. But when one has opponents like this
_Union_--
COLONEL.
Oh, yes, the _Union_. It is a thorn in the flesh to both of you. There
is a great deal in it that I cannot praise; but, really when it comes
to sounding an alarm, attacking, and pitching in, it is cleverer than
your paper. The articles are witty; even when they are on the wrong
side one cannot help laughing at them.
BLUMENBERG.
Not always. In today's attack on the best articles the
_Coriolanus_ has published in a long time I see no wit at all.
COLONEL.
Attack on what articles?
BLUMENBERG.
On yours, Colonel. I must have the paper somewhere about
me.
[_Searches, and gives him a copy of the Union._]
COLONEL.
Oldendorf's paper attacks my articles! [_Reads._] "We regret
such lack of knowledge--"
BLUMENBERG.
And here--
COLONEL.
"It is an unpardonable piece of presumption"--What! I am
presumptuous?
BLUMENBERG.
And here--
COLONEL.
"One may be in doubt as to whether the naïveté of the
contributor is comical or tragical, but at all events he has no right
to join in the discussion"--[_Throwing down the paper._] Oh, that is
contemptible! It is a low trick!
_Enter_ IDA _and_ OLDENDORF _from the garden._
SENDEN (_aside_).
Now comes the cloud-burst!
COLONEL.
Professor, your newspaper is making progress. To bad principles is now
added something else--baseness.
IDA (_frightened_).
Father!
OLDENDORF (_coming forward_).
Colonel, how can you justify this insulting expression?
COLONEL (_holding out the paper to him_).
Look here! That stands in your paper! In your paper, Oldendorf!
OLDENDORF.
The tone of the attack is not quite as calm as I could have wished--
COLONEL.
Not quite so calm? Not really?
OLDENDORF.
In substance the attack is justified.
COLONEL.
Sir! You dare say that to me!
IDA.
Father!
OLDENDORF.
Colonel, I do not comprehend this attitude, and I beg you to consider
that we are speaking before witnesses.
COLONEL.
Do not ask for any consideration. It would have been your place to
show consideration for the man whose friendship you are otherwise so
ready to claim.
OLDENDORF.
But, first of all, tell me frankly what is your own connection with
the articles attacked in the _Coriolanus_?
COLONEL.
A very chance connection, too insignificant in your eyes to deserve
your regard. The articles are by me!
IDA.
Heavens!
OLDENDORF (_vehemently_).
By you? Articles in the paper of this gentleman?
IDA (_entreating him_).
Edward!
OLDENDORF (_more calmly_).
The _Union_ has attacked not you but an unknown person, who to us was
merely a partisan of this gentleman. You would have spared us both
this painful scene had you not concealed from me the fact that you are
a correspondent of the _Coriolanus_.
COLONEL.
You will have to stand my continuing not to make you a confidant of my
actions. You have here given me a printed proof of your friendship,
which does not make me long for other proofs.
OLDENDORF (_taking up his hat_).
I can only say that I deeply regret the occurrence, but do not feel
myself in the least to blame. I hope, Colonel, that, when you think
the matter over calmly, you will come to the same conclusion. Good-by,
Miss Ida. Good day to you.
[_Exit as far as centre door._]
IDA (_entreating_).
Father, don't let him leave us that way!
COLONEL.
It is better than to have him stay.
_Enter_ ADELAIDE.
ADELAIDE (_entering in elegant traveling costume, meets_ OLDENDORF _at
the door_).
Not so fast, Professor!
[OLDENDORF _kisses her hand and leaves._]
IDA. }(_together_ Adelaide! [_Falls into her arms._]).
COLONEL. } Adelaide! And at such a moment!
ADELAIDE (_holding_ IDA _fast and stretching out her hand to the_
COLONEL).
Shake hands with your compatriot. Aunt sends love, and Rosenau Manor,
in its brown autumn dress, presents its humble compliments. The
fields lie bare, and in the garden the withered leaves dance with the
wind.--Ah, Mr. von Senden!
COLONEL (_introducing_).
Mr. Blumenberg, the editor.
SENDEN.
We are delighted to welcome our zealous agriculturist to the city.
ADELAIDE.
And we should have been pleased occasionally to meet our neighbor in
the country.
COLONEL.
He has a great deal to do here. He is a great politician, and works
hard for the good cause.
ADELAIDE.
Yes, indeed, we read of his doings in the newspaper. I drove through
your fields yesterday. Your potatoes are not all in yet. Your steward
didn't get through with the work.
SENDEN.
You Rosenau people are privileged to get through a week earlier than
any one else.
ADELAIDE.
On the other hand, we have nothing to do but to farm. (_Amicably._)
The neighbors send greetings.
SENDEN.
Thank you. We must relinquish you now to friends who have more claim
on you than we have. But will you not receive me in the course of the
day so that I can ask for the news from home? [ADELAIDE _inclines her
head._]
SENDEN.
Good-by, Colonel. (_To_ IDA.) My respectful compliments, Miss Berg.
[_Exit together with_ BLUMENBERG.]
IDA (_embracing_ ADELAIDE).
I have you at last. Now everything will be all right!
ADELAIDE.
What is to be all right? Is anything not all right? Back there some
one passed me more quickly than usual, and here I see glistening eyes
and a furrowed brow. [_Kisses her on the eyes._] They shall not ruin
your pretty eyes. And you, honored friend, turn a more friendly
countenance to me.
COLONEL.
You must stay with us all winter; it will be the first you have given
us in a long time; we shall try to deserve such a favor.
ADELAIDE (_seriously_).
It is the first one since my father's death that I have cared to
mingle with the world again. Besides, I have business that calls me
here. You know I came of age this summer, and my legal friend, Judge
Schwarz, requires my presence. Listen, Ida, the servants are
unpacking, go and see that things are properly put away. (_Aside._)
And put a damp cloth over your eyes for people can see that you have
been crying. [_Exit_ IDA _to the right._ ADELAIDE _quickly goes up to
the_ COLONEL.] What is the matter with Ida and the professor?
COLONEL.
That would be a long story. I shall not spoil my pleasure with it now.
We men are at odds; our views are too opposed.
ADELAIDE.
But were not your views opposed before this, too? And yet you were on
such good terms with Oldendorf!
COLONEL.
They were not so extremely opposed as now.
ADELAIDE.
And which of you has changed his views?
COLONEL.
H'm! Why, he, of course. He is led astray in great part by his evil
companions. There are some men, journalists on his paper, and
especially there is a certain Bolz.
ADELAIDE (_aside_).
What's this I hear?
COLONEL.
But probably you know him yourself. Why, he comes from your
neighborhood.
ADELAIDE.
He is a Rosenau boy.
COLONEL.
I remember. Your father, the good old general, could not endure him.
ADELAIDE.
At least he sometimes said so.
COLONEL.
Since then this Bolz has become queer. His mode of life is said to be
irregular, and I fear his morals are pretty loose. He is Oldendorf's
evil genius.
ADELAIDE.
That would be a pity!--No, I do not believe it!
COLONEL. What do you not believe, Adelaide?
ADELAIDE (_smiling_).
I do not believe in evil geniuses. What has gone wrong between you and
Oldendorf can be set right again. Enemies today, friends
tomorrow--that is the way in politics; but Ida's feelings will not
change so quickly. Colonel, I have brought with me a beautiful design
for a dress. That new dress I mean to wear this winter as bridesmaid.
COLONEL.
No chance of it! You can't catch me that way, girl. I'll carry the war
into the enemy's country. Why do you drive other people to the altar
and let your own whole neighborhood joke you about being the Sleeping
Beauty and the virgin farmer?
ADELAIDE (_laughing_).
Well, so they do.
COLONEL.
The richest heiress in the whole district! Courted by a host of
adorers, yet so firmly intrenched against all sentiment; no one can
comprehend it.
ADELAIDE.
My dear Colonel, if our young gentlemen were as lovable as certain
older ones--but, alas! they are not.
COLONEL.
You shan't escape me. We shall hold you fast in town, until we find
one among our young men whom you will deem worthy to be enrolled under
your command. For whoever be your chosen husband, he will have the
same experience I have had--namely, that, first or last, he will have
to do your bidding.
ADELAIDE (_quickly_).
Will you do my bidding with regard to Ida and the professor? Now I
have you!
COLONEL.
Will you do me the favor of choosing your husband this winter while
you are with us? Yes? Now I have _you_!
ADELAIDE.
It's a bargain! Shake hands! [_Holds out her hand to him._]
COLONEL (_puts his hand in hers, laughing_).
Well, you're outwitted.
[_Exit through centre door._]
ADELAIDE (_alone_).
I don't think I am. What, Mr. Conrad Bolz! Is that your reputation
among people! You live an irregular life? You have loose morals? You
are an evil genius?--
_Enter_ KORB.
KORB (_through the centre door with a package_).
Where shall I put the account-books and the papers, Miss Adelaide?
ADELAIDE.
In my apartment. Tell me, dear Korb, did you find your room here in
order?
KORB.
In the finest order. The servant has given me two wax candles; it is
pure extravagance.
ADELAIDE.
You need not touch a pen for me this whole day. I want you to see the
town and look up your acquaintances. You have acquaintances here, I
suppose?
KORB.
Not very many. It is more than a year since I was last here.
ADELAIDE (_indifferently_).
But are there no people from Rosenau here?
KORB.
Among the soldiers are four from the village. There is John Lutz of
Schimmellutz--
ADELAIDE.
I know. Have you no other acquaintance here from the village?
KORB.
None at all, except him, of course--
ADELAIDE.
Except him? Whom do you mean?
KORB.
Why, our Mr. Conrad.
ADELAIDE.
Oh, to be sure! Are you not going to visit him? I thought you had
always been good friends.
KORB.
Going to visit him? That is the first place I am going to. I have been
looking forward to it during the whole journey. He is a faithful soul
of whom the village has a right to be proud.
ADELAIDE (_warmly_).
Yes, he has a faithful heart.
KORB (_eagerly_).
Ever merry, ever friendly, and so attached to the village! Poor man,
it is a long time since he was there!
ADELAIDE.
Don't speak of it!
KORB.
He will ask me about everything--about the farming--
ADELAIDE (_eagerly_).
And about the horses. The old sorrel he was so fond of riding is still
alive. KORB. And about the shrubs he planted with you.
ADELAIDE.
Especially about the lilac-bush where my arbor now stands. Be sure you
tell him about that.
KORB.
And about the pond. Three hundred and sixty carp!
ADELAIDE.
And sixty gold-tench; don't forget that. And the old carp with the
copper ring about his body, that he put there, came out with the last
haul, and we threw him back again.
KORB.
And how he will ask about you, Miss Adelaide!
ADELAIDE.
Tell him I am well.
KORB.
And how you have carried on the farming since the general died; and
that you take his newspaper which I read aloud to the farm-hands
afterward.
ADELAIDE.
Just that you need not tell him. [_Sighing, aside._] On these lines I
shall learn nothing whatever. [_Pause, gravely._] See here, dear Korb,
I have heard all sorts of things about Mr. Bolz that surprise me. He
is said to live an irregular life.
KORB.
Yes, I imagine he does; he always was a wild colt.
ADELAIDE.
He is said to spend more than his income.
KORB.
Yes, that is quite possible. But I am perfectly sure he spends it
merrily.
ADELAIDE (_aside_).
Small consolation I shall get from him! (_Indifferently._) He has now
a good position, I suppose; won't he soon be looking for a wife?
KORB.
A wife? No, he is not doing that. It is impossible.
ADELAIDE.
Well, I heard something of the kind; at least he is said to be much
interested in a young lady. People are talking of it.
KORB.
Why, that would be--no, I don't believe it. (_Hastily._) But I'll ask
him about it at once.
ADELAIDE.
Well, he would be the last person to tell you. One learns such things
from a man's friends and acquaintances. The village people ought to
know it, I suppose, if a Rosenau man marries.
KORB.
Of course they should. I must get at the truth of that.
ADELAIDE.
You would have to go about it the right way. You know how crafty he
is.
KORB.
Oh, I'll get round him all right. I'll find some way.
ADELAIDE.
Go, dear Korb! [_Exit_ KORB.] Those were sad tidings with which the
Colonel met me. Conrad--immoral, unworthy? It is impossible! A noble
character cannot change to that extent. I do not believe one word of
what they say!
[_EXIT_.]
SCENE II
_Editorial room of the "Union." Doors in the centre and on both sides.
On the left, in the foreground, a desk with newspapers and documents.
On the right, a similar, smaller table. Chairs._
_Enter_ BOLZ, _through the side door on the right, then_ MILLER
_through the centre door._
BOLZ (_eagerly_).
Miller! Factotum! Where is the mail?
MILLER (_nimbly with a package of letters and newspapers_).
Here is the mail, Mr. Bolz; and here, from the press, is the
proof-sheet of this evening's issue to be corrected.
BOLZ (_at the table on the left quickly opening, looking through, and
marking letters with a pencil_).
I have already corrected the proof, old rascal!
MILLER.
Not quite. Down here is still the "Miscellaneous" which Mr. Bellmaus
gave the type-setters.
BOLZ.
Let us have it!
[_Reads in the newspaper._]
"Washing stolen from the yard"--"Triplets
born"--"Concert"--"Concert"--"Meeting of an
Association"--"Theatre"--all in order--"Newly invented engine"--"The
great sea-serpent spied."
[_Jumping up._]
What the deuce is this? Is he bringing up the old sea-serpent again?
It ought to be cooked into a jelly for him, and he be made to eat it
cold.
[_Hurries to the door on the right._]
Bellmaus, monster, come out!
_Enter_ BELLMAUS.
BELLMAUS (_from the right, pen in hand_).
What is the matter! Why all this noise?
BOLZ (_solemnly_).
Bellmaus, when we did you the honor of intrusting you with the odds
and ends for this newspaper, we never expected you to bring the
everlasting great sea-serpent writhing through the columns of our
journal!--How could you put in that worn-out old lie?
BELLMAUS.
It just fitted. There were exactly six lines left.
BOLZ.
That is an excuse, but not a good one. Invent your own stories. What
are you a journalist for? Make a little "Communication," an
observation, for instance, on human life in general, or something
about dogs running around loose in the streets; or choose a
bloodcurdling story such as a murder out of politeness, or how a
woodchuck bit seven sleeping children, or something of that kind. So
infinitely much happens, and so infinitely much does not happen, that
an honest newspaper man ought never to be without news.
BELLMAUS.
Give it here, I will change it.
[_Goes to the table, looks into a printed sheet, cuts a clipping from
it with large shears, and pastes it on the copy of the newspaper._]
BOLZ.
That's right, my son, so do, and mend thy ways.
[_Opening the door on the right._]
Kämpe, can you come in a moment? (_To_ MILLER, _who is waiting at the
door._) Take that proof straight to the press!
[MILLER _takes the sheet from_ BELLMAUS _and hurries off._]
_Enter_ KÄMPE.
KÄMPE.
But I can't write anything decent while you are making such a noise.
BOLZ.
You can't? What have you just written, then? At most, I imagine, a
letter to a ballet-dancer or an order to your tailor.
BELLMAUS.
No, he writes tender letters. He is seriously in love, for he took me
walking in the moonlight yesterday and scorned the idea of a drink.
KÄMPE (_who has seated himself comfortably_).
Gentlemen, it is unfair to call a man away from his work for the sake
of making such poor jokes.
BOLZ.
Yes, yes, he evidently slanders you when he maintains that you love
anything else but your new boots and to some small degree your own
person. You yourself are a love-spurting nature, little Bellmaus. You
glow like a fusee whenever you see a young lady. Spluttering and smoky
you hover around her, and yet don't dare even to address her. But we
must be lenient with him; his shyness is to blame. He blushes in
woman's presence, and is still capable of lovely emotions, for he
started out to be a lyric poet.
BELLMAUS.
I don't care to be continually reproached with my poems. Did I ever
read them to you?
BOLZ.
No, thank Heaven, that audacity you never had. (_Seriously._) But,
now, gentlemen, to business. Today's number is ready. Oldendorf is not
yet here, but meanwhile, let us hold a confidential session. Oldendorf
_must_ be chosen deputy from this town to the next Parliament; our
party and the _Union must_ put that through. How does our stock stand
today?
KÄMPE.
Remarkably high. Our opponents agree that no other candidate would be
so dangerous for them, and our friends everywhere are most hopeful.
But you know how little that may signify. Here is the list of the
voters. Our election committee sends word to you that our calculations
were correct. Of the hundred voters from our town, forty surely ours.
About an equal number are pledged to the other party; the remnant of
some twenty votes are undecided. It is clear that the election will
be determined by a very small majority.
BOLZ.
Of course we shall have that majority--a majority of from eight to ten
votes. Just say that, everywhere, with the greatest assuredness. Many
a one who is still undecided will come over to us on hearing that we
are the stronger. Where is the list of our uncertain voters? [_Looks
it over._]
KÄMPE.
I have placed a mark wherever our friends think some influence might
be exerted.
BOLZ.
I see two crosses opposite one name; what do they signify?
KÄMPE.
That is Piepenbrink, the wine-dealer Piepenbrink. He has a large
following in his district, is a well-to-do man, and, they say, can
command five or six votes among his adherents.
BOLZ.
Him we must have. What sort of a man is he?
KÄMPE.
He is very blunt, they say, and no politician at all.
BELLMAUS.
But he has a pretty daughter.
KÄMPE.
What's the use of his pretty daughter? I'd rather he had an ugly
wife--one could get at him more easily.
BELLMAUS.
Yes, but he has one--a lady with little curls and fiery red ribbons
in her cap.
BOLZ.
Wife or no wife, the man must be ours. Hush, some one is coming; that
is Oldendorf's step. He needn't know anything of our conference. Go to
your room, gentlemen. To be continued this evening.
KÄMPE (_at the door_).
It is still agreed, I suppose, that in the next number I resume the
attack on the new correspondent of the _Coriolanus_, the one with the
arrow.
BOLZ.
Yes, indeed. Pitch into him, decently but hard. Just now, on the eve
of the election, a little row with our opponents will do us good; and
the articles with the arrow give us a great opening.
[_Exeunt_ KÄMPE _and_ BELLMAUS.]
_Enter_ OLDENDORF _through centre door._
OLDENDORF.
Good-day, Conrad.
BOLZ (_at the table on the right, looking over the list of voters_).
Blessed be thy coming! The mail is over there; there is nothing of
importance.
OLDENDORF.
Do you need me here today?
BOLZ.
No, my darling. This evening's issue is ready. For tomorrow Kämpe is
writing the leading article.
OLDENDORF.
About what?
BOLZ.
A little skirmish with the _Coriolanus_. Another one against the
unknown correspondent with the arrow who attacked our party. But do
not worry; I told Kämpe to make the article dignified, very dignified.
OLDENDORF.
For Heaven's sake, don't! The article must not be written.
BOLZ.
I fail to comprehend you. What use are political opponents if you
cannot attack them?
OLDENDORF.
Now see here! These articles were written by the Colonel; he told me
so himself today.
BOLZ.
Thunder and lightning!
OLDENDORF (_gloomily_).
You may imagine that along with this admission went other intimations
which place me just now in a very uncomfortable position as regards
the Colonel and his family.
BOLZ (_seriously_).
And what does the Colonel want you to do?
OLDENDORF.
He will be reconciled to me if I resign the editorship of this paper
and withdraw as candidate for election.
BOLZ.
The devil! He is moderate in his demands!
OLDENDORF.
I suffer under this discord; to you, as my friend, I can say so.
BOLZ (_going up to him and pressing his hand_).
Solemn moment of manly emotion!
OLDENDORF.
Don't play the clown just now. You can imagine how unpleasant my
position in the Colonel's house has become. The worthy old gentleman
either frigid or violent; the conversation spiced with bitter
allusions; Ida suffering--I can often see that she has been crying. If
our party wins and I become member for the town, I fear I shall lose
all hope of marrying Ida.
BOLZ (_vehemently_).
And if you withdraw it will be a serious blow to our party. (_Rapidly
and emphatically._) The coming session of Parliament will determine
the fate of the country. The parties are almost equal. Every loss is a
blow of a vote to our cause. In this town we have no other candidate
but you, who is sufficiently popular to make his election probable. If
you withdraw from the contest, no matter what the reason, our
opponents win.
OLDENDORF.
Unfortunately what you say is true.
BOLZ (_with continued vehemence_).
I won't dwell on my confidence in your talents. I am convinced that,
in the House, and, possibly, as one of the ministers, you will be of
service to your country. I merely ask you, now, to remember your duty
to our political friends, who have pinned their faith on you, and to
this paper and ourselves, who for three years have worked for the
credit of the name of Oldendorf which heads our front page. Your honor
is at stake, and every moment of wavering is wrong.
OLDENDORF (_dignified_).
You are exciting yourself without reason. I too deem it wrong to
retire now when I am told that our cause needs me. But in confessing
to you, my friend, that my decision means a great personal sacrifice,
I am not compromising either our cause or ourselves as individuals.
BOLZ (_soothingly_).
Right you are! You are a loyal comrade. And so peace, friendship,
courage! Your old Colonel won't be inexorable.
OLDENDORF.
He has grown intimate with Senden, who flatters him in every way, and
has plans, I fear, which affect me also. I should feel still more
worried but for knowing that I have now a good advocate in the
Colonel's house. Adelaide Runeck has just arrived.
BOLZ.
Adelaide Runeck? She into the bargain! (_Quickly calling through the
door on the right._) Kämpe, the article against the knight of the
arrow is not to be written. Understand?
_Enter_ KÄMPE.
KÄMPE (_at the door, pen in hand_).
But what is to be written, then?
BOLZ.
The devil only knows! See here! Perhaps I can induce Oldendorf to
write the leading article for tomorrow himself. But at all events you
must have something on hand.
KÄMPE.
But what?
BOLZ (_excitedly_).
For all I care write about emigration to Australia; that, at any rate,
will give no offense.
KÄMPE.
Good! Am I to encourage it or advise against it?
BOLZ (_quickly_).
Advise against it, of course; we need every one who is willing to work
here at home. Depict Australia as a contemptible hole. Be perfectly
truthful but make it as black as possible--how the Kangaroo, balled
into a heap, springs with invincible malice at the settler's head,
while the duckbill nips at the back of his legs; how the gold-seeker
has, in winter, to stand up to his neck in salt water while for three
months in summer he has not a drop to drink; how he may live through
all that only to be eaten up at last by thievish natives. Make it very
vivid and end up with the latest market prices for Australian wool
from the _Times_. You'll find what books you need in the library.
[_Slams the door to._]
OLDENDORF (_at the table_).
Do you know Miss Runeck? She often inquires about you in her letters
to Ida.
BOLZ.
Indeed? Yes, to be sure, I know her. We are from the same village--she
from the manor-house, I from the parsonage. My father taught us
together. Oh, yes, I know her!
OLDENDORF.
How comes it that you have drifted so far apart? You never speak of
her.
BOLZ.
H'm! It is an old story--family quarrels, Montagues and Capulets. I
have not seen her for a long time.
OLDENDORF (_smiling_).
I hope that you too were not estranged by politics.
BOLZ.
Politics did, indeed, have something to do with our separation; you
see it is the common misfortune that party life destroys friendship.
OLDENDORF.
Sad to relate! In religion any educated man will tolerate the
convictions of another; but in politics we treat each other like
reprobates if there be the slightest shade of difference of opinion
between us.
BOLZ (_aside_).
Matter for our next article! (_Aloud._) "The slightest shade of
difference of opinion between us." Just what I think! We must have
that in our paper! (_Entreating)_. Look! A nice little virtuous
article: "An admonition to our voters--Respect our opponents, for they
are, after all, our brothers!" (_Urging him more and more._)
Oldendorf, that would be something for you--there is virtue and
humanity in the theme; writing will divert you, and you owe the paper
an article because you forbade the feud. Please do me the favor! Go
into the back room there and write. No one shall disturb you.
OLDENDORF (_smiling_).
You are just a vulgar intriguer!
BOLZ (_forcing him from his chair_).
Please, you'll find ink and paper there. Come, deary, come! [_He
accompanies him to the door on the left. Exit_ OLDENDORF. BOLZ
_calling after him._] Will you have a cigar? An old Henry Clay?
[_Draws a cigar-case from his pocket._] No? Don't make it too short;
it is to be the principal article! [_He shuts the door, calls through
the door on the right._] The professor is writing the article himself.
See that nobody disturbs him! [_Coming to the front._] So that is
settled.--Adelaide here in town! I'll go straight to her! Stop, keep
cool, keep cool! Old Bolz, you are no longer the brown lad from the
parsonage. And even if you were, _she_ has long since changed. Grass
has grown over the grave of a certain childish inclination. Why are
you suddenly thumping so, my dear soul? Here in town she is just as
far off from you as on her estates. [_Seating himself and playing with
a pencil._] "Nothing like keeping cool," murmured the salamander as he
sat in the stove fire.
_Enter_ KORB.
KORB.
Is Mr. Bolz in?
BOLZ (_jumping up_).
Korb! My dear Korb! Welcome, heartily welcome! It is good of you not
to have forgotten me. [_Shakes hands with him._] I am very glad to see
you.
KORB.
And I even more to see you. Here we are in town. The whole village
sends greetings! From Anton the stable-boy--he is now head man--to the
old night watchman whose horn you once hung up on the top of the
tower. Oh, what a pleasure this is!
BOLZ.
How is Miss Runeck? Tell me, old chap!
KORB.
Very well indeed, now. But we have been through much. The late general
was ill for four years. It was a bad time. You know he was always an
irritable man.
BOLZ.
Yes, he was hard to manage.--
KORB.
And especially during his illness. But Miss Adelaide took care of
him, so gentle and so pale, like a perfect lamb. Now, since his death,
Miss Adelaide runs the estate, and like the best of managers. The
village is prospering again. I will tell you everything, but not until
this evening. Miss Adelaide is waiting for me; I merely ran in quickly
to tell you that we are here.
BOLZ.
Don't be in such a hurry, Korb.--So the people in the village still
think of me!
KORB.
I should say they did! No one can understand why you don't come near
us. It was another matter while the old gentleman was alive, but now--
BOLZ (_seriously_).
My parents are dead; a stranger lives in the parsonage.
KORB.
But we in the manor-house are still alive! Miss Runeck would surely be
delighted--
BOLZ.
Does she still remember me?
KORB.
Of course she does. This very day she asked about you.
BOLZ.
What did she ask, old chap?
KORB.
She asked me if it was true what people are saying, that you have
grown very wild, make debts, run after girls, and are up to the devil
generally.
BOLZ.
Good gracious! You stood up for me, I trust?
KORB.
Of course! I told her that all that might be taken for granted with
you.
BOLZ.
Confound it! That's what she thinks of me, is it? Tell me, Korb, Miss
Adelaide has many suitors, has she not?
KORB.
The sands of the sea are as nothing to it.
BOLZ (_vexed_).
But yet she can finally choose only one, I suppose.
KORB (_slyly_).
Correct! But which one? That's the question.
BOLZ.
Which do you think it will be?
KORB.
Well, that is difficult to say. There is this Mr. von Senden who is
now living in town. If any one has a chance it is probably he. He
fusses about us like a weasel. Just as I was leaving he sent to the
house a whole dozen of admission cards to the great fête at the club.
It must be the sort of club where the upper classes go arm-in-arm with
the townspeople.
BOLZ.
Yes, it is a political society of which Senden is a director. It is
casting out a great net for voters. And the Colonel and the ladies are
going?
KORB.
I hear they are. I, too, received a card.
BOLZ (_to himself_).
Has it come to this? Poor Oldendorf!--And Adelaide at the club fête of
Mr. von Senden!
KORB (_to himself_).
How am I going to begin and find out about his love-affairs?
(_Aloud._) Oh, see here, Mr. Conrad, one thing more! Have you possibly
some real good friend in this concern to whom you could introduce me?
BOLZ.
Why, old chap?
KORB.
It is only--I am a stranger here, and often have commissions and
errands where I need advice. I should like to have some one to consult
should you chance to be away, or with whom I could leave word for you.
BOLZ.
You will find me here at almost any time of day. [_At the door._]
Bellmaus! [_Enter_ BELLMAUS.] You see this gentleman here. He is an
honored old friend of mine from my native village. Should he happen
not to find me here, you take my place.--This gentleman's name is
Bellmaus, and he is a good fellow.
KORB.
I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Bellmaus.
BELLMAUS.
And I to make yours. You have not told me his name yet.
BOLZ.
Korb. He has had a great deal to carry in his life, and has often
carried me on his back, too.
BELLMAUS.
I too am pleased, Mr. Korb. [_They shake hands._]
KORB.
Well, that is in order, and now I must go or Miss Adelaide will be
waiting.
BOLZ.
Good-by! Hope to see you very soon again.
[_Exit_ KORB; _exit_ BELLMAUS _through door on the right._]
BOLZ (_alone_).
So this Senden is courting her! Oh, that is bitter!
_Enter_ HENNING, _followed by_ MILLER.
HENNING (_in his dressing-gown, hurriedly, with a printed roll in his
hand_).
Your servant, Mr. Bolz! Is "opponent" spelt with one p or with two
p's? The new proofreader has corrected it one p.
BOLZ (_deep in his thoughts_).
Estimable Mr. Henning, the _Union_ prints it with two p's.
HENNING.
I said so at once. [_To_ MILLER.] It must be changed; the press is
waiting.
[_Exit_ MILLER _hastily._]
I took occasion to read the leading article. Doubtless you wrote it
yourself. It is very good, but too sharp, Mr. Bolz. Pepper and
mustard--that will give offense; it will cause bad blood.
BOLZ (_still deep in his thoughts, violently_).
I always did have an antipathy to this man!
[Illustration: _Permission Union Deutsche Verlagsgesellschaft,
Stuttgart_. NATURE ENTHUSIASTS. ADOLPH VON MENZEL]
HENNING (_hurt_).
How? What? Mr. Bolz? You have an antipathy to me?
BOLZ.
To whom? No, dear Mr. Henning, you are a good fellow and would be the
best newspaper owner in the world, if only you were not often as
frightened as a hare. [_Embraces him._] My regards to Mrs. Henning,
sir, and leave me alone. I am thinking up my next article.
HENNING (_while he is being thrust out_).
But do, please, write very moderately and kindly, dear Mr. Bolz.
BOLZ (_alone, walking to and fro again_).
Senden avoids me whenever he can. He stands things from me that any
one else would strongly resent. Is it possible that he suspects--
_Enter_ MILLER.
MILLER (_hurriedly_).
A lady I don't know wishes to pay her respects to you.
BOLZ.
A lady! And to me?
MILLER.
To the editor. [_Hands him a card._]
BOLZ (_reads_).
Leontine Pavoni-Gessler, _née_ Melloni from Paris. She must have to do
with art. Is she pretty?
MILLER.
H'm! So, so!
BOLZ.
Then tell her we are very sorry that we cannot have the pleasure, that
it is the editor's big washing-day.
MILLER.
What?
BOLZ (_vehemently_).
Washing, children's washing. That we are sitting up to the elbows in
soapsuds.
MILLER (_laughing_).
And I am to--
BOLZ (_impatiently_).
You're a blockhead! [_At the door._] Bellmaus! [_Enter_ BELLMAUS.]
Stay here and receive the visitor. [_Gives him the card._]
BELLMAUS.
Ah, that is the new ballet-dancer who is expected here. [_Inspecting
his coat._] But I'm not dressed for it!
BOLZ.
All the more dressed she will be. [_To_ MILLER.] Show the lady in.
[_Exit_ MILLER.]
BELLMAUS.
But really I cannot--
BOLZ (_irritably_).
Oh the devil, don't put on airs! [_Goes to the table, puts papers in
the drawer, seizes his hat._]
_Enter_ MADAME PAVONI.
MADAME PAVONI.
Have I the honor of seeing before me the editor of the _Union_?
BELLMAUS (_bowing_).
To be sure--that is to say--won't you kindly be seated? [_Pushes up
chairs._]
BOLZ.
Adelaide is clear-sighted and clever. How can she possibly fail to see
through that fellow?
MADAME PAVONI.
Mr. Editor, the intelligent articles about art which adorn your
paper--have prompted me--
BELLMAUS.
Oh, please!
BOLZ. (_having made up his mind_).
I must gain entrance into this club-fête!
[_Exit with a bow to the lady._ BELLMAUS _and_ MADAME PAVONI _sit
facing each other._]
ACT II
SCENE I
_The_ COLONEL'S _summer parlor. In the foreground on the right_ IDA
_and_ ADELAIDE, _next to_ ADELAIDE _the_ COLONEL, _all sitting. In
front of them a table with coffee set._
COLONEL (_in conversation with_ ADELAIDE, _laughing_).
A splendid story, and cleverly told! I am heartily glad that you are
with us, dear Adelaide. Now, at any rate, we shall talk about
something else at table besides this everlasting politics! H'm! The
professor has not come today. He never used to miss our coffee-hour.
[_Pause;_ ADELAIDE _and_ IDA _look at each other._ IDA _sighs._]
ADELAIDE.
Perhaps he has work to do.
IDA.
Or he is vexed with us because I am going to the fête tonight.
COLONEL (_irritably_).
Nonsense, you are not his wife nor even openly his fiancée. You are in
your father's house and belong in my circle.--H'm! I see he treasures
it up against me that I did some plain speaking the other day. I think
I was a little impatient.
ADELAIDE (_nodding her head_).
Yes, a little, I hear.
IDA.
He is worried about the way you feel, dear father.
COLONEL.
Well, I have reason enough to be vexed; don't remind me of it. And
that, in addition, he lets himself be mixed up in these elections, is
unpardonable.
[_Walks up and down._]
But you had better send for him, Ida.
IDA _rings. Enter_ CARL.
IDA.
Our compliments to the professor and we are waiting coffee for him.
[_Exit_ CARL.]
COLONEL.
Well, that about waiting was not quite necessary. Why, we have
finished our coffee.
ADELAIDE.
Ida has not finished yet.
IDA.
Hush!
ADELAIDE.
Why did he ever let himself be put up as candidate? He has plenty to
do as it is.
COLONEL.
Pure ambition, girls. The devil of ambition possesses these young men.
He impels them as steam does a locomotive.
IDA.
No, father, _he_ never thought of himself in the matter.
COLONEL.
It does not stand out quite so nakedly as, "I must make a career for
myself," or "I wish to become a famous man." The procedure is more
delicate. The good friends come along and say: "Your duty to the good
cause requires you to--it is a crime against your country if you do
not--it is a sacrifice for you but we demand it." And so a pretty
mantle is thrown around vanity, and the candidate issues forth--from
pure patriotism of course! Don't teach an old soldier worldly wisdom.
We, dear Adelaide, sit calmly by and laugh at such weaknesses.
ADELAIDE.
And are indulgent toward them when we have so good a heart as you.
COLONEL.
Yes, one profits by experience.
_Enter_ CARL.
CARL.
Mr. von Senden and two other gentlemen.
COLONEL.
What do they want? Pleased to see them!
[_Exit_ CARL.]
Allow me to have them shown in here, children. Senden never stays
long. He is a roving spirit.
[_The ladies rise._]
IDA.
The hour is again spoiled for us.
ADELAIDE.
Don't mind it; we shall have all the more time to dress.
[_Exeunt_ IDA _and_ ADELAIDE _on the left._]
_Enter_ SENDEN, BLUMENBERG, _a third gentleman._
SENDEN.
Colonel, we come on behalf of the committee for the approaching
election to notify you that that committee has unanimously voted to
make you, Colonel, our party's candidate.
COLONEL. _Me?_
SENDEN.
The committee begs you to accept this nomination so that the necessary
announcement can be made to the voters at this evening's fête.
COLONEL.
Are you in earnest, dear Senden? Where did the committee get such an
idea?
SENDEN.
Colonel, our president, who had previously agreed to run for our town,
found that it would be more advantageous to be candidate from a
provincial district; apart from him no one of our townsmen is so well
known and so popular with the citizens as yourself. If you accede to
our request our party is certain of victory; if you refuse, there is
every probability that our opponents will have their own way. You will
agree with us that such an eventuality must be avoided under all
circumstances.
COLONEL.
I see all that; but, on personal grounds, it is impossible for me to
help our friends in this matter.
SENDEN (_to the others_).
Let me explain to the Colonel certain things which will possibly make
him look favorably on our request.
[_Exeunt_ BLUMENBERG _and the other gentlemen into the garden, where
they are visible from time to time._]
COLONEL.
But, Senden, how could you put me in this embarrassing position! You
know that for years Oldendorf has frequented my house and that it will
be extremely unpleasant for me openly to oppose him.
SENDEN.
If the professor is really so devoted to you and your household, he
has now the best opportunity to show it. It is a foregone conclusion
that he will at once withdraw.
COLONEL.
I am not quite so sure of that; he is very stubborn in many ways.
SENDEN.
If he do not withdraw such egotism can scarcely still be called
stubbornness. And in such a case you would scarcely be under
obligations to him; obligations, Colonel, which might work injury to
the whole country. Besides, he has no chance of being elected if you
accept, for you will defeat him by a majority not large but sure.
COLONEL.
Are we so perfectly certain of this majority!
SENDEN.
I think I can guarantee it. Blumenberg and the other gentlemen have
made very thorough inquiries.
COLONEL.
It would serve the professor quite right if he had to withdraw in my
favor.--But no--no; it will not do at all, my friend.
SENDEN.
We know, Colonel, what a sacrifice we are asking of you, and that
nothing could compensate you for it save the consciousness of having
done your country a great service.
COLONEL.
To be sure.
SENDEN.
It would be so regarded in the capital, too, and I am convinced that
your entering the House would also cause pleasure in other circles
than those of your numerous friends and admirers.
COLONEL.
I should meet there many old friends and comrades. (_Aside_.) I should
be presented at Court.
SENDEN.
The minister of war asked very warmly after you the other day; he too
must have been one of your companions in arms.
COLONEL.
Yes indeed! As young blades we served in the same company and played
many mad pranks together. It would be a pleasure to see him now in the
House, drawing his honest face into dark lines. He was a wild devil in
the regiment, but a fine boy.
SENDEN.
Nor will he be the only one to receive you with open arms.
COLONEL.
In any case, I should have to think the matter over.
SENDEN.
Don't be angry, Colonel, if I urge you to decide. This evening we have
to introduce their candidate to our citizen guests. It is high time,
or all is lost.
COLONEL (_hesitating_).
Senden, you put a knife to my throat!
[SENDEN, _from the door, motions the gentlemen in the garden to come
in_.]
BLUMENBERG.
We venture to urge you, knowing that so good a soldier as you,
Colonel, makes up his mind quickly.
COLONEL (_after struggling inwardly_).
Well, so be it, gentlemen, I accept! Tell the committee I appreciate
their confidence. This evening we will talk over details.
BLUMENBERG.
We thank you, Colonel. The whole town will be rejoiced to hear of your
decision.
COLONEL.
Good-by until this evening.
[_Exeunt the visitors_;
COLONEL _alone, thoughtfully_.]
I fear I ought not to have accepted so quickly; but I had to do the
minister of war that favor. What will the girls say to it? And
Oldendorf?
[_Enter_ OLDENDORF.]
There he is himself.
[_Clears his throat_.]
He will be astonished. I can't help it, he must withdraw. Good
morning, Professor, you come just at the right moment.
OLDENDORF (_hastily_).
Colonel, there is a report in town that Mr. von Senden's party have
put you up as their candidate. I ask for your own assurance that you
would not accept such a nomination.
COLONEL.
And, supposing the proposition had been made to me, why should I not
accept as well as you? Yes, rather than you; for the motives that
would determine me are sounder than your reasons.
OLDENDORF.
So there is some foundation then to the rumor?
COLONEL.
To be frank, it is the truth. I have accepted. You see in me your
opponent.
OLDENDORF.
Nothing so bad has yet occurred to trouble our relations. Colonel,
could not the memory of a friendship, hearty and undisturbed for
years, induce you to avoid this odious conflict?
COLONEL.
Oldendorf, I could not act otherwise, believe me. It is your place now
to remember our old friendship. You are a younger man, let alone other
relationships; you are the one now to withdraw.
OLDENDORF (_more excitedly_).
Colonel, I have known you for years. I know how keenly and how deeply
you feel things and how little your ardent disposition fits you to
bear the petty vexations of current politics, the wearing struggle of
debates. Oh, my worthy friend, do listen to my exhortations and take
back your consent.
COLONEL.
Let that be my concern. I am an old block of hard timber. Think of
yourself, dear Oldendorf. You are young, you have fame as a scholar;
your learning assures you every success. Why, in another sphere of
activity, do you seek to exchange honor and recognition for naught but
hatred, mockery, and humiliation? For with such views as yours you
cannot fail to harvest them. Think it over. Be sensible, and withdraw.
OLDENDORF.
Colonel, could I follow my own inclinations I should do so on the
spot. But in this contest I am under obligations to my friends. I
cannot withdraw now.
COLONEL (_excitedly_).
Nor can I withdraw, lest I harm the good cause. We are no further now
than in the beginning. (_Aside_.) Obstinate fellow!
[_Both walk up and down on opposite sides of the stage._]
You have not the least chance whatever of being elected, Oldendorf; my
friends are sure of having the majority of the votes. You are exposing
yourself to a public defeat. (_Kindly_.) I should dislike having you
of all people beaten by me; it will cause gossip and scandal. Just
think of it! It is perfectly useless for you to conjure up the
conflict.
OLDENDORF.
Even if it were such a foregone conclusion as you assume, Colonel, I
should still have to hold out to the end. But as far as I can judge
the general sentiment, the result is by no means so certain. And
think, Colonel, if you should happen to be defeated--
COLONEL (_irritated_).
I tell you, that will not be the case.
OLDENDORF.
But if it should be? How odious that would be for both of us! How
would you feel toward me then! I might possibly welcome a defeat in my
heart; for you it would be a terrible mortification, and, Colonel, I
dread this possibility.
COLONEL.
For that very reason you should withdraw.
OLDENDORF.
I can no longer do so; but there is still time for you.
COLONEL (_vehemently_).
Thunder and lightning, sir, I have said yes; I am not the man to cap
it with a no!
[_Both walk up and down._]
That appears to end it, Professor! My wishes are of no account to you;
I ought to have known that! We must go our separate ways. We have
become open opponents; let us be honest enemies--
OLDENDORF (_seizing the_ COLONEL'S _hand_).
Colonel, I consider this a most unfortunate day; for I see sad results
to follow. Rest assured that no circumstances can shake my love and
devotion for you.
COLONEL.
We are drawn up in line of battle, as it were. You mean to let
yourself be defeated by an old military man. You shall have your
desire.
OLDENDORF.
I ask your permission to tell Miss Ida of our conversation.
COLONEL (_somewhat uneasy_).
You had better not do that just now, Professor. An opportunity will
come in due time. At present the ladies are dressing. I myself will
say what is necessary.
OLDENDORF.
Farewell, Colonel, and think of me without hard feelings.
COLONEL.
I will try my best, Professor.
[_Exit_ OLDENDORF.]
He has not given in! What depths of ambition there are in these
scholars!
_Enter_ IDA, ADELAIDE.
IDA.
Was not that Edward's voice?
COLONEL.
Yes, my child.
ADELAIDE.
And he has gone away again! Has anything happened?
COLONEL.
Well, yes, girls. To make a long story short, Oldendorf does not
become member for this town, but I.
ADELAIDE} (_together_.) You, Colonel? IDA } You, father?
IDA.
Has Edward withdrawn?
ADELAIDE.
Is the election over?
COLONEL.
Neither one nor the other. Oldendorf has proved his much-vaunted
devotion to us by not withdrawing, and election day is not yet past.
But from what I hear there is no doubt that Oldendorf will be
defeated.
IDA.
And you, father, have come out before everybody as his opponent?
ADELAIDE.
And what did Oldendorf say to that, Colonel?
COLONEL.
Don't excite me, girls! Oldendorf was stubborn, otherwise he behaved
well, and as far as that is concerned all is in order. The grounds
which determined me to make the sacrifice are very weighty. I will
explain them to you more fully another time. The matter is decided; I
have accepted; let that suffice for the present.
IDA.
But, dear father--
COLONEL.
Leave me in peace, Ida, I have other things to think of. This evening
I am to speak in public; that is, so to say, the custom at such
elections. Don't worry, my child, we'll get the better of the
professor and his clique.
[_Exit_ COLONEL _toward the garden_. IDA _and_ ADELAIDE _stand facing
each other and wring their hands._]
IDA.
What do you say to that?
ADELAIDE.
You are his daughter--what do _you_ say?
IDA.
Not possible!--Father! Scarcely had he finished explaining to us
thoroughly what petty mantles ambition assumes in such elections--
ADELAIDE.
Yes, he described them right vividly, all the little wraps and cloaks
of vanity.
IDA.
And within an hour he lets them throw the cloak about himself. Why, it
is terrible! And if father is not elected? It was wrong of Edward not
to give in to father's weakness. Is that your love for me, Professor?
He, too, never thought of me!
ADELAIDE.
Shall I tell you what? Let us hope that they both fail. These
politicians! It was bad enough for you when only one was in politics;
now that both have tasted of the intoxicating drink you are done for.
Were I ever to come into a position to make a man my master, I should
impose upon him but one condition, the wise rule of conduct of my old
aunt: Smoke tobacco, my husband, as much as you please; at most it
will spoil the walls; but never dare to look at a newspaper--that will
spoil your character.
[KORB _appears at the door_.]
What news do you bring, Korb?
KORB (_hastily, mysteriously_).
It isn't true!
ADELAIDE (_the same_). What isn't true?
KORB.
That he has a fiancée. He has no idea of it. His friend says he has
but one lady-love.
ADELAIDE (_eagerly_).
Who is she?
KORB. His newspaper.
ADELAIDE (_relieved_).
Ah, indeed. (_Aloud_.)
One can see by that how many falsehoods people tell. It is good, dear
Korb.
[_Exit_ KORB.]
IDA. What isn't true?
ADELAIDE (_sighing_).
Well, that we women are cleverer than men. We talk just as wisely and
I fear are just as glad to forget our wisdom at the first opportunity.
We are all of us together poor sinners!
IDA.
You can joke about it. You never knew what it was to have your father
and the man you loved oppose each other as enemies.
ADELAIDE.
Do you think so! Well, I once had a good friend who had foolishly
given her heart to a handsome, high-spirited boy. She was a mere child
and it was a very touching relationship: knightly devotion on his part
and tender sighings on hers. Then the young heroine had the misfortune
to become very jealous, and so far forgot poetry and deportment as to
give her heart's chosen knight a box on the ear. It was only a little
box, but it had fateful consequences. The young lady's father had seen
it and demanded an explanation. Then the young knight acted like a
perfect hero. He took all the blame upon himself and told the alarmed
father that he had asked the young lady to kiss him--poor fellow, he
never had the courage for such a thing!--and the blow had been her
answer. A stern man was the father; he treated the lad very harshly.
The hero was sent away from his family and his home, and the heroine
sat lonely in her donjon-tower and mourned her lost one.
IDA.
She ought to have told her father the truth.
ADELAIDE.
Oh, she did. But her confession made matters only worse. Years have
gone by since then, and the knight and his lady are now old people and
have become quite sensible.
IDA (_smiling_).
And, because they are sensible, do they not love each other any
longer?
ADELAIDE.
How the man feels about it, dear child, I cannot tell you exactly. He
wrote the lady a very beautiful letter after the death of her
father--that is all I know about it. But the lady has greater
confidence than you, for she still hopes. (_Earnestly_.) Yes, she
hopes; and even her father permitted that before he died--you see, she
still hopes.
IDA (_embracing her_).
And who is the banished one for whom she still hopes?
ADELAIDE.
Hush, dearest, that is a dark secret. Few persons living know about
it; and when the birds on the trees of Rosenau tell each other the
story they treat it as a dim legend of their forefathers. They then
sing softly and sorrowfully, and their feathers stand on end with awe.
In due time you shall learn all about it; but now you must think of
the fête, and of how pretty you are going to look.
IDA.
On the one hand the father, on the other the lover--how will it end?
ADELAIDE.
Do not worry. The one is an old soldier, the other a young statesman;
two types that we women have wound around our little fingers from time
immemorial! [_Both leave_.]
SCENE II
_Side room of a public hall. The rear wall a great arch with columns,
through which one looks into the lighted hall and through it into another.
On the left, toward the front, a door. On the right, tables and chairs;
chandeliers. Later, from time to time distant music. In the hall ladies
and gentlemen walking about or standing in groups_. SENDEN, BLUMENBERG,
_behind them_ SCHMOCK _coming from the hall_.
SENDEN. All is going well. There is a splendid spirit in the company.
These good townspeople are delighted with our arrangements. It was a
fine idea of yours, Blumenberg, to have this fête.
BLUMENBEEG. Only hurry and get people warmed up! It's a good thing to
begin with some music. Vienna waltzes are best on account of the
women. Then comes a speech from you, then some solo singing, and, at
supper, the introduction of the Colonel, and the toasts. It can't help
being a success; the men must have hearts of stone if they don't give
their votes in return for such a fête.
SENDEN. The toasts have been apportioned.
BLUMENBERG. But the music?--Why has the music stopped?
SENDEN. I am waiting for the Colonel to arrive.
BLUMENBERG. He must be received with a blare of trumpets. It will
flatter him, you know.
SENDEN. That's what I ordered. Directly after, they start up a march
and we bring him in procession.
BLUMENBERG. First rate! That will lend solemnity to his entrance. Only
think up your speech. Be popular, for today we are among the rabble.
_Enter guests, among them_ HENNING.
SENDEN (_doing the honors with BLUMENBERG_). Delighted to see you
here! We knew that you would not fail us. Is this your wife?
GUEST. Yes, Mr. von Senden, this is my wife.
SENDEN. You here, too, Mr. Henning? Welcome, my dear sir!
HENNING. I was invited by my friend and really had the curiosity to
come. My presence, I hope, will not be unpleasant to any one?
SENDEN. Quite the contrary. We are most pleased to greet you here.
[_Guests leave through centre door_; SENDEN _goes out in conversation
with them._]
BLUMENBERG. He knows how to manage people. It's the good manners of
these gentlemen that does it. He is useful--useful to me too. He
manages the others, and I manage him. [_Turning, he sees_ SCHMOCK,
_who is hovering near the door_.] What are you doing here? Why do you
stand there listening? You are not a door-keeper! See that you keep
out of my vicinity. Divide yourself up among the company.
SCHMOCK. Whom shall I go to if I know none of these people at all? You
are the only person I know.
BLUMENBERG. Why must you tell people that you know me? I consider it
no honor to stand next to you.
SCHMOCK. If it is not an honor it's not a disgrace either; But I can
stay by myself.
BLUMENBERG. Have you money to get something to eat? Go to the
restaurant-keeper and order something charged to me. The committee
will pay for it.
SCHMOCK. I don't care to go and eat. I have no need to spend anything.
I have had my supper.
[_Blare of trumpets and march in the distance. Exit_ BLUMENBERG.
SCHMOCK _alone, coming forward, angrily_.]
I hate him! I'll tell him I hate him, that I despise him from the
bottom of my heart!
[_Turns to go, comes back._]
But I cannot tell him so, or he will cut out all I send in for the
special correspondence I write for his paper! I will try to swallow it
down!
_[Exit through centre door_.]
_Enter_ BOLZ, KÄMPE, BELLMAUS _by side door_.
BOLZ (_marching in_). Behold us in the house of the Capulets!
[_Pretends to thrust a sword into its scabbard._] Conceal your swords
under roses. Blow your little cheeks up, and look as silly and
innocent as possible. Above all, don't let me see you get into a row,
and if you meet this Tybaldus Senden be so good as to run round the
corner.
[_The procession is seen marching through the rear halls_.]
You, Romeo Bellmaus, look out for the little women. I see more
fluttering curls and waving kerchiefs there than are good for your
peace of mind.
KÄMPE. I bet a bottle of champagne that if one of us gets into a row
it will be you.
BOLZ. Possibly. But I promise you that you shall surely come in for
your share of it. Now listen to my plan of operations. You
Kämpe--[_Enter_ SCHMOCK.] Stop! Who is that? Thunder! The factotum of
the _Coriolanus_! Our _incognito_ has not lasted long.
SCHMOCK (_even before the last remark, has been seen looking in at the
door, coming forward_). I wish you good evening, Mr. Bolz.
BOLZ. I wish you the same and of even better quality, Mr. Schmock.
SCHMOCK. Might I have a couple of words with you?
BOLZ. A couple? Don't ask for too few, noble armor-bearer of the
_Coriolanus_! A couple of dozen words you shall have, but no more.
SCHMOCK. Could you not employ me on your paper.
BOLZ (_to_ KÄMPE _and_ BELLMAUS). Do you hear that? On our paper? H'm!
'Tis much you ask, noble Roman!
SCHMOCK. I am sick of the _Coriolanus_. I would do any kind of work
you needed done. I want to be with respectable people, where one can
earn something and be treated decently.
BOLZ. What are you asking of us, slave of Rome? We to entice you away
from your party--never! We do violence to your political convictions?
Make you a renegade? We bear the guilt of your joining our party? No,
sir! We have a tender conscience. It rises in arms against your
proposition!
SCHMOCK. Why do you let that trouble you? Under Blumenberg I have
learned to write whichever way the wind blows. I have written on the
left and again on the right. I can write in any direction.
BOLZ. I see you have character. You would be a sure success on our
paper. Your offer does us honor, but we cannot accept it now. So
momentous an affair as your defection needs deep consideration.
Meanwhile you will have confided in no unfeeling barbarian. (_Aside to
the others_.) We may be able to worm something out of him. Bellmaus,
you have the tenderest heart of us three; you must devote yourself to
him today.
BELLMAUS. But what shall I do with him?
BOLZ. Take him into the restaurant, sit down in a corner with him,
pour punch into every hollow of his poor head until his secrets jump
out like wet mice. Make him chatter, especially about the elections.
Go, little man, and take good care not to get overheated yourself and
babble.
BELLMAUS. In that case I shall not see much of the fête.
BOLZ. That's true, my son! But what does the fête mean to you? Heat,
dust, and stale dance-music. Besides, we will tell you all about it in
the morning; and then you are a poet, and can imagine the whole affair
to be much finer than it really was. So don't take it to heart. You
may think you have a thankless role, but it is the most important of
all, for it requires coolness and cleverness. Go, mousey, and look out
about getting overheated.
BELLMAUS. I'll look out, old tom-cat.--Come along Schmock!
[BELLMAUS _and_ SCHMOCK _leave_.]
BOLZ. We might as well separate, too.
KÄMPE. I'll go and see how people feel. If I need you I'll look you
up.
BOLZ. I had better not show myself much. I'll stay around here.
[_Exit_ KÄMPE.]
Alone at last!
[_Goes to centre door_.]
There stands the Colonel, closely surrounded. It is she! She is here,
and I have to lie in hiding like a fox under the leaves.--But she has
falcon eyes,--perhaps--the throng disperses--she is walking through
the hall arm-in-arm with Ida--(_Excitedly_.) They are drawing nearer!
(_Irritably_.) Oh, bother! There is Korb rushing toward me! And just
now!
_Enter_ KORB.
KORB. Mr. Conrad! I can't believe my eyes! You here, at this fête!
BOLZ (_hastily_). Hush, old chap! I'm not here without a reason. I can
trust you--you're one of us, you know.
KORB. Body and soul. Through all the talking and fiddling I've kept
saying to myself, "Long live the _Union!"_ Here she is!
[_Shows him a paper in his pocket_.]
BOLZ. Good, Korb, you can do me a great favor. In a corner of the
refreshment room Bellmaus is sitting with a stranger. He is to pump
the stranger, but cannot stand much himself and is likely to say
things he shouldn't. You'll do the party a great service if you will
hurry in and drink punch so as to keep Bellmaus up to the mark. You
have a strong head--I know it from of old.
KORB (_hastily_). I go! You are as full of tricks as ever, I see. You
may rely on me. The stranger shall succumb, and the _Union_ shall
triumph.
[_Exit quickly. The music ceases_.]
BOLZ. Poor Schmock! [_At the door_.]
Ah, they are still walking through the hall. Ida is being spoken to,
she stops, Adelaide goes on--(_Excitedly_.) she's coming, she's coming
alone!
ADELAIDE (_makes a motion as though to pass the door, but suddenly
enters_. BOLZ _bows_). Conrad! My dear doctor!
[_Holds out her hand_. BOLZ _bends low over it_.]
ADELAIDE (_in joyous emotion_). I knew you at once from a distance.
Let me see your faithful face. Yes, it has changed but little--a scar,
browner, and a small line about the mouth. I hope it is from laughing.
BOLZ. If at this moment I feel like anything but laughing it is only a
passing malignity of soul. I see myself double, like a melancholy
Highlander. In your presence my long happy childhood passes bodily
before my eyes. All the joy and pain it brought me I feel as vividly
again as though I were still the boy who went into the wood for you in
search of wild adventures and caught robin-red-breasts. And yet the
fine creature I see before me is so different from my playmate that I
realize I am only dreaming a beautiful dream. Your eyes shine as
kindly as ever, but--(_Bowing_.) I have scarcely the right still to
think of old dreams.
ADELAIDE. Possibly I, too, am not so changed as you think; and changed
though we both be, we have remained good friends, have we not?
BOLZ. Rather than give up one iota of my claim to your regard, I would
write and print and try to sell malicious articles against myself.
ADELAIDE. And yet you have been too proud all this time even to come
and see your friend in town. Why have you broken with the Colonel?
BOLZ. I have not broken with him. On the contrary, I have a very
estimable position in his house--one that I can best keep by going
there as seldom as possible. The Colonel, and occasionally Miss Ida,
too, like to assuage their anger against Oldendorf and the newspaper
by regarding me as the evil one with horns and hoofs. A relationship
so tender must be handled with care--a devil must not cheapen himself
by appearing every day.
ADELAIDE. Well, I hope you will now abandon this lofty viewpoint. I am
spending the winter in town, and I hope that for love of your
boyhood's friend you will call on my friends as a denizen of this
world.
BOLZ. In any role you apportion me.
ADELAIDE. Even in that of a peace-envoy between the Colonel and
Oldendorf?
BOLZ. If peace be at the cost of Oldendorf's withdrawal, then no.
Otherwise I am ready to serve you in all good works.
ADELAIDE. But I fear that this is the only price at which peace can be
purchased. You see, Mr. Conrad, we too have become opponents.
BOLZ. To do anything against your wishes is horrible to me, son of
perdition though I be. So my saint wills and commands that Oldendorf
do not become member of Parliament?
ADELAIDE. I will it and command it, Mr. Devil!
BOLZ. It is hard. Up in your heaven you have so many gentlemen to
bestow on Miss Ida; why must you carry off a poor devil's one and only
soul, the professor?
ADELAIDE. It is just the professor I want, and you must let me have
him.
BOLZ. I am in despair. I would tear my hair were the place not so
unsuitable. I dread your anger. The thought makes me tremble that you
might not like this election.
ADELAIDE. Well, try to stop the election, then.
BOLZ. That I cannot do. But so soon as it is over I am fated to mourn
and grow melancholy over your anger. I shall withdraw from the
world--far, far to the North Pole. There I shall end my days sadly,
playing dominoes with polar bears, or spreading the elements of
journalistic training among the seals. That will be easier to endure
than the scathing glance of your eyes.
ADELAIDE (_laughing_). Yes, that's the way you always were. You made
every possible promise and acted exactly as you pleased. But before
starting for the North Pole, perhaps you will make one more effort to
reconcile me here.
[KÄMPE _is seen at the door._]
Hush!--I shall look forward to your visit. Farewell, my re-found
friend!
[_EXIT_.]
BOLZ. And thus my good angel turns her back to me in anger! And now,
politics, thou witch, I am irretrievably in thy power!
[_Exit quickly through centre door._]
_Enter_ PIEPENBRINK, MRS. PIEPENBRINK, BERTHA _escorted by_ FRITZ
KLEINMICHEL, _and_ KLEINMICHEL _through centre door. Quadrille behind
the scenes._
PIEPENBRINK. Thank Heaven, we are out of this crowd!
MRS. PIEPENBRINK. It is very hot.
KLEINMICHEL. And the music is too loud. There are too many trumpets
and I hate trumpets.
PIEPENBRINK. Here's a quiet spot; we'll sit down here.
FRITZ. Bertha would prefer staying in the ball-room. Might I not go
back with her?
PIEPENBRINK. I have no objection to you young people going back into
the ball-room, but I prefer your staying here with us. I like to keep
my whole party together.
MRS. PIEPENBRINK. Stay with your parents, my child!
PIEPENBRINK. Sit down! (_To his wife._) You sit at the corner, Fritz
comes next to me. You take Bertha between you, neighbors. Her place
will soon be at your table, anyway.
[_They seat themselves at the table on the right--at the left corner_
MRS. PIEPENBRINK, _then he himself_, FRITZ, BERTHA, KLEINMICHEL.]
FRITZ. When will "soon" be, godfather? You have been saying that this
long time, but you put off the wedding day further and further.
PIEPENBRINK. That is no concern of yours.
FRITZ. I should think it is, godfather! Am I not the man that wants
to marry Bertha?
PIEPENBRINK. That's a fine argument! Any one can want that. But it's I
who am to give her to you, which is more to the point, young man; for
it is going to be hard enough for me to let the little wag-tail leave
my nest. So you wait. You shall have her, but wait!
KLEINMICHEL. He will wait, neighbor.
PIEPENBRINK. Well, I should strongly advise him to do so. Hey! Waiter,
waiter!
[Illustration: _Permission F. Bruckman, A.-G. Munich_ ON THE TERRACE
ADOLF VON MENZEL]
MRS. PIEPENBRINK. What poor service one gets in such places!
PIEPENBRINK. Waiter!
[_Waiter comes._]
My name is Piepenbrink. I brought along six bottles of my own wine.
The restaurant-keeper has them. I should like them here.
[_While the waiter is bringing the bottles and glasses_ BOLZ _and_
KÄMPE _appear. Waiter from time to time in the background._]
BOLZ (_aside to_ KÄMPE). Which one is it?
KÄMPE. The one with his back to us, the broad-shouldered one.
BOLZ. And what kind of a business does he carry on?
KÄMPE. Chiefly red wines.
BOLZ. Good! (_Aloud._) Waiter, a table and two chairs here! A bottle
of red wine!
[_Waiter brings what has been ordered to the front, on the left._]
MRS. PIEPENBRINK. What are those people doing here?
PIEPENBRINK. That is the trouble with such promiscuous assemblies,
that one never can be alone.
KLEINMICHEL. They seem respectable gentlemen; I think I have seen one
of them before.
PIEPENBRINK (_decisively_). Respectable or not, they are in our way.
KLEINMICHEL. Yes, to be sure, so they are.
BOLZ (_seating himself with_ KÄMPE). Here, my friend, we can sit
quietly before a bottle of red wine. I hardly dare to pour it out, for
the wine at such restaurants is nearly always abominable. What sort of
stuff do you suppose this will be?
PIEPENBRINK (_irritated_). Indeed? Just listen to that!
KÄMPE. Let's try it.
[_Pours out; in a low voice._]
There is a double P. on the seal; that might mean Piepenbrink.
PIEPENBRINK. Well, I am curious to know what these greenhorns will
have to say against the wine.
MRS. PIEPENBRINK. Be quiet, Philip, they can hear you over there.
BOLZ (_in a low tone_). I'm sure you are right. The restaurant takes
its wine from him. That's his very reason for coming.
PIEPENBRINK. They don't seem to be thirsty; they are not drinking.
BOLZ (_tastes it; aloud_). Not bad!
PIEPENBRINK (_ironically_). Indeed?
BOLZ (_takes another sip_). A good, pure wine.
PIEPENBRINK (_relieved_). The fellow's judgment is not so bad.
BOLZ. But it does not compare with a similar wine that I recently
drank at a friend's house.
PIEPENBRINK. Indeed?
BOLZ. I learned then that there is only one man in town from whom a
sensible wine-drinker should take his red wine.
KÄMPE. And that is?
PIEPENBRINK (_ironically_). I really should like to know.
BOLZ. It's a certain Piepenbrink.
PIEPENBRINK (_nodding his head contentedly_). Good!
KÄMPE. Yes, it is well known to be a very reliable firm.
PIEPENBRINK. They don't know that their own wine, too, is from my
cellars. Ha! Ha! Ha!
BOLZ (_turning to him_). Are you laughing at us, Sir?
PIEPENBRINK. Ha! Ha! Ha! No offense. I merely heard you talking about
the wine. So you like Piepenbrink's wine better than this here? Ha!
Ha! Ha!
BOLZ (_slightly indignant_). Sir, I must request you to find my
expressions less comical. I do not know Mr. Piepenbrink, but I have
the pleasure of knowing his wine; and so I repeat the assertion that
Piepenbrink has better wine in his cellar than this here. What do you
find to laugh at in that? You do not know Piepenbrink's wines and have
no right to judge of them.
PIEPENBRINK. I do not know Piepenbrink's wines, I do not know Philip
Piepenbrink either, I never saw his wife--do you hear that,
Lottie?--And when his daughter Bertha meets me I ask, "Who is that
little black-head?" That is a funny story. Isn't it, Kleinmichel?
KLEINMICHEL. It is very funny! [_Laughs._]
BOLZ (_rising with dignity_). Sir, I am a stranger to you and have
never insulted you. You look honorable and I find you in the society
of charming ladies. For that reason I cannot imagine that you came
here to mock at strangers. As man to man, therefore, I request you to
explain why you find my harmless words so astonishing. If you don't
like Mr. Piepenbrink why do you visit it on us?
PIEPENBRINK _(rising_). Don't get too excited, Sir. Now, see here! The
wine you are now drinking is also from Piepenbrink's cellar, and I
myself am the Philip Piepenbrink for whose sake you are pitching into
me. Now, do you see why I laugh?
BOLZ. Ah, is that the way things stand? You yourself are Mr.
Piepenbrink? Then I am really glad to make your acquaintance. No
offense, honored Sir!
PIEPENBRINK. No, no offense. Everything is all right.
BOLZ. Since you were so kind as to tell us your name, the next thing
in order is for you to learn ours. I'm Bolz, Doctor of Philosophy, and
my friend here is Mr. Kämpe.
PIEPENBRINK. Pleased to meet you.
BOLZ. We are comparative strangers in this company and had withdrawn
to this side room as one feels slightly embarrassed among so many new
faces. But we should be very sorry if by our presence we in any way
disturbed the enjoyment of the ladies and the conversation of so
estimable a company. Tell us frankly if we are in the way, and we will
find another place.
PIEPENBRINK. You seem to me a jolly fellow and are not in the least in
my way, Doctor Bolz--that was the name, was it not?
MRS. PIEPENBRINK. We, too, are strangers here and had only just sat
down. Piepenbrink!
[_Nudges him slightly._]
PIEPENBRINK. I tell you what, Doctor, as you are already acquainted
with the yellow-seal from my cellar and have passed a very sensible
verdict upon it, how would it be for you to give it another trial
here? Sit down with us if you have nothing better to do, and we will
have a good talk together.
BOLZ (_with dignity, as throughout this whole scene, during which both
he and KÄMPE must not seem to be in any way pushing_). That is a very
kind invitation, and we accept it with pleasure. Be good enough, dear
Sir, to present us to your company.
PIEPENBRINK. This here is my wife.
BOLZ. Do not be vexed at our breaking in upon you, Madam. We promise
to behave ourselves and to be as good company as lies in the power of
two shy bachelors.
PIEPENBRINK. Here is my daughter.
BOLZ (_to_ MRS. PIEPENBRINK). One could have known that from the
likeness.
PIEPENBRINK. This is my friend, Mr. Kleinmichel, and this, Fritz
Kleinmichel, my daughter's fiancé.
BOLZ. I congratulate you, gentlemen, on such delightful society. (_To_
PIEPENBRINK.) Permit me to sit next to the lady of the house. Kämpe, I
thought you would sit next to Mr. Kleinmichel.
[_They sit down_.]
Now we alternate! Waiter!
[_Waiter comes to him_.]
Two bottles of this!
PIEPENBRINK. Hold on! You won't find that wine here. I brought my own
kind. You're to drink with me.
BOLZ. But Mr. Piepenbrink----
PIEPENBRINK. No remonstrances! You drink with me. And when I ask any
one to drink with me, Sir, I don't mean to sip, as women do, but to
drink out and fill up. You must make up your mind to that.
BOLZ. Well, I am content. We as gratefully accept your hospitality as
it is heartily offered. But you must then let me have my revenge. Next
Sunday you are all to be my guests, will you? Say yes, my kind host!
Punctually at seven, informal supper. I am single, so it will be in a
quiet, respectable hotel. Give your consent, my dear Madam. Shake
hands on it, Mr. Piepenbrink.--You, too, Mr. Kleinmichel and Mr.
Fritz!
[_Holds out his hand to each of them_.]
PIEPENBRINK. If my wife is satisfied it will suit me all right.
BOLZ. Done! Agreed! And now the first toast. To the good spirit who
brought us together today, long may he live!--[_Questioning those
about him_.] What's the spirit's name?
FRITZ KLEINMICHEL. Chance.
BOLZ. No, he has a yellow cap.
PIEPENBRINK. Yellow-seal is his name.
BOLZ. Correct! Here's his health! We hope the gentleman may last a
long time, as the cat said to the bird when she bit its head off.
KLEINMICHEL. We wish him long life just as we are putting an end to
him.
BOLZ. Well said! Long life!
PIEPENBRINK. Long life!
[_They touch glasses_. PIEPENBRINK _to his wife_.]
It is going to turn out well today, after all.
MRS. PIEPENBRINK. They are very modest nice men.
BOLZ. You can't imagine how glad I am that our good fortune brought us
into such pleasant company. For although in there everything is very
prettily arranged--
PIEPENBRINK. It really is all very creditable.
BOLZ. Very creditable! But yet this political society is not to my
taste.
PIEPENBRINK. Ah, indeed! You don't belong to the party, I suppose, and
on that account do not like it.
BOLZ. It's not that! But when I reflect that all these people have
been invited, not really to heartily enjoy themselves, but in order
that they shall presently give their votes to this or that gentleman,
it cools my ardor.
PIEPENBRINK. Oh, it can hardly be meant just that way. Something could
be said on the other side--don't you think so, comrade?
KLEINMICHEL. I trust no one will be asked to sign any agreement here.
BOLZ. Perhaps not. I have no vote to cast and I am proud to be in a
company where nothing else is thought of but enjoying oneself with
one's neighbor and paying attention to the queens of society--to
charming women! Touch glasses, gentlemen, to the health of the ladies,
of the two who adorn our circle. [_All touch glasses_.]
PIEPENBRINK. Come here, Lottie, your health is being drunk.
BOLZ. Young lady, allow a stranger to drink to your future prosperity.
PIEPENBRINK. What else do you suppose they are going to do in there?
FRITZ KLEINMICHEL. I hear that at supper there are to be speeches, and
the candidate for election, Colonel Berg, is to be introduced.
PIEPENBRINK. A very estimable gentleman.
KLEINMICHEL. Yes, it is a good choice the gentlemen on the committee
have made.
ADELAIDE, _who has been visible in the rear, now saunters in_.
ADELAIDE. He sitting here? What sort of a company is that?
KÄMPE. People say that Professor Oldendorf has a good chance of
election. Many are said to be going to vote for him.
PIEPENBRINK. I have nothing to say against him, only to my mind he is
too young.
SENDEN _is seen in the rear, later_ BLUMENBERG _and guests_.
SENDEN. You here, Miss Runeck?
ADELAIDE. I'm amusing myself with watching those queer people. They
act as though the rest of the company were non-existent.
SENDEN. What do I see? There sits the _Union_ itself and next to one
of the most important personages of the fête!
[_The music ceases_.]
BOLZ (_who has meanwhile been conversing with_ MRS. PIEPENBRINK _but
has listened attentively--to_ MR. PIEPENBRINK). There, you see the
gentlemen cannot desist from talking politics after all. (_To_
PIEPENBRINK.) Did you not mention Professor Oldendorf?
PIEPENBRINK. Yes, my jolly Doctor, just casually.
BOLZ. When you talk of him I heartily pray you to say good things
about him; for he is the best, the noblest man I know.
PIEPENBRINK. Indeed? You know him?
KLEINMICHEL. Are you possibly a friend of his!
BOLZ. More than that. Were the professor to say to me today: "Bolz, it
will help me to have you jump into the water," I should have to jump
in, unpleasant as it would be to me just at this moment to drown in
water.
PIEPENBRINK. Oho! That is strong!
BOLZ. In this company I have no right to speak of candidates for
election. But if I did have a member to elect he should be the
one--he, first of all.
PIEPENBRINK. But you are very much prejudiced in the man's favor.
BOLZ. His political views do not concern me here at all. But what do I
demand of a member? That he be a man; that he have a warm heart and a
sure judgment, and that he know unwaveringly and unquestionably what
is good and right; furthermore, that he have the strength to do what
he knows to be right without delay, without hesitation.
PIEPENBRINK. Bravo!
KLEINMICHEL. But the Colonel, too, is said to be that kind of a man.
BOLZ. Possibly he is, I do not know; but of Oldendorf I know it. I
looked straight into his heart on the occasion of an unpleasant
experience I went through. I was once on the point of burning to
powder when he was kind enough to prevent it. Him I have to thank for
sitting here. He saved my life.
SENDEN. He lies abominably!
[_Starts forward_.]
ADELAIDE (_holding him back_). Be still! I believe there is some truth
to the story.
PIEPENBRINK. Well now, it was very fine of him to save your life; but
that kind of thing often happens.
MRS. PIEPENBRINK. Do tell us about it, Doctor!
BOLZ. The little affair is like a hundred others and would not
interest me at all, had I not been through it myself. Picture to
yourself an old house. I am a student living on the third floor. In
the house opposite me lives a young scholar; we do not know each
other. At dead of night I am awakened by a great noise and a strange
crackling under me. If it were mice, they must have been having a
torchlight procession for the room was brilliantly illuminated. I rush
to the window, the bright flame from the story under me leaps up to
where I stand. My window-panes burst about my head, and a vile cloud
of smoke rushes in on me. There being no great pleasure under the
circumstances in leaning out of the window, I rush to the door and
throw it open. The stairs, too, cannot resist the mean impulse
peculiar to old wood, they are all ablaze. Up three flights of stairs
and no exit! I gave myself up for lost. Half unconscious I hurried
back to the window. I heard the cries from the street, "A man! a man!
This way with the ladder!" A ladder was set up. In an instant it began
to smoke and to burn like tinder. It was dragged away. Then streams of
water from all the engines hissed in the flames beneath me. Distinctly
I could hear each separate stream striking the glowing wall. A fresh
ladder was put up; below there was deathly silence and you can imagine
that I, too, had no desire to make much of a commotion in my fiery
furnace. "It can't be done," cried the people below. Then a full, rich
voice rang out: "Raise the ladder higher!" Do you know, I felt
instantly that this was the voice of my rescuer. "Hurry!" cried those
below. Then a fresh cloud of vapor penetrated the room. I had had my
share of the thick smoke, and lay prostrate on the ground by the
window.
MRS. PIEPENBRINK. Poor Doctor Bolz!
PIEPENBRINK (_eagerly_). Go on!
[SENDEN _starts forward_.]
ADELAIDE (_holding him back_). Please, let him finish, the story is
true!
BOLZ. Then a man's hand seizes my neck. A rope is wound round me under
the arms, and a strong wrist raises me from the ground. A moment later
I was on the ladder, half dragged, half carried; with shirt aflame,
and unconscious, I reached the pavement.--I awoke in the room of the
young scholar. Save for a few slight burns, I had brought nothing with
me over into the new apartment; all my belongings were burned. The
stranger nursed me and cared for me like a brother. Not until I was
able to go out again did I learn that this scholar was the same man
who had paid his visit to me that night on the ladder. You see the man
has his heart in the right spot, and that's why I wish him now to
become member of Parliament, and why I could do for him what I would
not do for myself; for him I could electioneer, intrigue, or make
fools of honest people. That man is Professor Oldendorf.
PIEPENBRINK. Well, he's a tremendously fine man! [_Rising_.] Here's to
the health of Professor Oldendorf! [_All rise and touch glasses_.]
BOLZ (_bowing pleasantly to all--to_ MRS. PIEPENBRINK). I see warm
sympathy shining in your eyes, dear madam, and I thank you for it. Mr.
Piepenbrink, I ask permission to shake your hand; you are a fine
fellow. [_Slaps him on the back and embraces him_.] Give me your hand,
Mr. Kleinmichel! [_Embraces him_.] And you, too, Mr. Fritz
Kleinmichel! May no child of yours ever sit in the fire, but if he
does may there ever be a gallant man at hand to pull him out. Come
nearer, I must embrace you, too.
MRS. PIEPENBRINK (_much moved_). Piepenbrink, we have veal-cutlets
tomorrow. What do you think? [_Converses with him in a low tone_.]
ADELAIDE. His spirits are running away with him!
SENDEN. He is unbearable! I see that you are as indignant as I am. He
snatches away our people; it can no longer be endured.
BOLZ (_who had gone the rounds of table, returning and standing in
front of_ MRS. PIEPENBRINK). It really isn't right to let it stop
here. Mr. Piepenbrink, head of the house, I appeal to you, I ask your
permission--hand or mouth?
ADELAIDE (_horrified, on the right toward the front_). He is actually
kissing her!
PIEPENBRINK. Sail in, old man, courage!
MRS. PIEPENBRINK. Piepenbrink, I no longer know you!
ADELAIDE (_at the moment when_ BOLZ _is about to kiss_ MRS.
PIEPENBRINK _crosses the stage, passing them casually, as it were, and
holds her bouquet between_ BOLZ _and_ MRS. PIEPENBRINK. _In a low
tone, quickly to_ BOLZ). You're going too far! You are being watched!
[_Passes to the rear on the left, and exit_.]
BOLZ. A fairy interferes!
SENDEN _(who has already been haranguing some of the other guests,
including_ BLUMENBERG, _noisily pushes forward at this moment--to
those at the table_). He is presumptuous; he has thrust himself in!
PIEPENBRINK (_bringing down his hand on the table and rising_). Oho! I
like that! If I kiss my wife or let her be kissed, that is nobody's
concern whatever! Nobody's! No man and no woman and no fairy has a
right to put a hand before her mouth.
BOLZ. Very true! Splendid! Hear! Hear!
SENDEN. Revered Mr. Piepenbrink, no offense against you! The company
is charmed to see you here. Only to Mr. Bolz we will remark that his
presence is causing scandal. So completely opposed are his political
principles that we must regard his appearing at this fête as an
unwarrantable intrusion!
BOLZ. My political principles opposed? In society I know no other
political principle than this--to drink with nice people and not to
drink with those whom I do not consider nice. With you, Sir, I have
not drunk.
PIEPENBRINK _(striking the table_). That was a good one!
SENDEN _(hotly)_. You thrust yourself in here!
BOLZ _(indignantly)_. Thrust myself in?
PIEPENBRINK. Thrust himself in? Old man, you have an entrance ticket,
I suppose?
BOLZ _(frankly)_. Here is my ticket! It is not you I am showing it to,
but this honorable man from whom you are trying to estrange me by
your attack. Kämpe, give your ticket to Mr. Piepenbrink. He is the man
to judge of all the tickets in the world!
PIEPENBRINK. Here are two tickets just exactly as valid as my own.
Why, you scattered them right and left like sour grape juice. Oho! I
see quite well how things stand! I'm not one of your crowd, either,
but you want to get me. That's why you came to my house again and
again--because you expected to capture me. Because I am a voter,
that's why you're after me. But because this honorable man is not a
voter he does not count for you at all. We know those smooth tricks!
SENDEN. But, Mr. Piepenbrink!
PIEPENBRINK _(interrupting him, more angrily)_. Is that any reason for
insulting a peaceful guest? Is it a reason for closing my wife's
mouth? It is an injustice to this man, and he shall stay here as long
as I do. And he shall stay here by my side. And whoever attempts to
attack him will have to deal with me!
BOLZ. Your fist, good sir! You're a faithful comrade! And so
hand-in-hand with you Philip, I defy the Capulet and his entire clan!
PIEPENBRINK. Philip! Right you are, Conrad, my boy! Come here! They
shall swell with anger till they burst! Here's to Philip and Conrad!
_[They drink brotherhood.]_
BOLZ. Long live Piepenbrink!
PIEPENBRINK. So, old chum! Shall I tell you what! Since we are having
so good a time I think we'll leave all these people to their own
devices, and all of you come home with me. I'll brew a punch and we'll
sit together as merrily as jackdaws. I'll escort you, Conrad, and the
rest of you go ahead.
SENDEN _(and guests)_. But do listen, _revered_ Mr. Piepenbrink!
PIEPENBRINK. I'll listen to nothing. I'm done with you!
_Enter_ BELLMAUS _and other guests_.
BELLMAUS _(hurrying through the crowd_). Here I am!
BOLZ. My nephew! Gracious Madam, I put him under your protection!
Nephew, you escort Madam Piepenbrink. (MRS. PIEPENBRINK _takes a firm
grip on_ BELLMAUS'S _arm and holds him securely. Polka behind the
scene.)_ Farewell, gentlemen, it's beyond your power to spoil our good
humor. There, the music is striking up! We march off in a jolly
procession, and again I cry in conclusion, Long live Piepenbrink!
THE DEPARTING ONES. Long live Piepenbrink! _[They march off in
triumph_. FRITZ KLEINMICHEL _and his fiancée,_ KÄMPE _with_
KLEINMICHEL, MRS. PIEPENBRINK _with_ BELLMAUS, _finally_ BOLZ _with_
PIEPENBRINK.]
_Enter_ COLONEL.
COLONEL. What's going on here?
SENDEN. An outrageous scandal! The _Union_ has kidnapped our two most
important voters!
ACT III
SCENE I
_The_ COLONEL'S _Summer Parlor_.
_The_ COLONEL _in front, walking rapidly up and down. In the rear_,
ADELAIDE _and_ IDA _arm-in-arm, the latter in great agitation. A short
pause. Then enter_ SENDEN.
SENDEN (_hastily calling through centre door_).
All goes well! 37 votes against 29.
COLONEL.
Who has 37 votes?
SENDEN.
Why you, Colonel, of course!
COLONEL.
Of course! (_Exit_ SENDEN.) The election day is unendurable! In no
fight in my life did I have this feeling of fear. It is a mean
cannon-fever of which any ensign might be ashamed. And it is a long
time since I was an ensign!
[_Stamping his foot_.]
Confound it!
[_Goes to rear of stage_.]
IDA (_coming forward with_ ADELAIDE).
This uncertainty is frightful. Only one thing is sure, I shall be
unhappy whichever way this election turns out.
[_Leans on_ ADELAIDE.]
ADELAIDE.
Courage! Courage, little girl! Things may still turn out all right.
Hide your anxiety from your father; he is in a state of mind, as it
is, that does not please me at all.
_Enter_ BLUMENBERG _in haste; the_ COLONEL _rushes toward him_.
COLONEL.
Now, sir, how do things stand?
BLUMENBERG.
41 votes for you, Colonel, 34 for our opponents; three have fallen on
outsiders. The votes are being registered at very long intervals now,
but the difference in your favor remains much the same. Eight more
votes for you, Colonel, and the victory is won. We have every chance
now of coming out ahead. I am hurrying back, the decisive moment is at
hand. My compliments to the ladies!
[_Exit_.]
COLONEL.
Ida!
[IDA _hastens to him_.]
Are you my good daughter?
IDA.
My dear father!
COLONEL.
I know what is troubling you, child. You are worse off than any one.
Console yourself, Ida; if, as seems likely, the professor has to make
way for the old soldier, then we'll talk further on the matter.
Oldendorf has not deserved it of me; there are many things about him
that I do not like. But you are my only child. I shall think of that
and of nothing else; but the very first thing to do is to break down
the young man's obstinacy.
[_Releases_ IDA; _walks up and down again._]
ADELAIDE (_in the foreground, aside_).
The barometer has risen, the sunshine of pardon breaks through the
clouds. If only it were all over! Such excitement is infectious! (_To_
IDA.) You see you do not yet have to think of entering a nunnery.
IDA. But if Oldendorf is defeated, how will he bear it!
ADELAIDE (_shrugging her shoulders_).
He loses a seat in unpleasant company and wins, instead, an amusing
little wife. I think he ought to be satisfied. In any case he will
have a chance to make his speeches. Whether he makes them in one house
or another, what is the difference? I fancy you will listen to him
more reverently than any other member.
IDA (_shyly_).
But Adelaide, what if it really would be better for the country to
have Oldendorf elected?
ADELAIDE.
Yes, dearest, in that case there is no help for the country. Our State
and the rest of the European nations must learn to get along without
the professor. You have yourself to attend to first of all; you wish
to marry him; you come first.
[_Enter_ CARL.]
What news, Carl?
CARL.
Mr. von Senden presents his compliments and reports 47 to 42. The head
of the election committee, he says, has already congratulated him.
COLONEL.
Congratulated? Lay out my uniform, ask for the key of the wine-cellar,
and set the table; we are likely to have visitors this evening.
CARL.
Yes, Colonel.
[_Exit_.]
COLONEL (_to himself in the foreground_).
Now, my young professor! My style does not please you? It may be that
you are right. I grant you are a better journalist. But here, where it
is a serious matter, you will find yourself in the wrong, just for
once. [_Pause_.] I may be obliged to say a few words this evening. It
used to be said of me in the regiment, indeed, that I could always
speak to the point, but these manoeuvres in civilian dress disconcert
me a little. Let's think it over! It will be only proper for me to
mention Oldendorf in my speech, of course with due respect and
appreciation; yes indeed, I must do that. He is an honest fellow, with
an excellent heart, and a scholar with fine judgment. And he can be
very amiable if you disregard his political theories. We have had
pleasant evenings together. And as we sat then around my fat
tea-kettle and the good boy began to tell his stories, Ida's eyes
would be fixed on his face and would shine with pleasure--yes, and my
own old eyes, too, I think. Those were fine evenings! Why do we have
them no longer? Bah! They'll come back again! He'll bear defeat
quietly in his own way--a good, helpful way. No sensitiveness in him!
He really is at heart a fine fellow, and Ida and I could be happy with
him. And so, gentlemen and electors--but thunder and lightning! I
can't say all that to the voters! I'll say to them--
_Enter_ SENDEN.
SENDEN (_excitedly_).
Shameful, shameful! All is lost!
COLONEL.
Aha! (_Instantly draws himself up in military posture_.)
ADELAIDE } My presentiment! Father!
} [_Hurries to him_].
} (_together_).
}
IDA } Dear me!
SENDEN.
It was going splendidly. We had 47, the opponents 42 votes. Eight
votes were still to be cast. Two more for us and the day would have
been ours. The legally appointed moment for closing the ballot-box had
come. All looked at the clock and called for the dilatory voters. Then
there was a trampling of feet in the corridor. A group of eight
persons pushed noisily into the hall, at their head the vulgar
wine-merchant Piepenbrink, the same one who at the fête the other
day--
ADELAIDE.
We know; go on--
SENDEN.
Each of the band in turn came forward, gave his vote and "Edward
Oldendorf" issued from the lips of all. Then finally came this
Piepenbrink. Before voting he asked the man next to him: "Is the
professor sure of it?" "Yes," was the reply. "Then I, as last voter,
choose as member of Parliament"--[_Stops._]
ADELAIDE.
The professor?
SENDEN.
No. "A most clever and cunning politician," so he put it, "Dr. Conrad
Bolz." Then he turned short around and his henchmen followed him.
ADELAIDE (_aside, smiling_).
Aha!
SENDEN.
Oldendorf is member by a majority of two votes.
COLONEL.
Ugh!
SENDEN.
It is a shame! No one is to blame for this result but these
journalists of the _Union_. Such a running about, an intriguing, a
shaking of hands with all the voters, a praising of this Oldendorf, a
shrugging of the shoulders at us--and at you, dear Sir!
COLONEL.
Indeed?
IDA.
That last is not true.
ADELAIDE (_to_ SENDEN).
Show some regard, and spare those here.
COLONEL.
You are trembling, my daughter. You are a woman, and let yourself be
too much affected by such trifles. I will not have you listen to these
tidings any longer. Go, my child! Why, your friend has won, there is
no reason for you to cry! Help her, Miss Adelaide!
IDA (_is led by_ ADELAIDE _to the side door on the left;
entreatingly_.)
Leave me! Stay with father!
SENDEN.
Upon my honor, the bad faith and arrogance with which this paper is
edited are no longer to be endured. Colonel, since we are alone--for
Miss Adelaide will let me count her as one of us--we have a chance to
take a striking revenge. Their days are numbered now. Quite a long
time ago, already, I had the owner of the _Union_ sounded. He is not
disinclined to sell the paper, but merely has scruples about the party
now controlling the sheet. At the club-fête I myself had a talk with
him.
ADELAIDE.
What's this I hear?
SENDEN.
This outcome of the election will cause the greatest bitterness among
all our friends, and I have no doubt that, in a few days, by forming a
stock company, we can collect the purchase price. That would be a
deadly blow to our opponents, a triumph for the good cause. The most
widely-read sheet in the province in our hands, edited by a
committee--
ADELAIDE.
To which Mr. von Senden would not refuse his aid--
SENDEN.
As a matter of duty I should do my part. Colonel, if you would be one
of the shareholders, your example would at once make the purchase a
sure thing.
COLONEL.
Sir, what you do to further your political ideas is your own affair.
Professor Oldendorf, however, has been a welcome guest in my house.
Never will I work against him behind his back. You would have spared
me this moment had you not previously deceived me by your assurances
as to the sentiments of the majority. However, I bear you no malice.
You acted from the best of motives, I am sure. I beg the company to
excuse me if I withdraw for today. I hope to see you tomorrow again,
dear Senden.
SENDEN.
Meanwhile I will start the fund for the purchase of the newspaper. I
bid you good day. [_Exit_.]
COLONEL.
Pardon me, Adelaide, if I leave you alone. I have some letters to
write, and [_with a forced laugh_] my newspapers to read.
ADELAIDE (_sympathetically_).
May I not stay with you now, of all times?
COLONEL (_with an effort_).
I shall be better off alone, now.
[_Exit through centre door_.]
ADELAIDE (_alone_).
My poor Colonel! Injured vanity is hard at work in his faithful soul.
And Ida. [_Gently opens the door on the left, remains standing_.] She
is writing. It is not difficult to guess to whom. [_Closes the door_.]
And for all of this mischief that evil spirit Journalism is to blame.
Everybody complains of it, and every one tries to use it for his own
ends. My Colonel scorned newspaper men until he became one himself,
and Senden misses no opportunity of railing at my good friends of
the pen, merely because he wishes to put himself in their place. I see
Piepenbrink and myself becoming journalists, too, and combining to
edit a little sheet under the title of _Naughty Bolz_. So the _Union_
is in danger of being secretly sold. It might be quite a good thing
for Conrad: he would then have to think of something else besides the
newspaper. Ah! the rogue would start a new one at once!
_Enter_ OLDENDORF _and_ CARL.
OLDENDORF (_while still outside of the room_).
And the Colonel will receive no one?
CARL.
No one, Professor. [_Exit_.]
ADELAIDE (_going up to_ OLDENDORF).
Dear Professor, this is not just the right moment for you to come. We
are very much hurt and out of sorts with the world, but most of all
with you.
OLDENDORF.
I am afraid you are, but I must speak to him.
_Enter_ IDA _through the door on the left_.
IDA (_going toward him_).
Edward! I knew you would come!
OLDENDORF.
My dear Ida! [_Embraces her_.]
IDA (_with her arms around his neck_).
And what will become of us now?
_Enter_ COLONEL _through centre door_.
COLONEL (_with forced calmness_).
You shall remain in no doubt about that, my daughter! I beg you,
Professor, to forget that you were once treated as a friend in this
household. I require you, Ida, to banish all thought of the hours when
this gentleman entertained you with his sentiments. (_More
violently_.) Be still! In my own house at least I submit to no attacks
from a journalist. Forget him, or forget that you are my daughter. Go
in there! [_Leads_ IDA, _not ungently, out to the left, and places
himself in front of the door_.] On this ground, Mr. Editor and Member
of Parliament, before the heart of my child, you shall not beat me.
[_Exit to the left_.]
ADELAIDE (_aside_).
Dear me! That is bad!
OLDENDORF (_as the_ COLONEL _turns to go, with determination_).
Colonel, it is ungenerous of you to refuse me this interview. [_Goes
toward the door_.]
ADELAIDE (_intercepting him quickly_).
Stop! No further! He is in a state of excitement where a single word
might do permanent harm. But do not leave us this way, Professor; give
me just a few moments.
OLDENDORF.
I must, in my present condition of mind, ask your indulgence. I have
long dreaded just such a scene, and yet I hardly feel able to control
myself.
ADELAIDE.
You know our friend; you know that his quick temper drives him into
acts for which later he would gladly atone.
OLDENDORF.
This was more than a fit of temper. It means a breach between us
two--a breach that seems to me beyond healing.
ADELAIDE.
Beyond healing, Professor! If your sentiments toward Ida are what I
think they are, healing is not so difficult. Would it not be fitting
for you even now--especially now--to accede to the father's wishes.
Does not the woman you love deserve that, for once at least, you
sacrifice your ambition!
OLDENDORF.
My ambition, yes; my duty, no.
ADELAIDE.
Your own happiness, Professor, seems to me to be ruined for a long
time, possibly forever, if you part from Ida in this way.
OLDENDORF (_gloomily_).
Not every one can be happy in his private life.
ADELAIDE.
This resignation does not please me at all, least of all in a man.
Pardon me for saying so, plainly. (_Ingratiatingly_.) Is the
misfortune so great if you become member for this town a few years
later, or even not at all?
OLDENDORF.
Miss Runeck, I am not conceited. I do not rate my abilities very high,
and, as far as I know myself, there is no ambitious impulse lurking at
the bottom of my heart. Possibly, as you do now, so a later age will
set a low estimate on our political wrangling, our party aims, and all
that that includes. Possibly all our labor will be without result;
possibly much of the good we hope to do will, when achieved, turn out
to be the opposite--yes, it is highly probable that my own share in
the struggle will often be painful, unedifying, and not at all what
you would call a grateful task; but all that must not keep me from
devoting my life to the strife and struggle of the age to which I
belong. That struggle, after all, is the best and noblest that the
present has to offer. Not every age permits its sons to achieve
results which remain great for all time; and, I repeat, not every age
can make those who live in it distinguished and happy.
ADELAIDE.
I think every age can accomplish that if the individuals will only
understand how to be great and happy. [_Rising_.] You, Professor, will
do nothing for your own little home-happiness. You force your friends
to act for you.
[Illustration: Permission F. Bruckmann, A.-G. Munich
IN THE BEERGARDEN Adolph von Menzel]
OLDENDORF.
At all events cherish as little anger against me as possible, and
speak a good word for me to Ida.
ADELAIDE.
I shall set my woman's wits to aiding you, Mr. Statesman.
[_Exit_ OLDENDORF.]
ADELAIDE (_alone_).
So this is one of the noble, scholarly, free spirits of the German
nation! And he climbs into the fire from a sheer sense of duty! But to
conquer anything--the world, happiness, or even a wife--for that he
never was made!
_Enter_ CARL.
CARL (_announcing_).
Dr. Bolz!
ADELAIDE.
Ah! He at least will be no such paragon of virtue!--Where is the
Colonel?
CARL.
In Miss Ida's room.
ADELAIDE.
Show the gentleman in here.
[_Exit_ CARL.]
I feel somewhat embarrassed at seeing you again, Mr. Bolz; I shall
take pains to conceal it.
_Enter_ BOLZ.
BOLZ.
A poor soul has just left you, vainly seeking consolation in your
philosophy. I too come as an unfortunate, for yesterday I incurred
your displeasure; and but for your presence, which cut short a
vexatious scene, Mr. von Senden, in the interests of social propriety,
would doubtless have pitched into me still harder. I thank you for the
reminder you gave me; I take it as a sign that you will not withdraw
your friendly interest in me.
ADELAIDE (_aside_).
Very pretty, very diplomatic!--It is kind of you to put so good a
construction on my astonishing behavior. But pardon me if I presume to
interfere again; that scene with Mr. von Senden will not, I trust,
give provocation for a second one?
BOLZ (_aside_).
This eternal Senden! (_Aloud_.) Your interest in him furnishes me
grounds for avoiding further consequences. I think I can manage it.
ADELAIDE.
I thank you. And now let me tell you that you are a dangerous
diplomatist. You have inflicted a thorough defeat on this household.
On this unfortunate day but one thing has pleased me--the one vote
which sought to make you member of Parliament.
BOLZ.
It was a crazy idea of the honest wine-merchant.
ADELAIDE.
You took so much trouble to put your friend in, why did you not work
for yourself? The young man I used to know had lofty aims, and nothing
seemed beyond the range of his soaring ambition. Have you changed, or
is the fire still burning?
BOLZ (_smiling_).
I have become a journalist, Miss Adelaide.
ADELAIDE.
Your friend is one, too.
BOLZ.
Only as a side issue. But I belong to the guild. He who has joined it
may have the ambition to write wittily or well. All that goes beyond
that is not for us.
ADELAIDE.
Not for you?
BOLZ.
For that we are too flighty, too restless and scatter-brained.
ADELAIDE.
Are you in earnest about that, Conrad?
BOLZ.
Perfectly in earnest. Why should I wish to seem to you different from
what I am? We journalists feed our minds on the daily news; we must
taste the dishes Satan cooks for men down to the smallest morsel; so
you really should make allowances for us. The daily vexation over
failure and wrong doing, the perpetual little excitements over all
sorts of things--that has an effect upon a man. At first one clenches
one's fist, then one learns to laugh at it. If you work only for the
day you come to live for the day.
ADELAIDE (_perturbed_).
But that is sad, I think.
BOLZ.
On the contrary, it is quite amusing. We buzz like bees, in spirit we
fly through the whole world, suck honey when we find it, and sting
when something displeases us. Such a life is not apt to make great
heroes, but queer dicks like us are also needed.
ADELAIDE (_aside_).
Now he too is at it, and he is even worse than the other one.
BOLZ.
We won't waste sentiment on that account. I scribble away so long as
it goes. When it no longer goes, others take my place and do the same.
When Conrad Bolz, the grain of wheat, has been crushed in the great
mill, other grains fall on the stones until the flour is ready from
which the future, possibly, will bake good bread for the benefit of
the many.
ADELAIDE.
No, no, that is morbidness; such resignation is wrong.
BOLZ.
Such resignation will eventually be found in every profession. It is
not your lot. To you is due a different kind of happiness, and you
will find it. (_Feelingly_.) Adelaide, as a boy I wrote you tender
verses and lulled myself in foolish dreams. I was very fond of you,
and the wound our separation inflicted still smarts at times.
[ADELAIDE _makes a deprecatory gesture_.] Don't be alarmed, I am not
going to pain you. I long begrudged my fate, and had moments when I
felt like an outcast. But now when you stand there before me in full
radiancy, so lovely, so desirable, when my feeling for you is as warm
as ever, I must say to you all the same: Your father, it is true,
treated me roughly; but that he separated us, that he prevented you,
the rich heiress, who could claim anything, with your own exclusive
circle of friends, from throwing herself away on a wild boy who had
always shown more presumption than power--that was really very
sensible, and he acted quite rightly in the matter.
ADELAIDE (_in her agitation seizing his hands_).
Thank you, Conrad, thank you for speaking so of my dead father! Yes,
you are good, you have a heart. It makes me very happy that you should
have shown it to me.
BOLZ.
It is only a tiny little pocket-heart for private use. It was quite
against my will that it happened to make its appearance.
ADELAIDE.
And now enough of us two! Here in this house our help is needed. You
have won, have completely prevailed against us. I submit, and
acknowledge you my master. But now show mercy and let us join forces.
In this conflict of you men a rude blow has been struck at the heart
of a girl whom I love. I should like to make that good again and I
want you to help me.
BOLZ.
I am at your command.
ADELAIDE.
The Colonel must be reconciled. Think up some way of healing his
injured self-esteem.
BOLZ.
I have thought it over and have taken some steps. Unfortunately, all I
can do is to make him feel that his anger at Oldendorf is folly. This
soft conciliatory impulse you alone can inspire.
ADELAIDE.
Then we women must try our luck.
BOLZ.
Meanwhile I will hurry and do what little I can.
ADELAIDE.
Farewell, Mr. Editor. And think not only of the progress of the great
world, but also occasionally of one friend, who suffers from the base
egotism of wishing to be happy on her own account.
BOLZ.
You have always found your happiness in looking after the happiness of
others. With that kind of egotism there is no difficulty in being
happy. [_Exit_.]
ADELAIDE (_alone_).
He still loves me! He is a man with feeling and generosity. But he,
too, is resigned. They are all _ill_--these men! They have no courage!
From pure learning and introspection they have lost all confidence in
themselves. This Conrad! Why doesn't he say to me: "Adelaide, I want
you to be my wife?" He can be brazen enough when he wants to! God
forbid! He philosophizes about my kind of happiness and his kind of
happiness! It was all very fine, but sheer nonsense.--My young
country-squires are quite different. They have no great burden of
wisdom and have more whims and prejudices than they ought to; but they
do their hating and loving thoroughly and boldly, and never forget
their own advantage. They are the better for it! Praised be the
country, the fresh air, and my broad acres! [_Pause; with decision_.]
The _Union_ is to be sold! Conrad must come to the country to get rid
of his crotchets! [_Sits down and writes; rings; enter_ CARL.] Take
this note to Judge Schwarz; I want him kindly to come to me on urgent
business.
[_Exit_ CARL.]
_Enter_ IDA _through the side door on the left_.
IDA.
I am too restless to keep still! Let me cry here to my heart's
content! [_Weeps on_ ADELAIDE'S _neck_.]
ADELAIDE (_tenderly_).
Poor child! The bad men have been very cruel to you. It's all right
for you to grieve, darling, but don't be so still and resigned!
IDA.
I have but the one thought: he is lost to me--lost forever!
ADELAIDE.
You are a dear good girl. But be reassured! You haven't lost him at
all. On the contrary, we'll see to it that you get him back better
than ever. With blushing cheeks and bright eyes he shall reappear to
you, the noble man, your chosen demigod--and your pardon the demigod
shall ask for having caused you pain!--
IDA (_looking up at her_).
What are you telling me?
ADELAIDE.
Listen! This night I read in the stars that you were to become Mrs.
Member-of-Parliament. A big star fell from heaven, and on it was
written in legible letters: "Beyond peradventure she shall have him!"
The fulfilment has attached to it but one condition.
IDA.
What condition? Tell me!
ADELAIDE.
I recently told you of a certain lady and an unknown gentleman. You
remember?
IDA.
I have thought of it incessantly.
ADELAIDE.
Good! On the same day on which this lady finds her knight again shall
you also be reconciled with your professor--not sooner, not later.
Thus it is written.
IDA.
I am so glad to believe you. And when will the day come?
ADELAIDE.
Yes, dear, I do not know that exactly. But I will confide in you,
since we girls are alone, that the said lady is heartily tired of the
long hoping and waiting and will, I fear, do something desperate.
IDA (_embracing her_).
If only she will hurry up!
ADELAIDE (_holding her_).
Hush! Some man might hear us! [_Enter_ KORB.] What is it, old friend?
KORB.
Miss Adelaide, out there is Mr. Bellmaus, the friend--
ADELAIDE.
Very well, and he wishes to speak to me?
KORB.
Yes. I myself advised him to come to you; he has something to tell
you.
ADELAIDE.
Bring him in here! [_Exit_ KORB.]
IDA.
Let me go away; my eyes are red with weeping.
ADELAIDE.
Well go, dear. In a few minutes I will rejoin you. (_Exit_ IDA.)
He too! The whole _Union_--one after the other!
_Enter_ BEULMAUS.
BELLMAUS (_shyly, bowing repeatedly_).
You permit me, Miss Runeck!
ADELAIDE (_kindly_).
I am glad to receive your visit, and am curious about the interesting
disclosures you have to make to me.
BELLMAUS.
There is no one to whom I would rather confide what I have heard, Miss
Runeck, than to you. Having learned from Mr. Korb that you are a
subscriber to our newspaper I feel sure--
ADELAIDE.
That I deserve, too, to be a friend of the editors. Thank you for the
good opinion.
BELLMAUS.
There is this man Schmock! He is a poor fellow who has been little in
good society and was until now on the staff of the _Coriolanus_.
ADELAIDE. I remember having seen him.
BELLMAUS.
At Bolz's request I gave him a few glasses of punch. He thereupon grew
jolly and told me of a great plot that Senden and the editor of the
_Coriolanus_ have hatched between them. These two gentlemen, so he
assures me, had planned to discredit Professor Oldendorf in the
Colonel's eyes and so drove the Colonel into writing articles for the
_Coriolanus_.
ADELAIDE.
But is the young man who made you these revelations at all
trustworthy?
BELLMAUS.
He can't stand much punch, and after three glasses he told me all this
of his own accord. In general I don't consider him very reputable. I
should call him a good fellow, but reputable--no, he's not quite that.
ADELAIDE (_indifferently_.)
Do you suppose this gentleman who drank the three glasses of punch
would be willing to repeat his disclosures before other persons?
BELLMAUS.
He said he would, and spoke of proofs too.
ADELAIDE (_aside_).
Aha! (_Aloud_.) I fear the proofs won't amount to much. And you have
not spoken of it to the professor or Mr. Bolz?
BELLMAUS.
Our professor is very much occupied these days, and Bolz is the
jolliest man in the world; but his relations with Mr. von Senden being
already strained I thought--
ADELAIDE (_quickly_).
And you were quite right, dear Mr. Bellmaus. So in other regards you
are content with Mr. Bolz?
BELLMAUS.
He is a sociable, excellent man, and I am on very good terms with him.
All of us are on very good terms with him.
ADELAIDE.
I am glad to hear it.
BELLMAUS.
He sometimes goes a little too far, but he has the best heart in the
world.
ADELAIDE (_aside_). "Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings" ye
shall hear the truth!
BELLMAUS.
His nature, you know, is a purely prosaic one; for poetry he has not
the least comprehension. ADELAIDE. Do you think so?
BELLMAUS.
Yes, he often bursts forth on the subject.
ADELAIDE (_rising_).
I thank you for your communication even if I cannot attach weight to
it, and I am glad to have met in you one of the editorial staff.
Journalists, I find, are dangerous people, and it is just as well to
secure their good will; although I, as an unimportant person, will try
never to furnish matter for a newspaper article. [_As_ BELLMAUS
_lingers._] Can I do anything more for you?
BELLMAUS (_with warmth_).
Yes, Miss Runeck, if you would be so good as to accept this copy of my
poems. They are poems of youth, to be sure, my first attempts, but I
count on your friendly indulgence.
[_Draws a gilt-edged book from his pocket, and hands it to her._]
ADELAIDE.
I thank you heartily, Mr. Bellmaus. Never before has a poet presented
me with his works. I shall read the beautiful book through in the
country, and, under my trees, shall rejoice that I have friends in
town who spare a thought for me too, when they represent beauty for
other people.
BELLMAUS (_fervently_).
Rest assured, Miss Runeck, that no poet will forget you, who has once
had the good fortune to make your acquaintance.
[_Exit with a deep bow._]
ADELAIDE.
This Mr. Schmock with the three glasses of punch is well worth
cultivating, I should say. Scarcely have I arrived in town when my
room turns into a regular business office, where editors and authors
ply their trade. I fear that is an omen.
[_Exit to the left._]
_It grows dark. The_ COLONEL _enters from the garden._
COLONEL (_slowly coming forward_).
I am glad that all is over between us. [_Stamping his foot._] I am
very glad! [_In a depressed tone._] I feel free and more relieved than
for a long time. I think I could actually sing! At this moment I am
the subject of conversation over all tea-cups, on all beer-benches.
Everywhere arguing and laughter: It serves him right, the old fool!
Damn! [_Enter_ CARL, _with lights and the newspaper_.] Who told you to
bring the lamp?
CARL.
Colonel, it is your hour for reading the newspaper. Here it is. [_Lays
it on the table_.]
COLONEL.
A low rabble, these gentlemen of the pen! Cowardly, malicious,
insidious in their anonymity. How this band will triumph now, and over
me! How they will laud their editor to the skies! There lies the
contemptible sheet! In it stands my defeat, trumpeted forth with full
cheeks, with scornful shrugs of the shoulders--away with it! [_Walks
up and down, looks at the newspaper on the ground, picking it up_.]
All the same I will drink out the dregs! [_Seats himself.]_ Here,
right in the beginning! [_Reading_.] "Professor Oldendorf--majority of
two votes. This journal is bound to rejoice over the result."--I don't
doubt it!--"But no less a matter for rejoicing was the electoral
contest which preceded it."--Naturally--"It has probably never before
been the case that, as here, two men stood against each other who were
so closely united by years of friendship, both so distinguished by the
good will of their fellow-citizens. It was a knightly combat between
two friends, full of generosity, without malice, without jealousy; yes
doubtless, deep down in his heart, each harbored the hope that his
friend and opponent and not himself would be the victor"--[_Lays down
the paper; wipes his brow_.] What sort of language is that? [_Reads_.]
"and aside from some special party views, never did a man have greater
claims to victory than our honored opponent. What he, through his
upright, noble personality stands for among his wide circle of friends
and acquaintances, this is not the place to dwell upon. But the way in
which, by his active participation in all public spirited enterprises
of the town, he has given aid and counsel, is universally known and
will be realized by our fellow-citizens, especially today, with
heartfelt gratitude." [_Lays the paper aside_.] That is a vile style!
[_Reads on_.] "By a very small majority of votes our town has decreed
to uphold the younger friend's political views in Parliament. But by
all parties today--so it is reported--addresses and deputations are
being prepared, not to extol the victor in the electoral contest, but
to express to his opponent the general reverence and respect of which
never a man was more worthy than he."--That is open assassination!
That is a fearful indiscretion of Oldendorf's, that is the revenge of
a journalist, so fine and pointed! Oh, it is just like him! No, it is
not like him! It is revolting, it is inhuman! What am I to do!
Deputations and addresses to me? To Oldendorf's friend? Bah, it is all
mere gossip, newspaper-babble that costs nothing but a few fine words!
The town knows nothing of these sentiments. It is blackguardism!
_Enter_ CARL.
CARL.
Letters from the local mail.
[_Lays them on the table._]
[_Exit_.]
COLONEL.
There is something up, here, too. I dread to open them. [_Breaks open
the first one_.] What the devil! A poem?--and to me? "To our noble
opponent, the best man in town."--Signed? What is the signature?
"B--aus!" B--aus? I don't know it, it must be a pseudonym! [_Reads_.]
It seems to be exceedingly good poetry!--And what have we here?
[_Opens the second letter_.] "To the benefactor of the poor, the
father of orphans." An address!--[_Reads_.] "Veneration and
kindliness."--Signature: "Many women and girls." The seal a P.P.--Good
God, what does it all mean? Have I gone mad? If these are really
voices from the town, and if that is the way people look on this day,
then I must confess men think better of me than I do of myself!
_Enter_ CARL.
CARL.
A number of gentlemen wish to speak to you, Colonel.
COLONEL.
What sort of gentlemen!
CARL.
They say: A deputation from the voters.
COLONEL.
Show them in. This confounded newspaper was right, after all.
_Enter_ PIEPENBRINK, KLEINMICHEL _and three other gentlemen. They
bow, the_ COLONEL _likewise_.
PIEPENBRINK (_solemnly_).
My Colonel: A number of voters have sent us as a deputation to you to
inform you on this special day that the whole town considers you a
most respectable and worthy man.
COLONEL (_stiffly_).
I am obliged for the good opinion.
PIEPENBRINK.
You have no reason to feel obliged. It is the truth. You are a man of
honor through and through, and it gives us pleasure to tell you so;
you cannot object to hearing this from your fellow-citizens.
COLONEL.
I always did consider myself a man of honor, gentlemen.
PIEPENBRINK.
There you were quite right. And you have proved your good principles,
too. On every occasion. In cases of poverty, of famine, of caring for
orphans, also at our shooting-club meeting--always when we citizens
enjoyed or needed a benevolent good man, you were among the first.
Always simple and loyal without arrogance or supercilious manners.
That's the reason why we universally love and honor you. (_Colonel
wipes his eyes_.) Today many of us gave their votes to the professor.
Some on account of politics, some because they know that he is your
close friend and possibly even your future son-in-law. COLONEL (_not
harshly_).
Sir--
PIEPENBRINK.
Nor did I myself vote for you.
COLONEL (_somewhat more excitedly_).
Sir--
PIEPENBRINK.
But for that very reason I come to you with the rest, and that is why
we tell you what the citizens think of you. And we hope that for long
years to come you will preserve to us your manly principles and
friendly heart as an honored, most respected gentleman and
fellow-citizen.
COLONEL (_without harshness_).
Why do you not say that to the professor, to the man that you have
chosen?
PIEPENBRINK.
He shall first deserve it in Parliament before the town thanks him.
But you _have_ deserved it of us, and therefore we come to you.
COLONEL (_heartily_).
I thank you, sir, for your kind words. They are very comforting to me
just now. May I ask your name?
PIEPENBRINK.
My name is Piepenbrink.
COLONEL (_morely coldly, but not impolitely_).
Ah, indeed, that is your name! (_With dignity._) I thank you,
gentlemen, for the friendly sentiment you have expressed, whether it
be that you render the true opinion of the town, or speak according to
the desire of individuals. I thank you, and shall go on doing what I
think is right.
[_Bows, so does the deputation; exit latter_.]
This, then, is that Piepenbrink, the close friend of his friend! But
the man's words were sensible and his whole demeanor honorable; it
cannot possibly be all rascality. Who knows! They are clever
intriguers; send into my house newspaper articles, letters, and these
good-natured people, to make me soft-hearted; act in public as my
friends, to make me confide again in their falseness! Yes, that is it.
It is a preconcerted plan! They will find they have miscalculated!
_Enter_ CARL.
CARL.
Dr. Bolz!
COLONEL.
I am at home to no one any longer!
CARL.
So I told the gentleman; but he insisted on speaking to you, saying
that he came in on an affair of honor.
COLONEL.
What? But Oldendorf won't be so insane--show him in here!
_Enter_ BOLZ.
BOLZ (_with dignity_).
Colonel, I come to make you an announcement which the honor of a third
person necessitates.
COLONEL.
I am prepared for it, and beg you not to prolong it unduly.
BOLZ.
No more than is requisite. The article in this evening's _Union_
which deals with your personality was written by me and inserted by me
in the paper without Oldendorf's knowledge.
COLONEL.
It can interest me little to know who wrote the article.
BOLZ (_courteously_).
But I consider it important to tell you that it is not by Oldendorf
and that Oldendorf knew nothing about it. My friend was so taken up
these last weeks with his own sad and painful experiences that he left
the management of the paper entirely to me. For all that has lately
appeared in it I alone am responsible.
COLONEL.
And why do you impart this information?
BOLZ.
You have sufficient penetration to realize, Colonel, that, after the
scene which took place today between you and my friend, Oldendorf as a
man of honor could neither write such an article nor allow it to
appear in his paper.
COLONEL.
How so, sir? In the article itself I saw nothing unsuitable.
BOLZ.
The article exposes my friend in your eyes to the suspicion of having
tried to regain your good-will by unworthy flattery. Nothing is
further from his thoughts than such a method. You, Colonel, are too
honorable a man yourself to consider a mean action natural to your
friend.
COLONEL.
You are right. (_Aside_.) This defiance is unbearable! (_Aloud_.) Is
your explanation at an end?
BOLZ.
It is. I must add still another: that I myself regret very much having
written this article.
COLONEL.
I imagine I do not wrong you in assuming that you have already written
others that were still more to be regretted.
BOLZ (_continuing_).
I had the article printed before hearing of your last interview with
Oldendorf. (_Very courteously_.) My reason for regretting it is, that
it is not quite true. I was too hasty in describing your personality
to the public. Today, at least, it is no longer a true portrait; it is
flattering.
COLONEL (_bursting out_).
Well, by the devil, that is rude!
BOLZ.
Your pardon--it is only true. I wish to convince you that a journalist
can regret having written falsehoods.
COLONEL.
Sir! (_Aside_.) I must restrain myself, or he will always get the
better of me.--Dr. Bolz, I see that you are a clever man and know your
trade. Since, in addition, you seem inclined today to speak only the
truth, I must beg you to tell me further if you, too, organized the
demonstrations which purport to represent to me public sentiment.
BOLZ (_bowing_).
I have, as a matter of fact, not been inactive in the matter.
COLONEL (_holding out the letter to him, angrily_).
Did you prompt these, too?
BOLZ.
In part, Colonel. This poem is the heart-outpouring of an honest youth
who reveres in you the paternal friend of Oldendorf and the ideal of a
chivalrous hero. I inspired him with the courage to send you the poem.
It was well-meant, at any rate. The poet will have to seek another
ideal. The address comes from women and girls who constitute the
Association for the Education of Orphans. The Association includes
among its members Miss Ida Berg. I myself composed this address for
the ladies; it was written down by the daughter of the wine-merchant
Piepenbrink.
COLONEL.
That was just about my opinion concerning these letters. It is
needless to ask if you too are the contriver who sent me the citizens?
BOLZ.
At all events I did not discourage them. [_From without a male chorus
of many voices_.]
Hail! Hail! Hail!
Within the precincts of our town,
Blessed by each burgher's son,
There dwells a knight of high renown,
A noble, faithful one.
Who doth in need for aid apply
To this brave knight sends word;
For love is his bright panoply
And mercy is his sword.
We laud him now in poem and song
Protector of the lowly throng.
The Colonel, the Colonel,
The noble Colonel Berg!
COLONEL (_rings after the first measure of the song_. CARL _enters_).
You are to let no one in if you wish to remain in my service.
CARL.
Colonel, they are already in the garden, a great company of them. It
is the glee club; the leaders are already at the steps.
BOLZ (_who has opened the window_).
Very well sung, Colonel--from _La Juive_--he is the best tenor in town
and the accompaniment is exceedingly original.
COLONEL (_aside_).
It is enough to drive one mad. [_Aloud_.] Show the gentlemen in!
_Exit_ CARL. _At the end of the verse enter_ FRITZ KLEINMICHEL _and
two other gentlemen_.
FRITZ KLEINMICHEL.
Colonel, the local glee club asks to be allowed to sing you some
songs--kindly listen to the little serenade as a feeble expression of
the general veneration and love.
COLONEL.
Gentlemen, I regret exceedingly that a case of illness in my family
makes it desirable for me to have you curtail your artistic
performance. I thank you for your intentions, and beg you will sing to
Professor Oldendorf the songs you had designed for me.
FRITZ KLEINMICHEL.
We considered it our duty first to greet you before visiting your
friend. In order not to disturb invalids, we will, with your
permission, place ourselves further away from the house, in the
garden.
COLONEL.
Do as you please.
[FRITZ KLEINMICHEL _and the two others leave_.]
Is this act, too, an invention of yours?
BOLZ (_with a bow_).
Partially at least. But you are too kind, Colonel, if you look upon me
as the sole originator of all these demonstrations. My share in it is
really a small one. I have done nothing but edit public opinion a
little; all these different people are not dolls, which a skilful
puppet-man can move around by pulling wires. These are all voices of
capable and honorable persons, and what they have said to you is
actually the general opinion of the town--that is to say, the
conviction of the better and more sensible elements in the town. Were
that not the case I should have labored quite in vain with these good
people to bring a single one of them into your house.
COLONEL.
He is right again, and I am always in the wrong!
BOLZ (_very courteously_).
Permit me to explain further, that I consider these tender expressions
of general regard out of place now, and that I deeply regret my share
in them. Today at least, no friend of Oldendorf has any occasion to
praise your chivalrous sentiments or your self-effacement.
COLONEL (_going toward him_).
Doctor Bolz, you use the privilege of your profession to speak
recklessly, and are insulting outsiders in a way that exhausts my
patience. You are in my house, and it is a customary social amenity to
respect the domicile of one's opponent.
BOLZ (_leaning on a chair, good-naturedly_).
If you mean by that that you have a right to expel from your house
unwelcome guests you did not need to remind me of it, for this very
day you shut your doors on another whose love for you gave him a
better right to be here than I have.
COLONEL.
Sir, such brazen-facedness I have never yet experienced.
BOLZ (_with a bow_).
I am a journalist, and claim what you have just called the privilege
of my profession.
[_Grand march by brass band. Enter_ CARL _quickly_.]
COLONEL (_going toward him_).
Shut the garden gate; no one is to come in. [_The music stops_.]
BOLZ (_at the window_).
You are locking your friends out; this time I am innocent.
CARL.
Ah, Colonel, it is too late. The singers are back there in the garden,
and in front a great procession is approaching the house; it is Mr.
von Senden and the entire club.
[_Goes to rear of stage_.]
COLONEL (_to_ BOLZ).
Sir, I wish the conversation between us to end.
BOLZ (_speaking back at him from the window_).
In your position, Colonel, I find the desire very natural. [_Looking
out again_.] A brilliant procession! They all carry paper lanterns,
and on the lanterns are inscriptions! Besides the ordinary club
mottoes, I see others. Why isn't Bellmaus ever looking when he might
be helping the newspaper! [_Taking out a note book_.] We'll quickly
note those inscriptions for our columns. [_Over his shoulder_.] Pardon
me! Oh, that is truly remarkable: "Down with our enemies!" And here a
blackish lantern with white letters--"Death to the _Union_!" Holy
thunder! [_Calls out of the window_.] Good evening, gentlemen!
COLONEL (_going up to him_).
Sir, you're in league with the devil!
BOLZ (_turning quickly around_).
Very kind of you, Colonel, to show yourself at the window with me.
[COLONEL _retreats_.]
SENDEN (_from below_).
Whose voice is that!
BOLZ.
Good evening, Mr. von Senden!--The gentleman with the dark lantern and
white inscription would oblige us greatly by kindly lifting it up to
the Colonel. Blow your light out, man, and hand me the lantern. So,
thank you--man with the witty motto! [_Pulling in the stick and
lantern_.] Here, Colonel, is the document of the brotherly love your
friends cherish toward us. [_Tears the lantern from the stick_.] The
lantern for you, the stick for the lantern-bearer! [_Throws the stick
out of the window_.] I have the honor to bid you good day!
[_Turns to go, meets_ ADELAIDE.]
_Male chorus, close at hand again: "Within the precincts of our town;"
trumpets join in; then many voices: "Long live_ COLONEL BERG!
_Hurrah!_" ADELAIDE _has entered on the left, during the noise_.
ADELAIDE.
Well, is the whole town upside-down today?
BOLZ.
I've done my share; he is half converted. Good night!
COLONEL (_throwing the lantern on the ground--in a rage_).
To the devil with all journalists!
_Male chorus_, SENDEN, BLUMENBERG _and many other gentlemen, in
procession, are visible through the door into the garden; the
deputation comes in; chorus and lantern-bearers form a group at the
entrance_.
SENDEN (_with a loud voice while the curtain is lowered_).
Colonel, the Club has the honor of greeting its revered members!
ACT IV
SCENE I
_The_ COLONEL'S _summer parlor_. COLONEL _enters from the garden,
followed by_ CARL.
COLONEL (_on entering, crossly_).
Who ordered William to bring the horse round in front of the bedrooms?
The brute makes a noise with his hoofs that would wake the dead.
CARL.
Are you not going to ride today, Colonel?
COLONEL.
No. Take the horse to the stable!
CARL.
Yes, Colonel. [_Exit_.]
COLONEL (_rings_, CARL _reappears at the door_).
Is Miss Runeck at home?
CARL.
She is in her room; the judge has been with her an hour already.
COLONEL.
What? Early in the morning?
CARL.
Here she is herself.
[_Exit as soon as_ ADELAIDE _enters_.]
_Enter_ ADELAIDE _and_ KORB _through the door on the right_.
ADELAIDE (_to_ KORB).
You had better remain near the garden gate, and when the said young
man comes bring him to us.
[_Exit_ KORB.]
Good-morning, Colonel.
[_Going up to him and examining him gaily_.]
How is the weather today?
COLONEL.
Gray, girl, gray and stormy. Vexation and grief are buzzing round in
my head until it is fit to burst. How is the child?
ADELAIDE.
Better. She was wise enough to fall asleep toward morning. Now she is
sad, but calm.
COLONEL.
This very calmness annoys me. If she would only once shriek and tear
her hair a bit! It would be horrible, but there would be something
natural about it. It is this smiling and then turning away to dry
secret tears that makes me lose my composure. It is unnatural in my
child.
ADELAIDE.
Possibly she knows her father's kind heart better than he does
himself; possibly she still has hopes.
COLONEL.
Of what? Of a reconciliation with him? After what has happened a
reconciliation between Oldendorf and myself is out of the question.
ADELAIDE (_aside_).
I wonder if he wants me to contradict him!
_Enter_ KORB.
KORB (_to_ ADELAIDE).
The gentleman has come.
ADELAIDE.
I will ring.
[_Exit_ KORB.]
Help me out of a little dilemma. I have to speak with a strange young
man who seems in need of help, and I should like to have you stay near
me.--May I leave this door open?
[_Points to the door on the left_.]
COLONEL.
That means, I suppose, in plain English, that I
am to go in there?
ADELAIDE.
I beg it of you--just for five minutes.
COLONEL.
Very well--if only I don't have to listen.
ADELAIDE.
I do not require it; but you will listen all the
same if the conversation happens to interest you.
COLONEL (_smiling_).
In that case I shall come out.
[_Exit to the left_; ADELAIDE _rings_.]
_Enter_ SCHMOCK. KORB _also appears at the entrance, but quickly
withdraws_.
SCHMOCK (_with a bow_).
I wish you a good-morning. Are you the lady who sent me her secretary?
ADELAIDE.
Yes. You said you wished to speak to me personally.
SCHMOCK.
Why should the secretary know about it if I want to tell you
something? Here are the notes that Senden wrote and that I found in
the paper-basket of the _Coriolanus_. Look them over, and see if they
will be of use to the Colonel. What can I do with them? There's
nothing to be done with them.
ADELAIDE (_looking through them, reading, in an aside_).
"Here I send you the wretched specimens of style, etc." Incautious and
very low-minded! [_Lays them on the table. Aloud_.] At any rate these
unimportant notes are better off in my paper-basket than in any one
else's. And what, sir, induces you to confide in me?
[Illustration: _Permission Union Deutsch um Vellagssesellsckaft
Stuttgart_. LUNCH BUFFET AT KISSENGEN ADOLPH VON MENZEL. ]
SCHMOCK.
I suppose because Bellmaus told me you were a clever person who would
choose a good way of telling the Colonel to be on his guard against
Senden and against my editor; and the Colonel is a kind man; the other
day he ordered a glass of sweet wine and a salmon sandwich as a lunch
for me.
COLONEL (_visible at the door, clasping his hands sympathetically_).
Merciful heavens!
SCHMOCK.
Why should I let him be duped by these people!
ADELAIDE.
Since you did not dislike the lunch, we will see that you get another
one.
SCHMOCK.
Oh please, don't trouble yourself on my account.
ADELAIDE.
Can we help you with anything else?
SCHMOCK.
What should you be able to help me with? [_Examining his boots and
clothes_.] I have everything in order now. My trouble is only that I
have got into the wrong occupation. I must try to get out of
literature.
ADELAIDE (_sympathetically_.)
It is very hard, I suppose, to feel at home in literature?
SCHMOCK.
That depends. My editor is an unfair man. He cuts out too much and
pays too little. "Attend to your style first of all," says he; "a good
style is the chief thing." "Write impressively, Schmock," says he;
"write profoundly; it is required of a newspaper today that it be
profound." Good! I write profoundly, I make my style logical! But when
I bring him what I have done he hurls it away from him and shrieks:
"What is that? That is heavy, that is pedantic!" says he. "You must
write dashingly; it's brilliant you must be, Schmock. It is now the
fashion to make everything pleasant for the reader." What am I to do?
I write dashingly again; I put a great deal of brilliant stuff in the
article; and when I bring it he takes his red pencil and strikes out
all that is commonplace and leaves me only the brilliant stuff
remaining.
COLONEL.
Are such things possible?
SCHMOCK.
How can I exist under such treatment? How can I write him only
brilliant stuff at less than a penny a line. I can't exist under it!
And that is why I'm going to try to get out of the business. If only I
could earn twenty-five to thirty dollars, I would never in my life
write again for a newspaper; I would then set up for myself in
business--a little business that could support me.
ADELAIDE.
Wait a moment! [_Looks into her purse_.]
COLONEL (_hastily coming forward_).
Leave that to me, dear Adelaide. The young man wants to cease being a
journalist. That appeals to me. Here, here is money such as you desire
if you will promise me from this day on not to touch a pen again for a
newspaper. Here, take it.
SCHMOCK.
A Prussian bank note--twenty-five thalers in currency? On my honor, I
promise you, on my honor and salvation, I go this very day to a cousin
of mine who has a paying business. Would you like an I.O.U., Colonel,
or shall I make out a long-term promissory note?
COLONEL.
Get out with your promissory note!
SCHMOCK.
Then I will write out a regular I.O.U. I prefer it to be only an
I.O.U.
COLONEL (_impatiently_).
I don't want your I.O.U. either. Sir, for God's sake get out of the
house!
SCHMOCK.
And how about the interest? If I can have it at five per cent. I
should like it.
ADELAIDE.
The gentleman makes you a present of the money.
SCHMOCK.
He makes me a present of the money? It's a miracle! I tell you what,
Colonel, if I don't succeed with the money it remains a gift, but if I
work my way up with it I return it. I hope I will work my way up.
COLONEL. Do just as you like about that.
SCHMOCK.
I like to have it that way, Colonel.--Meanwhile I thank you, and may
some other joy come to make it up to you. Good day, Sir and Madam.
ADELAIDE.
We must not forget the lunch. [_Rings,_ KORB _enters_.] Dear Korb!
[_Talks in a low tone to him_.]
SCHMOCK.
O please, do not go to that trouble!
[_Exeunt_ SCHMOCK _and_ KORB.]
COLONEL.
And now, dear lady, explain this whole conversation; it concerns me
intimately enough.
ADELAIDE.
Senden spoke tactlessly to outsiders about his relations with you and
your household. This young man had overheard some of it, and also had
notes written by Senden in his possession, which contained unsuitable
expressions. I thought it best to get these notes out of his hands.
COLONEL.
I want you to let me have those letters, Adelaide.
ADELAIDE (_entreating_).
Why, Colonel?
COLONEL.
I won't get angry, girl.
ADELAIDE.
Nor is it worth while to do so. But still I beg you won't look at
them. You know enough now, for you know that he, with his associates,
does not merit such great confidence as you have latterly reposed in
him.
COLONEL (_sadly_).
Well, well! In my old days I have had bad luck with my acquaintances.
ADELAIDE.
If you put Oldendorf and this one (_pointing to the letters_) in the
same class you are quite mistaken.
COLONEL.
I don't do that, girl. For Senden I had no such affection, and that's
why it is easier to bear it when he does me an injury.
ADELAIDE (_gently_).
And because you loved the other one, that was the reason why yesterday
you were so--
COLONEL.
Say it, mentor--so harsh and violent!
ADELAIDE.
Worse than that, you were unjust.
COLONEL.
I said the same thing to myself last night, as I went to Ida's room
and heard the poor thing cry. I was a hurt, angry man and was wrong in
the form--but in the matter itself I was, all the same, right. Let him
be member of Parliament; he may be better suited for it than I. It is
his being a newspaper writer that separates us.
ADELAIDE.
But he is only doing what you did yourself!
COLONEL.
Don't remind me of that folly! Were he as my son-in-law to hold a
different opinion from mine regarding current happenings--that I could
doubtless stand. But if day by day he were to proclaim aloud to the
world feelings and sentiments the opposite of mine, and I had to read
them, and had to hear my son-in-law reproached and laughed at for them
on all sides by old friends and comrades, and I had to swallow it
all--you see that is more than I could bear!
ADELAIDE.
And Ida? Because you won't bear it Ida is to be made unhappy?
COLONEL.
My poor child! She has been unhappy throughout the whole affair. This
half-hearted way of us men has long been a mistake. It is better to
end it with one sharp pain.
ADELAIDE (_seriously_).
I cannot see that ending of it as yet. I shall only see it when Ida
laughs once more as merrily as she used to do.
COLONEL (_excitedly walking about, exclaiming_).
Well then, I'll give him my child, and go and sit alone in a corner. I
had other views for my old age, but God forbid that my beloved girl
should be made unhappy by me. He is reliable and honorable, and will
take good care of her. I shall move back to the little town I came
from.
ADELAIDE (_seizing his hand_).
My revered friend, no--you shall not do that! Neither Oldendorf nor
Ida would accept their happiness at such a price. But if Senden and
his friends were secretly to take the paper away from the professor,
what then?
COLONEL (_joyfully_).
Then he would no longer be a journalist! (_Uneasily_.) But I won't
hear of such a thing. I am no friend of underhanded action.
ADELAIDE.
Nor am I! (_Heartily_.) Colonel, you have often shown a confidence in
me that has made me happy and proud. Even today you let me speak more
frankly than is usually permitted to a girl. Will you give me one more
great proof of your regard?
COLONEL (_pressing her hand_).
Adelaide, we know how we stand with each other. Speak out!
ADELAIDE.
For one hour, today, be my faithful knight. Allow me to lead you
wherever I please.
COLONEL.
What are you up to, child?
ADELAIDE.
Nothing wrong, nothing unworthy of you or of me. You shall not long be
kept in the dark about it.
COLONEL.
If I must, I will surrender. But may I not know something of what I
have to do?
ADELAIDE.
You are to accompany me on a visit, and at the same time keep in mind
the things we have just talked over so sensibly.
COLONEL.
On a visit?
_Enter_ KORB.
ADELAIDE.
On a visit I am making in my own interest.
KORB (_to_ ADELAIDE).
Mr. von Senden wishes to pay his respects.
COLONEL.
I don't wish to see him now.
ADELAIDE.
Be calm, Colonel! We have not time to be angry even with him. I shall
have to see him for a few moments.
COLONEL.
Then I will go away.
ADELAIDE (_entreating_).
But you will accompany me directly? The carriage is waiting.
COLONEL.
I obey the command. [_Exit to the left_.]
ADELAIDE.
I have made a hasty decision; I have ventured on something that was
doubtless too bold for a girl; for now that the crisis is at hand, I
feel my courage leaving me. I had to do it for his sake and for all
our sakes. (_To_ KORB.) Ask Miss Ida to get ready--the coachman will
come straight back for her. Dear Korb, let your thoughts be with me. I
am going on a weighty errand, old friend! [_Exit_ ADELAIDE.]
KORB.
(_alone_). Gracious, how her eyes shine! What is she tip to? She's not
going to elope with the old Colonel, I hope! Well, whatever she is up
to, she will carry it through. There is only one person who could ever
be a match for her. Oh, Mr. Conrad, if only I could speak!
[_EXIT_.]
SCENE II
_Editorial room of the Union. Enter_ BOLZ _through the door on the
left, directly afterward_ MILLER.
BOLZ (_at middle door_).
In here with the table!
MILLER (_carries small table, all set, with wine-bottles, glasses and
plates, to the foreground on the left; brings up five chairs while he
speaks_).
Mr. Piepenbrink sends his regards, with the message that the wine is
yellow-seal, and that, if the Doctor drinks any healths, he must not
forget Mr. Piepenbrink's health. He was very jolly, the stout
gentleman. And Madam Piepenbrink reminded him that he ought to
subscribe for the _Union_. He commissioned me to see to it.
BOLZ (_who meanwhile has been turning over papers at the work-table on
the right, rising_).
Let's have some wine!
[MILLER _pours some in a glass_.]
In honor of the worthy vintner! [_Drinks._]
I treated him scandalously, but he has proved true-hearted. Tell him
his health was not forgotten. There, take this bottle along!--Now, get
out!
[_Exit_ MILLER. BOLZ _opening the door on the left_.]
Come, gentlemen, today I carry out my promise.
[_Enter_ KÄMPE, BELLMAUS, KÖRNER.]
This is the lunch I agreed to give. And now, my charming day-flies,
put as much rose-color into your cheeks and your humors as your wits
will let you. [_Pouring out_.] The great victory is won; the _Union_
has celebrated one of the noblest of triumphs; in ages still to come
belated angels will say with awe: "Those were glorious days," and so
on--see continuation in today's paper. Before we sit down, the first
toast--
KÄMPE. The member-elect--
BOLZ.
No, our first toast is to the mother of all, the great power which
produces members--the newspaper, may she prosper!
ALL.
Hurrah! [_Clink glasses_.]
BOLZ.
Hurrah! And secondly, long live--hold on, the member himself is not
here yet.
KÄMPE.
Here he comes.
_Enter_ OLDENDORF.
BOLZ.
The member from our venerable town, editor-in-chief and professor,
journalist, and good fellow, who is angry just now because behind his
back this and that got into the paper--hurrah for him!
ALL.
Hurrah!
OLDENDORF (_in a friendly tone_.)
I thank you, gentlemen.
BOLZ (_drawing_ OLDENDORF _to the front_).
And you are no longer vexed with us?
OLDENDORF.
Your intention was good, but it was a great indiscretion.
BOLZ.
Forget all about it! (_Aloud_.) Here, take your glass and sit down
with us. Don't be proud, young statesman! Today you are one of us.
Well, here sits the editorial staff! Where is worthy Mr.
Henning--where tarries our owner, printer and publisher, Gabriel
Henning?
KÄMPE.
I met him a little while ago on the stairs. He crept by me as shyly as
though he were some one who had been up to mischief.
BOLZ.
Probably he feels as Oldendorf does--he is again not pleased with the
attitude of the paper.
MILLER (_thrusting in his head_).
The papers and the mail!
BOLZ.
Over there! [MILLER _enters, lays the papers on the work-table._]
MILLER.
Here is the _Coriolanus_. There is something in it about our paper.
The errand-boy of the _Coriolanus_ grinned at me scornfully, and
recommended me to look over the article.
BOLZ.
Give it here! Be quiet, Romans, _Coriolanus_ speaks.--All ye devils,
what does that mean? [_Reads_.] "On the best of authority we have just
been informed that a great change is imminent in the newspaper affairs
of our province. Our opponent, the _Union_, will cease to direct her
wild attacks against all that is high and holy."--This high and holy
means Blumenberg.--"The ownership is said to have gone over into other
hands, and there is a sure prospect that we shall be able from now on
to greet as an ally this widely read sheet." How does that taste to
you, gentlemen?
MILLER} Thunder! KÄMPE.}_(All together_.) Nonsense! BELLMAUS.} It's a
lie!
OLDENDORF.
It's another of Blumenberg's reckless inventions.
BOLZ.
There is something behind it all. Go and get me Gabriel Henning.
[_Exit_ MILLER.] This owner has played the traitor; we have been
poisoned. [_Springing up._] And this is the feast of the Borgia!
Presently the _misericordia_ will enter and sing our dirge. Do me the
favor at least to eat up the oysters before it be too late.
OLDENDORF (_who has seized the newspaper_.)
Evidently this news is only an uncertain rumor. Henning will tell us
there is no truth in it. Stop seeing ghosts, and sit down with us.
BOLZ (_seating himself_).
I sit down, not because I put faith in your words, but because I don't
wish to do injustice to the lunch. Get hold of Henning; he must give
an account of himself.
OLDENDORF.
But, as you heard, he is not at home.
BOLZ (_zealously eating_).
Oh, thou wilt have a fearful awakening, little Orsini! Bellmaus, pour
me out some wine. But if the story be not true, if this _Coriolanus_
have lied, by the purple in this glass be it sworn I will be his
murderer! The grimmest revenge that ever an injured journalist took
shall fall on his head; he shall bleed to death from pin-pricks; every
poodle in the street shall look on him scornfully and say: "Fie,
_Coriolanus_, I wouldn't take a bite at you even if you were a
sausage." [_A knock is heard_. BOLZ _lays down his knife.] Memento
mori_! There are our grave-diggers. The last oyster, now, and then
farewell thou lovely world!
_Enter_ JUDGE SCHWARZ _and_ SENDEN _from the door on the left; the
door remains open_.
SCHWARZ.
Obedient servant, gentlemen!
SENDEN.
Your pardon if we disturb you.
BOLZ (_remaining seated at the table_).
Not in the least. This is our regular luncheon, contracted for a whole
year--fifty oysters and two bottles daily for each member of the
staff. Whoever buys the newspaper has to furnish it.
SCHWARZ.
What brings us here, Professor, is a communication which Mr. Henning
should have been the first to make to you. He preferred handing over
the task to me.
OLDENDORF.
I await your communication.
SCHWARZ.
Mr. Henning has, from yesterday on, transferred to me by sale all
rights pertaining to him as owner of the newspaper _Union_.
OLDENDORF.
To you, Judge?
SCHWARZ.
I acknowledge that I have bought it merely as accredited agent of a
third person. Here is the deed; it contains no secrets. [_Hands him a
paper_.]
OLDENDORF (_looking through it, to_ BOLZ).
It is drawn up by a notary in due form--sold for thirty thousand
thalers. [_Agitation among the staff-members_.] Let me get to the
bottom of the matter. Is this change of owner also to be connected
with a change in the political attitude of the sheet?
SENDEN (_coming forward_).
Certainly, Professor, that was the intention in making the purchase.
OLDENDORF.
Do I possibly see in you the new owner?
SENDEN.
Not that, but I have the honor to be a friend of his. You yourself, as
well as these gentlemen, have a right to demand the fulfilment of your
contracts. Your contracts provide, I understand, for six months'
notice. It goes without saying that you continue to draw your salary
until the expiration of this term.
BOLZ (_rising_).
You are very kind, Mr. von Senden. Our contracts empower us to edit
the paper as we see fit, and to control its tone and its party
affiliations. For the next half-year, therefore, we shall not only
continue to draw our salaries but also to conduct the paper for the
benefit of the party to which you have not the honor to belong.
SENDEN (_angrily_).
We'll find a way to prevent that!
OLDENDORF.
Calm yourself. That kind of work would scarcely be worthy of us. If
such are the circumstances, I announce that I resign the editorship
from today, and release you from all obligations to me.
BOLZ.
I don't mind. I make the same announcement.
BELLMAUS.
KÄMPE}(_together_). We too!
KÖRNER}
SENDEN (_to_ SCHWARZ).
You can testify that the gentlemen voluntarily renounce their rights.
BOLZ (_to the staff_).
Hold on, gentlemen, don't be too generous. It is all right for you to
take no further part in editing the paper if your friends withdraw.
But why abandon your pecuniary claims on the new owner?
BELLMAUS.
I'd rather take nothing at all from them; I'll follow your example.
BOLZ (_stroking him_).
Noble sentiment, my son! We'll make our way in the world together.
What do you think of a hand-organ, Bellmaus! We 'll take it to fairs
and sing your songs through. I'll turn and you'll sing.
OLDENDORF.
Since the new owner of the paper is not one of you, you will, in
concluding this transaction, find the question only natural--To whom
have we ceded our rights?
SENDEN.
The present owner of the paper is--
_Enter_ COLONEL _through side door on the left_.
OLDENDORF (_starting back in alarm_).
Colonel!
BOLZ.
Ah, now it is becoming high tragedy!
COLONEL.
First of all, Professor, be assured that I have nothing to do with
this whole affair, and merely come at the request of the purchaser.
Not until I came here, did I know anything of what was going on. I
hope you will take my word for that.
BOLZ.
Well, I find this game unseemly, and I insist on being told who this
new owner is who mysteriously hides behind different persons!
_Enter_ ADELAIDE _from the side door, left._
ADELAIDE.
He stands before you!
BOLZ.
I should just like to faint.
BELLMAUS.
That is a heavenly joke!
ADELAIDE (_bowing_).
How do you do, gentlemen! [_To the staff_.] Am I right in assuming
that these gentlemen have hitherto been connected with editing the
paper?
BELLMAUS (_eagerly_).
Yes, Miss Runeck! Mr. Kämpe for leading articles, Mr. Körner for the
French and English correspondence, and I for theatre, music, fine
arts, and miscellaneous.
ADELAIDE.
I shall be much pleased if your principles will let you continue
devoting your talents to my newspaper. [_The three members of the
staff bow_.]
BELLMAUS (_laying his hand on his heart_).
Miss Runeck, under your editorship I'll go to the ends of the world!
ADELAIDE (_smiling and politely_).
Ah, no, merely into that room.
[_Points to the door on the right_.]
I
need half an hour to collect my thoughts for my new activities.
BELLMAUS (_while departing_).
That's the best thing I ever heard!
[BELLMAUS, KÄMPE, KÖRNER _leave_.]
ADELAIDE.
Professor, you resigned the management of the paper with a readiness
which delights me. (_Pointedly_.) I wish to edit the _Union_ in my
own fashion.
[_Seizes his hand and leads him to the_ COLONEL.]
Colonel, he is no longer editor; we have outwitted him; you have your
satisfaction.
COLONEL (_holding out his arms to him_).
Come, Oldendorf! For what happened I have been sorry since the moment
we parted.
OLDENDORF.
My honored friend!
ADELAIDE (_pointing to the door on the left_).
There is some one else in there who wants to take part in the
reconciliation. It might be Mr. Gabriel Henning.
IDA _appears at the side door_.
IDA.
Edward!
[OLDENDORF _hurries to the door_, IDA _meets him, he embraces
her. Both leave on the left. The_ COLONEL _follows_.]
ADELAIDE (_sweetly_).
Before asking you, Mr. von Senden, to interest yourself in the editing
of the newspaper, I beg you to read through this correspondence which
I received as a contribution to my columns.
SENDEN (_takes a glance at them_).
Miss Runeck, I don't know whose indiscretion--
ADELAIDE.
Fear none on my part. I am a newspaper proprietor, and (_with, marked
emphasis_) shall keep editorial secrets.
[SENDEN _bows_.]
May I ask
for the deed, Judge? And will you gentlemen be kind enough to ease the
mind of the vendor as to the outcome of the transaction?
[_Mutual
bows_. SENDEN _and_ SCHWARZ _leave_.]
ADELAIDE (_after a short pause_).
Now, Mr. Bolz, what am I going to do about you?
BOLZ.
I am prepared for anything. I am surprised at nothing any more. If
some one should go straight off and spend a capital of a hundred
millions in painting negroes white with oil-colors, or in making
Africa four-cornered, I should not let it astonish me. If I wake up
tomorrow as an owl with two tufts of feathers for ears and a mouse in
my beak, I will say, "All right," and remember that worse things have
happened.
ADELAIDE.
What is the matter with you, Conrad? Are you displeased with me?
BOLZ.
With you? You have been generous as ever; only too generous. And it
would all have been fine, if only this whole scene had been
impossible. That fellow Senden!
ADELAIDE.
We have seen the last of him! Conrad, I'm one of the party!
BOLZ.
Hallelujah! I hear countless angels blowing on their trumpets! I'll
stay with the _Union_!
ADELAIDE.
About that I am no longer the one to decide. For I have still a
confession to make to you. I, too, am not the real owner of the
newspaper.
BOLZ.
You are not? Now, by all the gods, I am at my wit's end. I'm beginning
not to care who this owner is. Be he man, will-of-the-wisp, or the
devil Beelzebub in person, I bid him defiance.
ADELAIDE.
He is a kind of a will-of-the-wisp, a little something of a devil, and
from top to toe a great rogue. For, Conrad, my friend, beloved of my
youth, it is you yourself.
[_Hands him the deed_.]
BOLZ (_stupefied for a moment, reads_).
"Ceded to Conrad Bolz"--correct! So that would be a sort of gift.
Can't be accepted, much too little!
[_Throws the paper aside_.]
Prudence be gone!
[_Falls on his knees before_ ADELAIDE.]
Here I
kneel, Adelaide! What I am saying I don't know in my joy, for the
whole room is dancing round with me. If you will take me for your
husband, you will do me the greatest favor in the world. If you don't
want me, box my ears and send me off!
ADELAIDE (_bending down to him_).
I do want you! (_Kissing him_.) This was the cheek!
BOLZ.
And these are the lips.
[_Kisses her; they remain in an embrace; short
pause_.]
_Enter_ COLONEL, IDA, OLDENDORF.
COLONEL (_in amazement, at the door_).
What is this?
BOLZ.
Colonel, it takes place under editorial sanction.
COLONEL.
Adelaide, what do I see?
ADELAIDE (_stretching out her hand to the_ COLONEL).
Dear friend, I'm betrothed to a journalist!
[_As_ IDA _and_ OLDENDORF _from either side hasten to the pair, the
curtain falls_]
* * * * *
[Footnote 1: Permission S. Hirzel, Leipzig.]
* * * * *
DOCTOR LUTHER (1859)
By GUSTAV FREYTAG
TRANSLATED BY E.H. BABBITT, A.B. Assistant Professor of German, Tufts
College.
Some well-meaning men still wish that the defects of their old church
had not led to so great a revolt, and even liberal Roman Catholics
still fail to see in Luther and Zwingli anything but zealous heretics
whose wrath brought about a schism. May such views vanish from
Germany! All religious denominations have reason to attribute to
Luther whatever in their present faith is genuine and sincere, and has
a wholesome and sustaining influence. The heretic of Wittenberg is
fully as much the reformer of the German Catholics as of the
Protestants. This is true not only because the teachers of the
Catholic Church in their struggle against him outgrew the old
scholasticism, and fought for their sacraments with new weapons gained
from his language, his culture, and his moral worth; nor because he,
in effect, destroyed the church of the Middle Ages and forced his
opponents at Trent to raise a firmer structure, though seemingly
within the old forms and proportions; but still more because he
expressed the common basis of all German denominations, of our
spiritual courage, piety, and honesty, with such force that a good
deal of his own nature, to the present benefit of every German, has
survived in our doctrines and language, in our civil laws and morals,
in the thoughtfulness of our people, and in our science and
literature. Some of the ideas for which Luther's stubborn and
contentious spirit fought, against both Catholics and Calvinists, are
abandoned by the free investigation of modern times. His intensely
passionate beliefs, gained in the heartrending struggles of a devout
soul, occasionally missed an important truth. Sometimes he was harsh,
unfair, even cruel toward his opponents; but such things should no
longer disturb any German, for all the limitations of his nature and
training are as nothing compared with the fulness of the blessings
which have flowed from his great heart into the life of our nation.
But he should not have seceded after all, some people say; for his
action has divided Germany into two hostile camps, and the ancient
strife, under varying battle-cries, has continued to our day. Those
who think so might assert with equal right that the Christian revolt
from Judaism was not necessary--why did not the apostles reform the
venerable high-priesthood of Zion? They might assert that Hampden
would have done better if he had paid the ship-money and had taught
the Stuarts their lesson peaceably; that William of Orange committed a
crime when he did not put his life and his sword into the hands of
Alva, as Egmont did; that Washington was a traitor because he did not
surrender himself and his army to the English; they might condemn as
evil everything that is new and great in doctrine and in life and that
owes its birth to a struggle against what is old.
To but few mortals has been vouchsafed such a powerful influence as
Luther had upon their contemporaries and upon subsequent ages. But his
life, like that of every great man, leaves the impression of an
affecting tragedy when attention is centred on its pivotal events. It
shows us, like the career of all heroes of history whom Fate permitted
to live out their lives, three stages. First, the personality of the
man develops, powerfully influenced by the restricting environment. It
tries to reconcile incompatibilities, while in the depth of his soul
ideas and convictions are gradually translated into volition. At last
they burst forth in a definite action, and the solitary individual
enters upon the contest with the world. Then follows a period of
greater activity, more rapid growth, and larger victories. The
influence of the one man upon the masses grows ever greater. Mightily
he draws the whole nation to follow in his footsteps, and becomes its
hero, its pattern; the vital force of millions appears summed up in
one man.
[Illustration: _Permission Underwood & Underwood, New York_
LUTHER MONUMENT AT WORMS by ERNST RIETSCHEL]
But the spirit of the nation does not long endure the preëminence of a
single, well-centred personality; for the life and the power and the
needs of a nation are more manifold than even the greatest single
force and lofty aim. The eternal contrast between the individual and
the nation appears. Even the soul of a nation is, in the presence of
the eternal, a finite personality--but in comparison with the
individual it appears boundless. A man is forced by the logical result
of his thoughts and actions, by all the significance of his own deeds,
into a closely restricted path. The soul of the nation needs for its
life irreconcilable contrasts and incessant effort in most varied
directions. Much that the individual failed to assimilate rises to
fight against him. The reaction of the people begins--at first weak,
here and there, based on different reasons and with slight
justification; then it grows stronger and ever more victorious.
Finally the intellectual influence of the life of the individual is
limited to his own followers, and crystallizes into a single one of
the many elements of national growth. The last period of a great life
is always filled with secret resignation, with bitterness, and with
silent suffering.
Thus it was with Luther. The first of these periods continued up to
the day on which he posted his theses, the second until his return
from the Wartburg, the third to his death and the beginning of the
Schmalkaldic War. It is not the purpose of this sketch to give his
entire biography, but to tell briefly how he developed and what he
was. Much in his nature appears strange and unpleasing so long as he
is viewed from afar; but this historic figure has the remarkable
quality of becoming greater and more attractive the more closely it is
approached, and from beginning to end it would inspire a good
biographer with admiration, tenderness, and a certain good humor.
Luther rose from the great source of all national strength, the
freeholding peasant class. His father moved from Möhra, a forest
village of the Thuringian mountains, where his relatives constituted
half the population, northward into the neighborhood of Mansfeld, to
work as a miner. So the boy's cradle stood in a cottage in which was
still felt the old thrill of the ghosts of the pine wood and the dark
clefts which were thought to be the entrances to the ore veins of the
mountain. Certainly the imagination of the boy was often busy with
dark traditions from heathen mythology. He was accustomed to feel the
presence of uncanny powers as well in the phenomena of nature as in
the life of man. When he turned monk such remembrances from childhood
grew gloomier and took the shape of the devil of Scripture, but the
busy tempter who everywhere lies in wait for the life of man always
retained for him something of the features of the mischievous goblin
who secretly lurks about the peasant's hearth and stable.
His father, a curt, sturdy, vigorous man, firm in his resolves, and of
unusual, shrewd common sense, had worked his way, after hard
struggles, to considerable prosperity. He kept strict discipline in
his household. Even in later years Luther thought with sadness of the
severe punishments he had endured as a boy and the sorrow they had
caused his tender, childish heart. But Old Hans Luther, nevertheless,
up to his death in 1530, had some influence on the life of his son.
When at the age of twenty-two Martin secretly entered the monastery
the old man was violently angry; for he had already planned a good
match for him. Friends finally succeeded in bringing the angry father
to consent to a reconciliation; and as his imploring son confessed
that a terrible apparition had driven him to the secret vow to enter
the monastery, he replied with the sorrowful words, "God grant that it
was not a deception and trick of the devil;" and he still further
wrenched the heart of the monk by the angry question, "You thought you
were obeying the command of God when you went into the monastery; have
you not heard also that you shall obey your parents?" These words made
a deep impression on the son, and when, many years after, he sat in
the Wartburg, expelled from the Church and outlawed by the Emperor, he
wrote to his father the touching words: "Do you still wish to tear me
from the monastery? You are still my father and I your son. The law
and the power of God are on your side--on my side human weakness. But
look that you boast not yourself against God, he has been beforehand
with you,--he has taken me out himself." From that time on it seemed
to the old man as if his son were restored to him. Old Hans had once
counted upon having a grandson for whom he would work. He now came
back obstinately to this thought, caring nothing for the rest of the
world, and soon urged his son to marry; his encouragement was not the
least of the influences to which Luther yielded, and when his father,
advanced in years, at last a councillor of Mansfeld, lay in his death
throes and the minister bent over him and asked the dying man if he
wished to die in the purified faith in Christ and the Holy Gospel, old
Hans gathered his strength once more and said curtly, "He is a wretch
who does not believe in it." When Luther told this later he added
admiringly, "Yes that was a man of the old time." The son received the
news of the father's death in the fortress of Coburg. When he read
the letter, in which his wife inclosed a picture of his youngest
daughter Magdalena, he uttered to a companion merely the words, "Well,
my father is dead too," rose, took his psalter, went into his room,
and prayed and wept so hard that, as the faithful Veit Dietrich wrote,
his head was confused the next day; but he came out again with his
soul at peace. The same day he wrote with deep emotion to Melanchthon
of the great love of his father and of his intimate relations with
him. "I have never despised death so much as today. We die so often
before we finally die. Now I am the oldest of my family and I have the
right to follow him." From such a father the son inherited what was
fundamental to his character--truthfulness, a sturdy will,
straightforward common sense, and tact in dealing with men and
affairs. His childhood was full of rigor. He had many a bitter
experience in the Latin school and as a choir boy, though tempered by
kindness and love, and he kept through it all--what is more easily
kept in the lowlier circles of life--a heart full of faith in the
goodness of human nature and reverence for everything great in the
world. When he was at the University of Erfurt, his father was already
in a position to supply his needs more abundantly. He felt the vigor
of youth, and was a merry companion with song and lute. Of his
spiritual life at that time little is known except that death came
near him, and that in a thunder storm he was "called upon by a
terrible apparition from heaven." In terror he took a vow to go into a
monastery, and quickly and secretly carried out his resolve.
From that time date our reports about the troubles of his soul. At
odds with his father, full of awe at the thought of an incomprehensible
eternity, cowed by the wrath of God, he began with supernatural
exertions a life of renunciation, devotion, and penance. He found no
peace. All the highest questions of life rushed with fearful force
upon his defenseless, wandering soul. Remarkably strong and passionate
with him was the necessity of feeling himself in harmony with God and
the universe. What theology offered him was all unintelligible,
bitter, and repulsive. To his nature the riddles of the moral order of
the universe were most important. That the good should suffer, and the
evil succeed; that God should condemn the human race to the monstrous
burden of sin because a simple-minded woman had bitten into an apple;
that this same God should endure our sins with love, toleration, and
patience; that Christ at one time sent away honorable people with
severity, and at another time associated with harlots, publicans,
and sinners--"human understanding with its wisdom turns to folly at
this." Then he would complain to his spiritual adviser, Staupitz:
"Dear Doctor, our Lord treats people so cruelly. Who can serve Him
if he lays on blows like this?" But when he got the answer, "How
else could He subdue the stubborn heads?" this sensible argument
could not console the young man. With fervid desire to find the
incomprehensible God, he searched all his thoughts and dreams with
self-torture. Every earthly thought, every beat of his youthful blood,
became for him a cruel wrong. He began to despair of himself; he
wrestled in unceasing prayer, fasted and scourged himself. At one time
the priests had to break into his cell in which he had been lying for
days in a condition not far from insanity. With warm sympathy Staupitz
looked upon such heart-rending torment, and sought to give him peace
by blunt counsel. Once when Luther had written to him, "Oh, my sin! My
sin! My sin!" his spiritual adviser gave him the answer, "You long to
be without sin, and you have no real sin. Christ is the forgiveness of
real sins, such as parricide and the like. If Christ is to help you,
you must have a list of real sins, and not come to Him with such trash
and make-believe sins, seeing a sin in every trifle." The manner in
which Luther gradually raised himself above such despair was decisive
for his whole life. The God whom he served was at that time a God of
terror. His anger was to be appeased only by the means of grace which
the ancient Church prescribed--in the first place through constant
confession, for which there were innumerable prescriptions and formulæ
which seemed to the heart empty and cold. By strictly prescribed
activities and the practice of so-called good works, the feeling of
real atonement and inward peace had not come to the young man. Finally
a saying of his spiritual adviser pierced his heart like an arrow:
"That alone is true penance which begins with love for God. Love for
God and inward exaltation is not the result of the means of grace
which the Church teaches; it must go before them." This doctrine from
Tauler's school became for the young man the basis of a new spiritual
and moral relation to God; it was for him a sacred discovery. The
transformation of his spiritual life was the principal thing. For that
he had to work. From the depths of every human heart must come
repentance, expiation, and atonement. He and every man could lift
himself up to God, alone. Not until now did he realize what free
prayer was. In place of a far-off divine power which he had formerly
sought in vain through a hundred forms and childish confessions, there
came before him at last the image of an all-loving protector to whom
he could speak at any time joyfully and in tears; to whom he could
bring all sorrow, every doubt; who took unceasing interest in him,
cared for him, granted or denied his heartfelt petitions tenderly,
like a good father. So he learned to pray; and how ardent his prayers
became! From this time he lived in peace with the beloved God whom he
had finally found, every day, every hour. His intercourse with the
Most High became more intimate than with the dearest companions of
this earth. When he poured out his whole self before Him, then calm
came over him and a holy peace, a feeling of unspeakable love. He felt
himself a part of God, and remained in this relation to Him from that
time throughout his whole life. He heeded no longer the roundabout
ways of the ancient Church; he could, with God in his heart, defy the
whole world. Even thus early he ventured to believe that those held
false doctrine who put so much stress on works of penance, that there
was nothing beyond these works but a cold satisfaction and a
ceremonious confession; and when, later, he learned from Melanchthon
that the Greek word for penitence, _metanoia_ meant literally "change
of mind," it seemed to him a wonderful revelation. On this ground
rested the confident assurance with which he opposed the words of
Scripture to the ordinances of the Church. By this means Luther in the
monastery gradually worked his way to spiritual liberty. All his later
doctrines, his battles against indulgences, his imperturbable
steadfastness, his method of interpreting the Scriptures, rested upon
the struggles through which he, while a monk, had found his God; and
it may well be said that the new era of German history began with
Luther's prayers in the monastery. Life was soon to thrust him under
its hammer, to harden the pure metal of his soul.
In 1508 Luther reluctantly accepted the professorship of dialectics at
the new university of Wittenberg. He would rather have taught that
theology which even then he believed the true one. When, in 1510, he
went to Rome on business for his order, it is well known what devotion
and piety marked his sojourn in the Holy City, and with what horror
the heathen life of the Romans and the moral corruption and
worldliness of the clergy filled him. It was there where his
devotions, while he was officiating at mass, were disturbed by the
reckless jests which the Roman priests of his order called out to him.
He never forgot the devil-inspired words[2] as long as he lived.
But the hierarchy, however deeply its corruption shocked him, still
contained his whole hope; outside of it there was no God and no
salvation. The noble idea of the Catholic Church, and its conquests of
fifteen hundred years, enraptured the mind even of the strongest. And
when this German in Roman clerical dress, at the risk of his life,
inspected the ruins of ancient Rome and stood in awe before the
gigantic columns of the temples which, according to report, the Goths
had once destroyed, the sturdy man from the mountains of the old
Hermunduri little dreamed that it would be his own fate to destroy the
temples of medieval Rome more thoroughly, more fiercely, more grandly.
Luther came back from Rome still a faithful son of the great Mother
Church. All heresy, such as that of the Bohemians, was hateful to him.
He took a warm interest, after his return, in Reuchlin's contest
against the judges of heresy at Cologne, and, in 1512, stood on the
side of the Humanists; but even then he felt that something separated
him from this movement. When, a few years later, he was in Gotha, he
did not call upon the worthy Mutianus Rufus, although he wrote him a
very polite letter of apology; and soon after he was offended by the
inward coldness and secular tone in which theological sinners were
ridiculed in Erasmus' dialogues. The profane worldliness of the
Humanists was never quite in harmony with the cheerful faith of
Luther's soul, and the pride with which he afterward offended the
sensitive Erasmus in a letter which was meant to be conciliatory, was
probably even then in his soul. Even the forms of literary modesty
adopted by Luther at that time give the impression that they were
wrung from an unbending spirit by the power of Christian humility.
For even at that time he felt himself secure and strong in his faith.
As early as 1516 he wrote to Spalatin, who was the link of intercourse
between him and the Elector, Frederick the Wise, that the Elector was
the most prudent of men in the things of this world, but was afflicted
with sevenfold blindness in matters concerning God and the salvation
of the soul. And Luther had reason for this expression, for the
provident spirit of that moderate prince appeared in his careful
efforts, among other things, to gather in for domestic use the means
of grace recommended by the Church. For instance, he had a special
hobby for sacred relics, and just at this time Staupitz, the vicar of
the Augustinian order for Saxony, was occupied in the Rhine region and
elsewhere in collecting them for the Elector. For Luther the absence
of his superior was important, for he had to fill his place. He was
already a respected man in his order. Although professor (of theology
since 1512), he still lived in his monastery in Wittenberg and
generally wore his monk's habit; and now he visited the thirty
monasteries in his charge, deposed priors, uttered severe censure of
bad discipline, and urged severity against fallen monks. But something
of the simple faith of the brother of the monastery still clung to
him.
It was in this spirit of confidence and German sincerity that he
wrote, October 31, 1517, after he had posted the theses against Tetzel
on the church door, to Archbishop Albert of Mainz, the protector of
the seller of indulgences. Full of the popular belief in the wisdom
and the goodwill of the highest rulers, Luther thought (he often said
so later) that it was only necessary to present honestly to the
princes of the Church the disadvantage and immorality of such abuses.
But how childish this zeal of the monk appeared to the polished and
worldly prince of the Church! What so deeply offended the honest man
was, from the point of view of the Archbishop, a matter long settled.
The sale of indulgences was an evil in the Church a hundred times
deplored, but as unavoidable as many institutions seem to the
politician; while not good in themselves, they must be kept for the
sake of a greater interest. The greatest interest of the Archbishop
and the curia was their supremacy, which was acquired and maintained
by such commercial dealings. The great interest of Luther and the
people was truth. This was the parting of the ways.
And so Luther entered upon the struggle, a poor and faithful son of
the Church, full of German devotion to authority; but yet he had in
his character something which gave him strength against too extreme
exercise of this authority--a close relation to his God. He was then
thirty-four years old, in the fulness of his strength, of medium
stature, his body vigorous and without the corpulency of his later
years, appearing tall beside the small, delicate, boyish form of
Melanchthon. In the face which showed the effects of vigils and inward
struggles, shone two fiery eyes whose keen brilliancy was hard to
meet. He was a respected man, not only in his order, but at the
University; not a great scholar--he learned Greek from Melanchthon in
the first year of his professorship, and Hebrew soon after. He had no
extensive book learning, and never had the ambition to shine as a
writer of Latin verse; but he was astonishingly well-read in the
Scriptures and some of the Fathers of the Church, and what he had once
learned he assimilated with German thoroughness. He was the untiring
shepherd of his flock, a zealous preacher, a warm friend, once more
full of a decorous cheerfulness; he was of an assured bearing, polite
and skilful in social intercourse, with a confidence of spirit which
often lighted up his face in a smile. The small events of the day
might indeed affect him and annoy him. He was excitable, and easily
moved to tears, but on any great emergency, after he had overcome his
early nervous excitement, such as, for instance, embarrassed him when
he first appeared before the Diet at Worms--then he showed wonderful
calmness and self-command. He knew no fear. Indeed, his lion's nature
found satisfaction in the most dangerous situations. The danger of
death into which he sometimes fell, the malicious ambushes of his
enemies, seemed to him at that time hardly worthy of mention. The
reason for this superhuman heroism, as one may call it, was again his
close personal relation to his God. He had long periods in which he
wished, with a cheerful smile, for martyrdom in the service of truth
and of his God. Terrible struggles were still before him, but those in
which men opposed him did not seem to deserve this name. He had
defeated the devil himself again and again for years. He even
overcame the fear and torment of hell, which did its utmost to cloud
his reason. Such a man might perhaps be killed, but he could hardly be
conquered.
The period of the struggle which now follows, from the beginning of
the indulgences controversy until his departure from the Wartburg--the
time of his greatest victories and of his tremendous popularity--is
perhaps best known; but it seems to us that even here his nature has
never yet been correctly judged.
Nothing is more remarkable at this period than the manner in which
Luther became gradually estranged from the Church of Rome. His life
was modest and without ambition. He clung with the deepest reverence
to the lofty idea of the Church, for fifteen hundred years the
communion of saints; and yet in four short years he was destined to be
cut off from the faith of his fathers, torn from the soil in which he
had been so firmly rooted. And during all this time he was destined to
stand alone in the struggle, or at best with a few faithful
companions--after 1518 together with Melanchthon. He was to be exposed
to all the perils of the fiercest war, not only against innumerable
enemies, but also in defiance of the anxious warnings of sincere
friends and patrons. Three times the Roman party tried to silence
him--through the official activity of Cajetan, through the persuasive
arts of Miltitz, and the untimely persistence of the contentious Eck.
Three times he spoke to the Pope himself in letters which are among
the most valuable documents of those years. Then came the parting. He
was anathematized and outlawed. According to the old university
custom, he burned the enemy's declaration of war, and with it the
possibility of return. With cheerful confidence he went to Worms in
order that the princes of his nation might decide whether he should
die or thenceforth live among them without pope or church, according
to the Bible alone.
[Illustration: _Permission F Pruelmann A G Munich_
FREDERICK WILLIAM I INSPECTING A SCHOOL Adolph von Menzel.]
At first, when he had printed his theses against Tetzel, he was
astonished at the enormous excitement which they caused in Germany, at
the venomous hatred of his enemies, and at the signs of joyful
recognition which he received from many sides. Had he, then, done such
an unheard-of thing? What he had expressed was, he knew, the belief of
all the best men of the Church. When the Bishop of Brandenburg had
sent the Abbot of Lehnin to him, with the request that Luther would
suppress the printed edition of his German sermon on indulgences and
grace, however near the truth he might be, the brother of the poor
Augustinian monastery was deeply moved that such great men should
speak to him in so friendly and cordial a manner, and he was ready to
give up the printing rather than make himself a monster that disturbed
the Church. Eagerly he sought to refute the report that the Elector
had instigated his quarrel with Tetzel--"they wish to involve the
innocent prince in the enmity that falls on me." He was ready to do
anything to keep the peace before Cajetan and with Miltitz. One thing
he would not do--recant what he had said against the unchristian
extension of the system of indulgences; but recantation was the only
thing the hierarchy wanted of him. For a long time he still wished for
peace, reconciliation, and return to the peaceful activity of his
cell; and again and again a false assertion of his opponents set his
blood on fire, and every opposition was followed by a new and sharper
blow from his weapon.
Even in the first letter to Leo X, May 30, 1518, Luther's heroic
assurance is remarkable. He is still entirely the faithful son of the
Church. He still concludes by falling at the Pope's feet, offers him
his whole life and being, and promises to honor his voice as the voice
of Christ, whose representative the head of the Church is; but even
from this devotion befitting the monk, the vigorous words flash out:
"If I have merited death, I refuse not to die." In the body of the
letter, how strong are the expressions in which he sets forth the
coarseness of the sellers of indulgences! Here, too, his surprise is
honest that his theses are making so much stir with their
unintelligible sentences, involved, according to the old custom, to
the point of riddles. And good humor sounds in the manly words: "What
shall I do? I cannot recant. In our century full of intellect and
beauty, which might put Cicero into a corner, I am only an unlearned,
limited, poorly educated man! But the goose must needs cackle among
the swans."
The following year almost all who honored Luther united in the
endeavor to bring about a reconciliation. Staupitz and Palatin, and
the Elector through them, scolded, besought, and urged; the papal
chamberlain, Miltitz himself, praised Luther's attitude, and whispered
to him that he was entirely right, implored him, drank with him, and
kissed him. Luther, to be sure, thought he knew that the courtier had
a secret mission to make him a captive, if possible, and bring him to
Rome. But the peacemakers successfully hit upon the point in which the
stubborn man heartily agreed with them--that respect for the Church
must be maintained, and its unity must not be destroyed. Luther
promised to keep quiet and to submit the decision of the contested
points to three worthy bishops. While in this position he was urged to
write a letter of apology to the Pope. But even this letter of March
3, 1519, though approved by the mediators and written under
compulsion, is characteristic as showing the advance Luther had made.
Humility, such as our theologians see in it, is hardly present, but a
cautious diplomatic attitude throughout. Luther regrets that what he
has done to defend the honor of the Roman Church should have been
interpreted as lack of respect in him. He promises henceforth to say
nothing more about indulgences--if, that is, his opponents will do
the same; he offers to address a manifesto to the people in which he
will advise them to give proper obedience to the Church and not to be
estranged from her because his adversaries have been insolent and he
himself harsh. But all these submissive words do not conceal the rift
which already separates his mind from the essential basis of the
Church of Rome. It sounds like cold irony when he writes: "What shall
I do, Most Holy Father? I am at a complete loss. I cannot endure the
weight of your anger, and yet I do not know how to escape it. They
demand a recantation from me. If it could accomplish what they propose
by it, I would recant without hesitation, but the opposition of my
adversaries has spread my writings farther than I had ever hoped; they
have taken hold too deeply on the souls of men. In Germany today
talent, learning, freedom of judgment are flourishing. If I should
recant, I should cover the Church, in the judgment of my Germans, with
still greater disgrace. It is they--my adversaries--who have brought
the Church of Rome into disrepute with us in Germany." He finally
closes politely: "If I should be able to do more, I shall without
doubt be very ready. May Christ preserve your Holiness! Martin
Luther."
Much is to be read between the lines of this studied reserve. Even if
the vain Eck had not immediately set all Wittenberg University by the
ears, this letter could hardly have been considered at Rome as a token
of repentant submission.
The thunderbolt of excommunication had been hurled; Rome had spoken.
Now Luther, again completely his old self, wrote once more to the Pope
that great and famous letter which, at the request of the untiring
Miltitz, he dated back to September 6, 1520, that he might be able to
ignore the bull of excommunication. It is a beautiful reflection of a
resolute mind which from a lofty standpoint calmly surveys its
opponent, and at the same time is magnificent in its sincerity, and of
the noblest spirit. With sincere sympathy he speaks of the personality
and of the difficult position of the Pope; but it is the sympathy of a
stranger. He still laments with melancholy the condition of the
Church, but it is plain that he himself has already outgrown it. It is
a farewell letter. With the keenest severity there is still a firm
attitude and silent sorrow. Such is the way a man parts from what he
has once loved and found unworthy. This letter was to be the last
bridge for the peacemakers. For Luther it was the liberation of his
soul.
In these years Luther had become a different man. In the first place
he had acquired prudence and self-reliance in his intercourse with the
most exalted personages, and at heavy cost had won insight into the
policies and the private character of the rulers. Nothing was at heart
more painful to the peaceable nature of his sovereign than this bitter
theological controversy, which sometimes furthered his political ends
but always disturbed his peace of mind. Constant efforts were made by
his court to keep the Wittenberg people within bounds, and Luther
always saw to it that they were made too late. Whenever the faithful
Spalatin dissuaded him from the publication of a new polemic, he
received the answer that there was no help for it, that the sheets
were printed and already in the hands of many and could not be
suppressed. And in his dealings with his adversaries Luther had
acquired the assurance of a seasoned warrior. He was bitterly hurt
when Hieronymus Emser, in the spring of 1518, craftily took him to a
banquet in Dresden where he was forced to argue with angry enemies,
especially when he learned that a Dominican friar had listened at the
door and the next day had spread it in the town that Luther had been
completely silenced, and that the listener had had difficulty to
restrain himself from rushing into the room and spitting in Luther's
face. At that first meeting with Cajetan Luther still prostrated
himself humbly at the feet of the prince of the Church; after the
second he allowed himself to express the view that the cardinal was as
fit for his office as an ass to play the harp. He treated the polite
Miltitz with fitting politeness. The Roman had hoped to tame the
German bear, but soon the courtier came of his own accord into the
position which was appropriate for him--he was used by Luther. And in
the Leipzig disputation against Eck the favorable impression which the
self-possessed, honest, and sturdy nature of Luther produced was the
best counterpoise to the self-satisfied assurance of his clever
opponent.
But Luther's inward life calls for greater sympathy. It was after all
a terrible period for him. Close to exaltation and victory lay for him
deathly anxiety, torturing doubt, and horrible apparitions. He, almost
alone, was in arms against all Christendom, and was becoming more and
more irreconcilably hostile to the mightiest power, which still
included everything that had been sacred to him since his youth. What
if, after all, he were wrong in this or that! He was responsible for
every soul that he led away with him--and whither? What was there
outside the Church but destruction and perdition for time and for
eternity? If his adversaries and anxious friends cut him to the heart
with reproaches and warnings, the pain, the secret remorse, the
uncertainty which he must not acknowledge to any one, were greater
beyond comparison. He found peace, to be sure, in prayer. Whenever his
fervid soul, seeking its God, rose in mighty flights, he was filled
with strength, peace, and cheerfulness. But in hours of less tense
exaltation, when his sensitive spirit quivered under unpleasant
impressions, then he felt himself embarrassed, divided, under the
spell of another power which was hostile to his God. He knew from
childhood how actively evil spirits ensnare mankind; he had learned
from the Scripture that the Devil works against the purest to ruin
them. On his path the busy devils were lurking to weaken him, to
mislead him, to make innumerable others wretched through him. He saw
their work in the angry bearing of the cardinal, in the scornful face
of Eck, even in the thoughts of his own soul. He knew how powerful
they had been in Rome. Even in his youth apparitions had tormented
him; now they reappeared. From the dark shadows of his study the
spectre of the tempter lifted its claw-like hand against his reason.
Even while he was praying the Devil approached him in the form of
the Redeemer, radiant as King of Heaven with the five wounds, as
the ancient Church represented Him. But Luther knew that Christ
appears to poor humanity only in His words, or in humble form, as He
hung upon the cross; and he roused himself vigorously and cried
to the apparition: "Avaunt, foul fiend!"--and the vision disappeared.
Thus the strong heart of the man worked for years in savage
indignation--always renewed. It was a sad struggle between reason and
insanity, but Luther always came out victorious; the native strength
of his sound nature prevailed. In long prayer, often lasting for
hours, the stormy waves of his emotion became calm, and his massive
intelligence and his conscience brought him every time out of doubt to
certainty. He considered this process of liberation as a gracious
inspiration of his God, and after such moments he who had once been in
such anxious doubt was as firm as steel, indifferent to the opinion of
men, not to be moved, inexorable. Quite a different picture is that of
his personality in contest with earthly foes. Here he retains almost
everywhere the superiority of conviction, particularly in his literary
feuds.
The literary activity which he developed at this time was gigantic. Up
to 1517 he had printed little. From that time on he was not only the
most productive but the greatest popular writer of Germany. The energy
of his style, the vigor of his argumentation, the ardor and passion of
his conviction, carried away his readers. No one had ever spoken thus
to the people. His language lent itself to every mood, to all keys;
now brief, forcible, sharp as steel, now in majestic breadth, the
words poured in among the people like a mighty stream. A figurative
expression, a striking simile, made the most difficult thoughts
intelligible. His was a wonderfully creative power. He used language
with sovereign ease. As soon as he touched a pen his mind worked with
the greatest freedom; his sentences show the cheerful warmth which
filled him, the perfect charm of sympathetic creation is poured out
upon them. And such power is by no means least apparent in the attacks
which he makes upon individual opponents, and it is closely connected
with a fault which caused misgivings even to his admiring
contemporaries. He liked to play with his opponents. His imagination
clothed the form of an enemy with a grotesque mask, and he teased,
scorned, and stabbed this picture of his imagination with turns of
speech which had not always the grace of moderation, or even of
decency; but in the midst of vituperation, his good humor generally
had a conciliatory effect--although, to be sure, not upon his victims.
Petty spite was rarely visible; not seldom the most imperturbable
good-nature. Sometimes he fell into a true artistic zeal, forgot the
dignity of the reformer, and pinched like a German peasant boy, even
like a malicious goblin. What blows he gave to all his opponents, now
with a club, wielded by an angry giant, now with a jester's bauble! He
liked to twist their names into ridiculous forms, and thus they lived
in Wittenberg circles as beasts, or as fools. Eck became Dr. Geck;
Murner was adorned with the head and claws of a cat; Emser, who had
printed at the head of most of his pamphlets his coat-of-arms the head
of a horned goat, was abused as a goat. The Latin name of the renegade
humanist Cochläus, was retranslated, and Luther greeted him as a snail
with impenetrable armor, and--sad to say--sometimes also as a dirty
boy whose nose needed wiping. Still worse, terrible even to his
contemporaries, was the reckless violence with which he declaimed
against hostile princes. It is true that he sometimes bestowed upon
his sovereign's cousin, Duke George of Saxony, a consideration hardly
to be avoided. Each considered the other the prey of the devil, but in
secret each esteemed in the other a manly worth. Again and again they
fell into dissension, even in writing, but again and again Luther
prayed warmly for his neighbor's soul. The reckless wilfulness of
Henry VIII. of England, on the other hand, offended the German
reformer to the depths of his soul; he reviled him horribly and
without cessation; and even in his last years he treated the
hot-headed Henry of Brunswick like a naughty school-boy. "Clown" was
the mildest of many dramatic characters in which he represented him.
When, later, such outpourings of excessive zeal stared at him from the
printed page, and his friends complained, he would be vexed at his
rudeness, upbraid himself, and honestly repent. But repentance availed
little, for on the next occasion he would commit the same fault; and
Spalatin had some reason to look distrustfully upon a projected
publication even when Luther proposed to write very gently and tamely.
His opponents could not equal him in his field. They called names with
equal vigor, but they lacked his inward freedom. Unfortunately it
cannot be denied that this little appendage to the moral dignity of
his nature was sometimes the spice which made his writings so
irresistible to the honest Germans of the sixteenth century.
In the autumn of 1517 he had got into a quarrel with a reprobate
Dominican friar; in the winter of 1520 he burned the Pope's bull. In
the spring of 1518 he had prostrated himself at the feet of the Vicar
of Christ; in the spring of 1521 he declared at the Diet of Worms,
before the emperor and the princes and the papal legates, that he
believed neither the Pope nor the Councils alone, only the testimony
of the Holy Scripture and the interpretation of reason. Now he was
free, but excommunication and outlawry hovered over his head. He was
inwardly free, but he was free as the beast of the forest is free, and
behind him bayed the blood-thirsty pack. He had reached the
culminating point of his life, and the powers against which he had
revolted, even the thoughts which he himself had aroused among the
people, were working from now on against his life and doctrine.
Even at Worms, so it appears, it had been made clear to Luther that he
must disappear for a while. The customs of the Franconian Knights,
among whom he had faithful followers, suggested the idea of having him
spirited away by armed men. Elector Frederick, with his faithful
friends, discussed the abduction, and it was quite after the manner
of this prince that he himself did not wish to know the place of
retreat, in order to be able, in case of need, to swear to his
ignorance. Nor was it easy to win Luther over to the plan, for his
bold heart had long ago overcome earthly fear; and with an
enthusiastic joy, in which there was much fanaticism and some humor,
he watched the attempts of the Romanists to put out of the way a man
of whom Another must dispose, He who spoke through his lips.
Unwillingly he submitted. The secret was not easy to keep, however
skilfully the abduction had been planned. At first none of the
Wittenbergers but Melanchthon knew where he was. But Luther was the
last man to submit to even the best-intentioned intrigue. Very soon an
active communication arose between the Wartburg and Wittenberg. No
matter how much caution was used in delivering the letters, it was
difficult to avoid suspicion. In his fortified retreat, Luther found
out earlier than the Wittenbergers what was going on in the world
outside. He was informed of everything that happened at his
university, and tried to keep up the courage of his friends and direct
their policy. It is touching to see how he tried to strengthen
Melanchthon, whose unpractical nature made him feel painfully the
absence of his sturdy friend. "Things will get on without me," he
writes to him; "only have courage. I am no longer necessary to you. If
I get out, and I cannot return to Wittenberg, I shall go into the wide
world. You are men enough to hold the fortress of the Lord against the
Devil, without me." He dated his letters from the air, from Patmos,
from the desert, from "among the birds that sing merrily on the
branches and praise God with all their might from morning to night."
Once he tried to be crafty. He inclosed in a letter to Spalatin a
letter intended to deceive: "It was believed without reason that he
was at the Wartburg. He was living among faithful brethren. It was
surprising that no one had thought of Bohemia;" and then came a
thrust--not ill-tempered--at Duke George of Saxony, his most active
enemy. This letter Spalatin was to lose with well-planned carelessness
so that it should come into the hands of the enemy. But in this kind
of diplomacy he was certainly not logical, for as soon as his leonine
nature was aroused by some piece of news, he would determine
impulsively to start for Erfurt or Wittenberg. It was hard for him to
bear the inactivity of his life. He was treated with the greatest
attention by the governor of the castle, and this attention expressed
itself, as was the custom at that time, primarily in the shape of the
best care in the matter of food and drink. The rich living, the lack
of activity, and the fresh mountain air into which the theologian was
transported, had their effect upon soul and body. He had already
brought from Worms a physical infirmity, now there were added hours of
gloomy melancholy which made him unfit for work.
On two successive days he joined hunting parties, but his heart was
with the few hares and partridges which were driven into the net by
the troop of men and dogs. "Innocent creatures! The papists persecute
in the same way!" To save the life of a little hare he had wrapped him
in the sleeve of his coat. The dogs came and crushed the animal's
bones within the protecting coat. "Thus Satan rages against the souls
that I seek to save." Luther had reason for protecting himself and his
friends from Satan. He had rejected all the authority of the Church;
now he stood terribly alone; nothing was left to him but his last
resort--the Scriptures. The ancient Church had represented
Christianity in continual development. The faith had been kept in a
fluid state by a living tradition which ran parallel with the
Scriptures, by the Councils, by the Papal decrees; and they had
adapted themselves, like a facile stream, to the sharp corners of
national character, to the urgent needs of each age. It is true that
this noble idea of a perpetually living organism had not been
preserved in its original purity. The best part of its life had
vanished; empty cocoons were being preserved. The old democratic
church had been transformed into the irresponsible sovereignty of a
few, had been stained with all the vices of an unconscientious
aristocracy, and was already in striking opposition to reason and
popular feeling. What Luther, however, could put in its place--the
word of the Scriptures--although it gave freedom from a hopeless mass
of soulless excrescences, threatened on the other hand new dangers.
What was the Bible? Between the earliest and latest writings of the
sacred book lay perhaps two thousand years. Even the New Testament was
not written by Christ himself, not even entirely by those who had
received the sacred doctrine from his lips. It was compiled after his
death. Portions of it might have been transmitted inexactly.
Everything was written in a foreign tongue, which it was difficult for
the Germans to understand. Even the keenest penetration was in danger
of interpreting falsely unless the grace of God enlightened the
interpreter as it had the apostles. The ancient Church had settled the
matter summarily; in it the sacrament of holy orders gave such
enlightenment. Indeed, the Holy Father even laid claim to divine
authority to decide arbitrarily what should be right, even when his
will was contrary to the Scriptures. The reformer had nothing but his
feeble human knowledge, and prayer.
The first unavoidable step was that he must use his reason, for a
certain critical treatment even of the Holy Bible was necessary. Nor
did Luther fail to see that the books of the New Testament were of
varying worth. It is well known that he did not highly esteem the
Apocalypse, and that the Epistle of James was regarded by him as "an
epistle of straw." But his objection to particular portions never
shook his faith in the whole. His belief was inflexible that the Holy
Scriptures, excepting a few books, contained a divine revelation in
every word and letter. It was for him the dearest thing on earth, the
foundation of all his learning. He had put himself so in sympathy
with it that he lived among its figures as in the present. The more
urgent his feeling of responsibility, the warmer the passion with
which he clung to Scripture; and a strong instinct for the sensible
and the fitting really helped him over many dangers. His
discrimination had none of the hair-splitting sophistry of the ancient
teachers. He despised useless subtleties, and, with admirable tact,
let go what seemed to him unessential; but, if he was not to lose his
faith or his reason, he could do nothing, after all, but found the new
doctrine on words and conditions of life fifteen hundred years old,
and in some cases he became the victim of what his adversary Eck
called "the black letter."
Under the urgency of these conditions his method took form. If he had
a question to settle, he collected all the passages of Holy Scripture
which seemed to offer him an answer. He sought earnestly to understand
all passages in their context, and then he struck a balance, giving
the greatest weight to those which agreed with each other, and for
those which were at variance patiently striving to find a solution
which might reconcile the seeming contradiction. The resulting
conviction he firmly established in his heart, regardless of
temptations, by fervent prayer. With this procedure he was sometimes
bound to reach conclusions which seemed, even to ordinary human
understanding, vulnerable. When, for instance, in the year 1522, he
undertook, from the Scriptures, to put matrimony on a new moral basis,
reason and the needs of the people were certainly on his side when he
subjected to severe criticism the eighteen grounds of the
Ecclesiastical Law for forbidding and annulling marriages and
condemned the unworthy favoring of the rich over the poor. But it was,
after all, strange when Luther tried to prove from the Bible alone
what degrees of relationship were permitted and what were forbidden,
especially as he also took into consideration the Old Testament, in
which various queer marriages were contracted without any opposition
from the ancient Jehovah. God undoubtedly had sometimes allowed his
elect to have two wives.
And it was this method which, in 1529, during the discussions with the
Calvinists, made him so obstinate, when he wrote on the table in front
of him, "This _is_ my body," and sternly disregarded the tears and
outstretched hand of Zwingli. He had never been narrower and yet never
mightier--the fear-inspiring man who had won his conviction in the
most violent inward struggles against doubt and the Devil. It was an
imperfect method, and his opponents attacked it, not without success.
With it his doctrine became subject to the fate of all human wisdom.
But in this method there was also a vivid emotional process in which
his own reason and the culture and the inward needs of his time found
better expression than he himself knew. And it became the
starting-point from which a conscientious spirit of investigation has
wrought for the German people the highest intellectual freedom.
With such tremendous trials there came also to the outcast monk at the
Wartburg other minor temptations. He had long ago, by almost
superhuman intellectual activity, overcome what were then regarded
with great distrust as fleshly impulses; now nature asserted herself
vigorously, and he several times asked his friend Melanchthon to pray
for him on this account. Then Fate would have it that during these
very weeks the restless mind of Carlstadt in Wittenberg fell upon the
question of the marriage of priests, and reached the conclusion, in a
pamphlet on celibacy, that the vow of chastity was not binding on
priests and monks. The Wittenbergers in general agreed--first of all,
Melanchthon, whose position in this matter was freest from prejudice,
since he had never received ordination and had been married for two
years.
So at this point a tangle of thoughts and moral questions was caused
from without in Luther's soul, the threads of which were destined to
involve his whole later life. Whatever heartfelt joy and worldly
happiness was granted him from this time on depended on the answer
which he found to this question. It was the happiness of his home-life
which made it possible for him to endure the later years. Only in it
did the flower of his abundant affection develop. So Fate graciously
sent the lonely man the message which was to unite him anew and more
firmly than ever with his people; and the way in which Luther dealt
with this question is again characteristic. His pious disposition and
the conservative strain in his nature revolted against the hasty and
superficial manner in which Carlstadt reasoned.
It may be assumed that much in his own feelings, at that particular
time, made him suspicious that the Devil might be using this dubious
question to tempt the children of God, and yet at this very moment, in
his confinement, he had special sympathy for the poor monks behind
monastery walls. He searched the Scriptures. He had soon disposed of
the marriage of priests, but there was nothing in the Bible about
monks. "The Scripture is silent; man is uncertain." And then he was
struck by the ridiculous idea that even his nearest friends might
marry. He writes to the cautious Spalatin, "Good Lord! Our
Wittenbergers want to give wives to the monks too. Well, they are not
going to hang one on my neck;" and he gives the ironical warning,
"Look out that you do not marry too." But the problem still occupied
him incessantly. Life is lived rapidly in such great times. Gradually,
through Melanchthon's reasoning, and, we may assume, after fervent
prayer, he found certainty. What settled the matter, unknown to
himself, must have been the recognition that the opening of the
monasteries had become reasonable and necessary for a more moral
foundation of civil life. For almost three months he had struggled
over the question. On the first of November, 1521, he wrote the letter
to his father already cited.
The effect of his words upon the people was incalculable. Everywhere
there was a stir in the cloisters. From the doors of almost all the
monasteries and convents monks and nuns stole out--at first singly and
in secret flight; then whole convents broke up. When Luther with
greater cares weighing upon him returned the next spring to
Wittenberg, the runaway monks and nuns gave him much to do. Secret
letters were sent to him from all quarters, often from excited nuns
who, the children of stern parents, had been put into convents, and
now, without money and without protection, sought aid from the great
reformer. It was not unnatural that they should throng to Wittenberg.
Once nine nuns came in a carriage from the aristocratic establishment
at Nimpfschen--among them a Staupitz, two Zeschaus, and Catherine von
Bora. At another time sixteen nuns were to be provided for, and so on.
He felt deep sympathy for these poor souls. He wrote in their behalf
and traveled to find them shelter in respectable families. Sometimes
indeed he felt it too much of a good thing, and the hordes of runaway
monks were an especial burden to him. He complains that "they wish to
marry immediately and are the most incompetent people for any kind of
work." Through his bold solution of a difficult question he gave great
offense. He himself had painful experiences; for among those who now
returned in tumult to civil life there were, to be sure, high-minded
men, but also those who were rude and worthless. Yet all this never
made him hesitate for a moment. As usual with him, he was made the
more determined by the opposition he met. When, in 1524, he published
the story of the sufferings of a novice, Florentina of Oberweimar, he
repeated on the title page what he had already so often preached: "God
often gives testimony in the Scriptures that He will have no
compulsory service, and no one shall become His except with pleasure
and love. God help us! Is there no reasoning with us? Have we no sense
and no hearing? I say it again, God will have no compulsory service. I
say it a third time, I say it a hundred thousand times, God will have
no compulsory service."
So Luther entered upon the last period of his life. His disappearance
in the Thuringian forest had caused an enormous stir. His adversaries
trembled before the anger which arose in town and country against
those who were called murderers. But the interruption of his public
activity became fateful for him. So long as in Wittenberg he was the
central point of the struggle, his word, his pen, had held sovereign
control over the great intellectual movement in north and south; now
it worked without method in different directions, in many minds. One
of the oldest of Luther's allies began the confusion. Wittenberg
itself became the scene of a strange commotion. Then Luther could
endure the Wartburg no longer. Once before he had been secretly in
Wittenberg; now, against the Elector's will, he returned there
publicly. And there began a heroic struggle against old friends, and
against the conclusions drawn from his own doctrine. His activity was
superhuman. He thundered without cessation from the pulpit, in the
cell his pen flew fast; but he could not reclaim every dissenting
mind. Even he could not prevent the rabble of the towns from breaking
out in savage fury against the institutions of the ancient Church and
against hated individuals, nor the excitement of the people from
brewing political storms, nor the knights from rising against the
princes, and the peasants against the knights. What was more, he could
not prevent the intellectual liberty which he had won for the Germans
from producing, even in pious and learned men, an independent judgment
about creed and life, a judgment which was contrary to his own
convictions. There came the gloomy years of the Iconoclasts, the
Anabaptists, the Peasant Wars, the regrettable dissensions over the
sacrament. How often at this time did Luther's form rise sombre and
mighty over the contestants! How often did the perversion of mankind
and his own secret doubts fill him with anxious care for the future of
Germany!
For in a savage age which was accustomed to slay with fire and sword,
this German had a high, pure conception of the battles of the
intellect such as no other man attained. Even in the times of his own
greatest danger he mortally hated any use of violence. He himself did
not wish to be sheltered by his prince--indeed he desired no human
protection for his doctrine. He fought with a sharp quill against his
foes, but he burnt only a paper at the stake. He hated the Pope as he
did the Devil, but he always preached a love of peace and Christian
tolerance of the Papists. He suspected many of being in secret league
with the Devil, but he never burned a witch. In all Catholic countries
the pyres flamed high for the adherents of the new creed; even Hutten
was under strong suspicion of having cut off the ears of a few monks.
So humane was Luther's disposition that he entertained cordial
sympathy with the humiliated Tetzel and wrote him a consolatory
letter. To obey the authorities whom God has established was his
highest political principle. Only when the service of his God demanded
it did his opposition flame up. When he left Worms he had been ordered
not to preach--he who was just on the point of being declared an
outlaw. He did not submit to the prohibition, but his honest
conscience was fearful that this might be interpreted as disobedience.
His conception of the position of the Emperor was still quite the
antiquated and popular one. As subjects obey the powers that be, so
the princes and electors had to obey the Emperor according to the law
of the land.
With the personality of Charles V. he had human sympathy all his
life--not only at that first period when he greeted him as "Dear
Youngster," but also later, when he well knew that the Spanish
Burgundian was granting nothing more than political tolerance to the
German Reformation. "He is pious and quiet," Luther said of him; "he
talks in a year less than I do in a day. He is a child of fortune." He
liked to praise the Emperor's moderation, modesty, and forbearance.
Long after he had condemned Charles' policy, and in secret distrusted
his character, he insisted upon it among his table companions that the
master of Germany should be spoken of with reverence, and said
apologetically to the younger ones, "A politician cannot be so frank
as we of the clergy."
Even as late as 1530 it was his view that it was wrong for the
Elector to take arms against his Emperor. Not until 1537 did he fall
in reluctantly with the freer views of his circle, but he thought then
that the endangered prince had no right to make the first attack. The
venerable tradition of a firm, well articulated federal State was
still thus active in this man of the people at a time when the proud
structure of the old Saxon and Franconian empires was already
crumbling away. Yet in such loyalty there was no trace of a slavish
spirit. When his prince once urged him to write an open letter, his
sense of truth rose against the title of the Emperor, "Most Gracious
Lord," for he said the Emperor was not graciously disposed toward him.
And in his frequent intercourse with those of rank, he showed a
reckless frankness which more than once alarmed the courtiers. In all
reverence he spoke truths to his own prince such as only a great
character may express and only a good-hearted one can listen to. On
the whole he cared little for the German princes, much as he esteemed
a few. Frequent and just were his complaints about their incapacity,
their lawlessness, and their vices. He also liked to treat the
nobility with irony; the coarseness of most of them was highly
distasteful to him. He felt a democratic displeasure toward the hard
and selfish jurists who managed the affairs of the princes, worked for
favor, and harassed the poor; for the best of them he admitted only a
very doubtful prospect of the mercy of God. His whole heart, on the
other hand, was with the oppressed. He sometimes blamed the peasants
for their stolidity, and their extortions in selling their grain, but
he often praised their class, looked with cordial sympathy upon their
hardships, and never forgot that by birth he belonged among them.
But all this belonged to the temporal order; he served the spiritual.
The popular conception was also firmly fixed in his mind that two
controlling powers ought to rule the German nation in common--the
Church and the princes; and he was entirely right in proudly
contrasting the sphere where lay his rights and duties with that of
the temporal powers. In his spiritual field there were solidarity, a
spirit of sacrifice, and a wealth of ideals, while in secular affairs
narrow selfishness, robbery, fraud, and weakness were to be found
everywhere. He fought vigorously lest the authorities should assume to
control matters which concerned the pastor and the independence of the
congregations. He judged all policies according to what would benefit
his faith, and according to the dictates of his Bible. Where the
Scriptures seemed endangered by worldly politics, he protested, caring
little who was hit. It was not his fault that he was strong and the
princes were weak, and no blame attaches to him, the monk, the
professor, the pastor, if the league of Protestant princes was weak as
a herd of deer against the crafty policy of the Emperor. He himself
was well aware that Italian diplomacy was not his strong point. If the
active Landgrave of Hesse happened not to follow the advice of the
clergy, Luther, in his heart, respected him all the more: "He knows
what he wants and succeeds, he has a fine sense of this world's
affairs."
Now, after Luther's return to Wittenberg, the flood of democracy was
rising among the people. He had opened the monasteries; now the people
called for redress against many other social evils, such as the misery
of the peasants, the tithes, the traffic in benefices, the bad
administration of justice. Luther's honest heart sympathized with this
movement. He warned and rebuked the landed gentry and the princes. But
when the wild waves of the Peasant War flooded his own spiritual
fields, and bloody deeds of violence wounded his sensibilities; when
he felt that the fanatics and demagogues were exerting upon the hordes
of peasants an influence which threatened destruction to his doctrine;
then, in the greatest anger, he threw himself into opposition to the
uncouth mob. His call to the princes sounded out, wild and warlike;
the most horrible thing had fallen upon him--the gospel of love had
been disgraced by the wilful insolence of those who called themselves
its followers. His policy here was again the right one; there was,
unfortunately, no better power in Germany than that of the princes,
and the future of the Fatherland depended upon them after all, for
neither the serfs, the robber barons, nor the isolated free cities
which stood like islands in the rising flood, gave any assurance.
Luther was entirely right in the essential point, but the same
obstinate, unyielding manner which previously had made his struggle
against the hierarchy so popular, turned now against the people
themselves. A cry of amazement and horror shot through the masses. He
was a traitor! He who for eight years had been the favorite and hero
of the people suddenly became most unpopular. His safety and his life
were again threatened; even five years later it was dangerous for him,
on account of the peasants, to travel to Mansfeld to visit his sick
father. The indignation of the people also worked against his
doctrine. The itinerant preachers and the new apostles treated him as
a lost, corrupted man.
[Illustration: _Permission F. Bruckmann, A.-G., Munich_
COURT BALL AT RHEINSBERG Adolph von Menzel]
He was outlawed, banned, and cursed by the populace. Many well-meaning
men, too, had not approved of his attack on celibacy and monastic
life. The country gentry threatened to seize the outlaw on the
highways because he had destroyed the nunneries into which, as into
foundling asylums, the legitimate daughters of the poverty-stricken
gentry used to be cast in earliest childhood. The Roman party was
triumphant; the new heresy had lost what so far had made it powerful.
Luther's life and his doctrine seemed alike near their end.
Then Luther determined to marry. For two years Catherine von Bora had
lived in the house of Reichenbach, the city clerk, afterward mayor of
Wittenberg. A healthy, good looking girl, she was, like many others,
the abandoned daughter of a family of the country gentry of Meissen.
Twice Luther had tried to find her a husband, as in fatherly care he
had done for several of her companions. Finally Catherine declared
that she would marry no one but Luther himself, or his friend Amsdorf.
Luther was surprised, but he reached a decision quickly. Accompanied
by Lucas Kranach, he asked for her hand and married her on the spot.
Then he invited his friends to the wedding feast, asked at Court for
the venison which the Prince was accustomed to present to his
professors when they married, and received the table wine as a present
from the city of Wittenberg. How things stood in Luther's soul at that
time we should be glad to know. His whole being was under the highest
tension. The savage vigor of his nature struck out in all directions.
He was deeply shocked at the misery which arose about him from burned
villages and murdered men. If he had been a fanatic in his ideas, he
would probably have perished now in despair; but above the stormy
restlessness which could be perceived in him up to his marriage, there
shone now, like a clear light, the conviction that he was the guardian
of divine right among the Germans, and that to protect civil order and
morality, he must lead public opinion, not follow it. However violent
his utterances are in particular cases, he appears just at this time
preëminently conservative, and more self-possessed than ever. He also
believed, it is true, that he was not destined to live much longer,
and often and with longing awaited his martyrdom. He entered wedlock,
perfectly at peace with himself on this point, for he had fully
convinced himself of the necessity and the scriptural sanction of the
married state. In recent years he had urged all his acquaintances to
marry--finally even his old adversary, the Archbishop of Mainz. He
himself gave two reasons for his decision. For many years he had
deprived his father of his son; and it would be like an atonement if
he should leave to old Hans a grandson in case of his own death. There
was also some defiance in it. His adversaries were saying in triumph
that Luther was humiliated, and since all the world now took offense
at him, he proposed to give them still greater offense in his good
cause. He was of vigorous nature, but there was no trace of coarse
sensuality in him, and we may assume that the best reason, which he
confessed to no friend, was, after all, the decisive one: Gossip had
known for a long time more than he did, but now he also knew that
Catherine was dear to him. "I am no passionate lover, but I am fond of
her," he wrote to one of his closest friends.
And this marriage, performed in opposition to the judgment of his
contemporaries, and amid the shouts of scorn of his adversaries,
became the bond to which we Germans owe as much as to the years in
which he, a priest of the ancient Church, bore arms in behalf of his
theology. For henceforth the husband, the father, and the citizen,
became the reformer also of the domestic life of his nation; and the
very blessing of their earthly life which Protestants and Catholics
share alike today is due to the marriage of an excommunicated monk
with a runaway nun.
For twenty more busy years he was destined to work as an educator of
his nation. During this time his greatest work, the translation of the
Bible, was completed, and in this work, which he accomplished in
coöperation with his Wittenberg friends, he acquired a complete
control of the language of the people--a language whose wealth and
power he first learned to realize through this work. We know the lofty
spirit which he brought to this undertaking. His purpose was to create
a book for the people, and for this he studied industriously turns of
phrases, proverbs, and special terms which made up the people's
current language. Even Humanists had written an awkward, involved
German, with clumsy sentences in unfortunate imitation of the Latin
style. Now the nation acquired for daily reading a work which, in
simple words and short sentences, gave expression to the deepest
wisdom and the best intellectual life of the time. Along with Luther's
other works, the German Bible became the foundation of the modern
German language, and this language, in which our whole literature and
intellectual life has found expression, has become an indestructible
possession which, in the gloomiest times, even corrupted and
distorted, has reminded the various German strains that they have
common interests. Every individual in our country still rises superior
to the dialect of his native place, and the language of culture,
poetry, and science which Luther created is still the tie which binds
all German souls in unity.
And what he did for the social life of the Germans was no less; for by
his precepts and his writings he consecrated family prayers, marriage
and the training of children, the daily life of the community,
education, manners, amusements, whatever touches the heart, and all
social pleasures. He was everywhere active in setting up new ideals,
in laying deeper foundations. There was no field of human duty upon
which he did not force his Germans to reflect. Through his many
sermons and minor writings he influenced large groups of people, and
by his innumerable letters, in which he gave advice and consolation to
those who asked for them, he influenced individuals. When he
incessantly urged his contemporaries to examine for themselves whether
a desire was justified or not, or what was the duty of a father toward
his child, of the subject toward the authorities, of the councillor
toward the people, the progress which was made through him was so
important because here too he set free the conscience of the
individual and put everywhere in the place of compulsion from without,
against which selfishness had defiantly rebelled, a self-control in
harmony with the spirit of the individual. How beautiful is his
conception of the necessity of training children by schooling,
especially in the ancient languages! How he recommends the
introduction of his beloved music into the schools! How large is his
vision when he advises the city-councils to establish public
libraries! And again, how conscientiously he tried, in matters of
betrothal and marriage, to protect the heart of the lovers against
stern parental authority! To be sure, his horizon is always bounded by
the letter of the Scriptures, but everywhere there sounds through his
sermons, his advice, his censure, the beautiful keynote of his German
nature, the necessity of liberty and discipline, of love and morality.
He had overthrown the old sacrament of marriage, but gave a higher,
nobler, freer form to the intimate relation of man and wife. He had
fought the clumsy monastery schools; and everywhere in town and
hamlet, wherever his influence was felt, there grew up better
educational institutions for the young. He had done away with the mass
and with Latin church music; he put in its place, for friends and foes
alike, regular preaching and German chorals.
As time advanced, it became ever more apparent that it was a necessity
for Luther to perceive God in every gracious, good and tender gift of
this world. In this sense he was always pious and always wise--when he
was out-of-doors, or among his friends, in innocent merriment, when he
teased his wife, or held his children in his arms. Before a
fruit-tree, which he saw hanging full of fruit, he rejoiced in its
splendor, and said, "If Adam had not fallen, we should have admired
all trees as we do this one." He took a large pear into his hands and
marveled: "See! Half a year ago this pear was deeper under ground than
it is long and broad, and lay at the very end of the roots. These
smallest and least observed creations are the greatest miracles. God
is in the humblest things of nature--a leaf or a blade of grass." Two
birds made their nest in the Doctor's garden and flew up in the
evening, often frightened by passers-by. He called to them, "Oh, you
dear birds! Don't fly away. I am very willing to have you here, if you
could only believe me. But just so we mortals have no faith in our
God." He delighted in the companionship of whole-souled men; he drank
his wine with satisfaction, while the conversation ran actively over
great things and small. He judged with splendid humor enemies and good
acquaintances alike, and told jolly stories; and when he got into
discussion, passed his hand across his knee, which was a peculiarity
of his; or he might sing, or play the lute, and start a chorus.
Whatever gave innocent pleasure was welcome to him. His favorite art
was music; he judged leniently of dancing, and, fifty years before
Shakespeare, spoke approvingly of comedy, for he said, "It instructs
us, like a mirror, how everybody should conduct himself."
When he sat thus with Melanchthon, Master Philip was the charitable
scholar who sometimes put wise limitations upon the daring assertions
of his lusty friend. If, at such times, the conversation turned upon
rich people, and Frau Käthe could not help remarking longingly, "If my
man had had a notion, he would have got very rich," Melanchthon would
pronounce gravely, "That is impossible; for those who, like him, work
for the general good cannot follow up their own advantage." But there
was one subject upon which the two men loved to dispute. Melanchthon
was a great admirer of astrology, but Luther looked upon this science
with supreme contempt. On the other hand, Luther, through his method
of interpreting the Scriptures--and alas! through secret political
cares also--had arrived at the conviction that the end of the world
was near. That again seemed to the learned Melanchthon very dubious.
So if Melanchthon began to talk about the signs of the zodiac and
aspects, and explained Luther's success by his having been born under
the sign of the Sun, then Luther would exclaim, "I don't think much of
your Sol. I am a peasant's son. My father, grandfather, and
great-grandfather were thorough peasants." "Yes," replied Melanchthon,
"even in a hamlet, you would have become a leader, a magistrate, or a
foreman over other laborers." "But," cried Luther, victoriously, "I
have become a bachelor of arts, a master, a monk. That was not
foretold by the stars. And after that I got the Pope by the hair and
he in turn got me. I have taken a nun to wife and got some children by
her. Who saw that in the stars?" Melanchthon, continuing his
astrological prophecies and turning to the fate of the Emperor
Charles, declared that this prince was destined to die in 1584. Then
Luther broke out vehemently--"The world will not last as long as that,
for when we drive out the Turks the prophecy of Daniel will be
fulfilled and completed; then the Day of Judgment is certainly at our
doors."
How lovable he was as father in his family! When his children stood
before the table and looked hard at the fruit and the peaches, he
said, "If anybody wants to see the image of one who rejoiceth in hope,
he has here the real model. Oh, that we might look forward so
cheerfully to the Judgment Day! Adam and Eve must have had much better
fruit! Ours are nothing but crab-apples in contrast. And I think the
serpent was then a most beautiful creature, kindly and gracious; it
still wears its crown, but after the curse it lost its feet and
beautiful body." Once he looked at his three-year-old son who was
playing and talking to himself and said, "This child is like a drunken
man. He does not know that he is alive, yet lives on safely and
merrily and hops and jumps. Such children love to be in spacious
apartments where they have room," and he took the child in his arms.
"You are our Lord's little fool, subject to His mercy and forgiveness
of sins, not subject to the Law. You have no fear; you are safe,
nothing troubles you; the way you do is the uncorrupted way. Parents
always like their youngest children best; my little Martin is my
dearest treasure. Such little ones need their parents' care and love
the most; therefore the love of their parents always reaches down to
them. How Abraham must have felt when he had in mind to sacrifice his
youngest and dearest son! Probably he said nothing to Sarah about it.
That must have been a bitter journey for him." His favorite daughter
Magdalena lay at the point of death and he lamented, "I love her
truly, but, dear God, if it be Thy will to take her away to Thee, I
shall gladly know that she is with Thee. Magdalena, my little
daughter, you would like to stay here with your father, and yet you
would be willing to go to the other Father?" Then the child said,
"Yes, dear father, as God wills." When she was dying he fell on his
knees before the bed and wept bitterly, and prayed that God would
redeem her; and so she fell asleep under her father's hands, and when
the people came to help lay out the corpse and spoke to the Doctor
according to custom, he said, "I am cheerful in my mind, but the flesh
is weak. This parting is hard beyond measure. It is strange to know
she is certainly in peace and that it is well with her, and yet to be
so sorrowful all the time."
His Dominus, or Lord Käthe, as he liked to call his wife in letters to
his friends, had soon developed into a capable manager. And she had no
slight troubles: little children, her husband often in poor health, a
number of boarders--teachers and poor students--her house always open,
seldom lacking scholarly or noble guests, and, with all that, scanty
means and a husband who preferred giving to receiving, and who once,
in his zeal, when she was in bed with a young child, even seized the
silver baptismal presents of the child in order to give alms. Luther,
in 1527, for instance, could not afford even eight gulden for his
former prior and friend Briesger. He writes to him sadly: "Three
silver cups (wedding presents) are pawned for fifty gulden, the fourth
is sold. The year has brought one hundred gulden of debts. Lucas
Kranach will not go security for me any more, lest I ruin myself
completely." Sometimes Luther refuses presents, even those which his
prince offers him: but it seems that regard for his wife and children
gave him in later years some sense of economy. When he died his estate
amounted to some eight or nine thousand gulden, comprising, among
other things, a little country place, a large garden, and two houses.
This was surely in large part Frau Käthe's doing. By the way in which
Luther treats her we see how happy his household was. When he made
allusions to the ready tongue of women he had little right to do so,
for he himself was not by any means a man who could be called
reticent. When she showed her joy at being able to bring to table all
kinds of fish from the little pond in her garden, the Doctor, for his
part, was deeply pleased but did not fail to add a pleasant discourse
on the happiness of contentment. Or when on one occasion she became
impatient at the reading of the Psalter, and gave him to understand
that she had heard enough about saints--that she read a good deal
every day and could talk enough about them too--that God only desired
her to act like them; then the Doctor, in reply to this sensible
answer, sighed and said, "Thus begins discontent at God's word. There
will be nothing but new books coming out, and the Scriptures will be
again thrown into the corner." But the firm alliance of these two good
people was for a long time not without its secret sorrow. We can only
surmise the suffering of the wife's soul when, even as late as 1527,
Luther in a dangerous illness took final farewell from her with the
words: "You are my lawful wife, and as such you must surely consider
yourself."
In the same spirit as with his dear ones, Luther consorted with the
high powers of his faith. All the good characters from the Bible were
true friends to him. His vivid imagination had confidently given them
shape, and, with the simplicity of a child, he liked to picture to
himself their conditions. When Veit Deitrich asked him what kind of
person the Apostle Paul was, Luther answered quickly, "He was an
insignificant, slim little fellow like Philip Melanchthon." The Virgin
Mary was a graceful image to him. "She was a fine girl," he said
admiringly; "she must have had a good voice." He liked to think of the
Redeemer as a child with his parents, carrying the dinner to his
father in the lumber yard, and to picture Mary, when he stayed too
long away, as asking--"Darling, where have you been so long?" One
should not think of the Saviour seated on the rainbow in glory, nor as
the fulfiller of the law--this conception is too grand and terrible
for man--but only as a poor sufferer who lives among sinners and dies
for them.
Even his God was to him preëminently the head of a household and a
father. He liked to reflect upon the economy of nature. He lost
himself in wondering consideration of how much wood God was obliged to
create. "Nobody can calculate what God needs to feed the sparrows and
the useless birds alone. These cost him in one year more than the
revenues of the king of France. And then think of the other things!
God understands all trades. In his tailor shop he makes the stag a
coat that lasts a hundred years. As a shoemaker he gives him shoes for
his feet, and through the pleasant sun he is a cook. He might get rich
if he would; he might stop the sun, inclose the air, and threaten the
pope, emperor, bishops and the doctors with death if they did not pay
him on the spot one hundred thousand gulden. But he does not do that,
and we are thankless scoundrels." He reflected seriously about where
the food comes from for so many people. Old Hans Luther had asserted
that there were more people than sheaves of grain. The Doctor believed
that more sheaves are grown than there are people, but still more
people than stacks of grain. "But a stack of grain yields hardly a
bushel, and a man cannot live a whole year on that." Even a dunghill
invited him to deep reflection. "God has as much to clear away as to
create. If He were not continually carrying things off, men would have
filled the world with rubbish long ago." And if God often punishes
those who fear Him worse than those who have no religion, he appears
to Luther to be like a strict householder who punishes his son oftener
than his good-for-nothing servant, but who secretly is laying up an
inheritance for his son; while he finally dismisses the servant. And
merrily he draws the conclusion, "If our Lord can pardon me for having
annoyed Him for twenty years by reading masses, He can put it to my
credit also that at times I have taken a good drink in His honor. The
world may interpret it as it will."
He is also greatly surprised that God should be so angry with the
Jews. "They have prayed anxiously for fifteen hundred years with
seriousness and great zeal, as their prayer-books show, and He has not
for the whole time noticed them with a word. If I could pray as they
do I would give books worth two hundred florins for the gift. It must
be a great unutterable wrath. O, good Lord, punish us with pestilence
rather than with such silence!"
Like a child, Luther prayed every morning and evening, and frequently
during the day, even while eating. Prayers which he knew by heart he
repeated over and over with warm devotion, preferably the Lord's
Prayer. Then he recited as an act of devotion the shorter Catechism;
the Psalter he always carried with him as a prayer-book. When he was
in passionate anxiety his prayer became a stormy wrestling with God,
so powerful, great, and solemnly simple that it can hardly be compared
with other human emotions. Then he was the son who lay despairingly at
his father's feet, or the faithful servant who implores his prince;
for his whole conviction was firmly fixed that God's decisions could
be affected by begging and urging, and so the effusion of feeling
alternated in his prayer with complaints, even with earnest
reproaches. It has often been told how, in 1540, at Weimar, he brought
Melanchthon, who was at the point of death, to life again. When Luther
arrived, he found Master Philip in the death throes, unconscious, his
eyes set. Luther was greatly startled and said, "God help us! How the
Devil has wronged this _Organan_," then he turned his back to the
company and went to the window as he was wont to do when he prayed.
"Here," Luther himself later recounted, "Our Lord had to grant my
petition, for I challenged Him and filled His ears with all the
promises of prayer which I could remember from the Scriptures, so that
He had to hear me if I was to put any trust in His promises." Then he
took Melanchthon by the hand saying, "Be comforted, Philip, you will
not die;" and Melanchthon, under the spell of his vigorous friend,
began at once to breathe again, came back to consciousness, and
recovered.
As God was the source of all good, so, for Luther, the Devil was the
author of everything harmful and bad. The Devil interfered
perniciously in the course of nature, in sickness and pestilence,
failure of crops and famine. But since Luther had begun to teach, the
greater part of the Enemy's activity had been transferred to the souls
of men. In them he inspired impure thoughts as well as doubt,
melancholy, and depression. Everything which the thoughtful Luther
stated so definitely and cheerfully rested beforehand with terrible
force upon his conscience. If he awoke in the night, the Devil stood
by his bed full of malicious joy and whispered alarming things to him.
Then his mind struggled for freedom, often for a long time in vain.
And it is noteworthy how the son of the sixteenth century proceeded in
such spiritual struggles. Sometimes it was a relief to him if he stuck
out of bed the least dignified part of his body. This action, by which
prince and peasant of the time used to express supreme contempt,
sometimes helped when nothing else would. But his exuberant humor did
not always deliver him. Every new investigation of the Scriptures,
every important sermon on a new subject, caused him further pangs of
conscience. On these occasions he sometimes got into such excitement
that his soul was incapable of systematic thinking, and trembled in
anxiety for days. When he was busy with the question of the monks and
nuns, a text struck his attention which, as he thought in his
excitement, proved him in the wrong. His heart "melted in his body; he
was almost choked by the Devil." Then Bugenhagen visited him. Luther
took him outside the door and showed him the threatening text, and
Bugenhagen, apparently upset by his friend's excitement, began to
doubt too, without suspecting the depth of the torment which Luther
was enduring. This gave Luther a final and terrible fright. Again he
passed an awful night. The next morning Bugenhagen came in again. "I
am thoroughly angry," he said; "I have only just looked at the text
carefully. The passage has a quite different meaning." "It is true,"
Luther related afterward, "it was a ridiculous argument--ridiculous, I
mean, for a man in his senses, but not for him who is tempted."
Often he complained to his friends about the terrors of the struggles
which the Devil caused him. "He has never since the creation been so
fierce and angry as now at the end of the world. I feel him very
plainly. He sleeps closer to me than my Käthe--that is, he gives me
more trouble than she does pleasure." Luther never tired of censuring
the pope as the Anti-Christ, and the papal system as the work of the
Devil. But a closer scrutiny will recognize under this hatred of the
Devil an indestructible piety, in which the loyal heart of the man was
bound to the old Church. What became hallucinations to him were often
only pious remembrances from his youth, which stood in startling
contrast to the transformations which he had passed through as a man.
For no man is entirely transformed by the great thoughts and deeds of
his manhood. We ourselves do not become new through new deeds. Our
mental life is based upon the sum of all thoughts and feelings that we
have ever had. Whoever is chosen by Fate to establish new greatness by
destroying the greatness of the old, shatters in fragments at the same
time a portion of his own life. He must break obligations in order to
fulfil greater obligations. The more conscientious he is, the more
deeply he feels in his own heart the wound he has inflicted upon the
order of the world. That is the secret sorrow, the regret, of every
great historical character. There are few mortals who have felt this
sorrow so deeply as Luther. And what is great in him is the fact that
such sorrow never kept him from the boldest action. To us this appears
as a tragic touch in his spiritual life.
Another thing most momentous for him was the attitude which he had to
take toward his own doctrine. He had left to his followers nothing but
the authority of Scripture. He clung passionately to its words as to
the last effective anchor for the human race. Before him the pope,
with his hierarchy, had interpreted, misinterpreted, and added to the
text of the Scriptures; now he was in the same situation. He, with a
circle of dependent friends, had to claim for himself the privilege of
understanding the words of the Scriptures correctly, and applying them
rightly to the life of the times. This was a superhuman task, and the
man who undertook it must necessarily be subject to some of the
disadvantages which he himself had so grandly combatted in the
Catholic Church. His mental makeup was firmly decided and unyielding:
he was born to be a ruler if ever a mortal was; but this gigantic,
daemonic character of his will inevitably made him sometimes a tyrant.
Although he practised tolerance in many important matters, often as
the result of self-restraint and often with a willing heart, this was
only the fortunate result of his kindly disposition, which was
effective also here. Not infrequently, however, he became the pope of
the Protestants. For him and his people there was no choice. He has
been reproached in modern times for doing so little to bring the laity
into coöperation by means of a presbyterial organization. Never was a
reproach more unjust. What was possible in Switzerland, with
congregations of sturdy free peasants, was utterly impracticable at
that time in Germany. Only the dwellers in the larger cities had among
them enough intelligence and power to criticise the Protestant clergy;
almost nine-tenths of the Protestants in Germany were oppressed
peasants, the majority of whom were indifferent and stubborn, corrupt
in morals, and, after the Peasant War, savage in manners. The new
church was obliged to force its discipline upon them as upon neglected
children. Whoever doubts this should look at the reports of
visitations, and notice the continued complaints of the reformers
about the rudeness of their poverty-stricken congregations. But the
great man was subject to still further hindrances. The ruler of the
souls of the German people lived in a little town, among poor
university professors and students, in a feeble community of which he
often had occasion to complain. He was spared none of the evils of
petty surroundings, of unpleasant disputes with narrow-minded scholars
or uncultured neighbors. There was much in his nature which made him
especially sensitive to such things. No man bears in his heart with
impunity the feeling of being the privileged instrument of God.
Whoever lives in that feeling is too great for the narrow and petty
structure of middle-class society. If Luther had not been modest to
the depths of his heart, and of infinite kindness in his intercourse
with others, he would inevitably have appeared perfectly unendurable
to the matter-of-fact and common-sense people who stood indifferent by
his side. As it was, however, he came only on rare occasions into
serious conflict with his fellow-citizens, the town administration,
the law faculty of his university, or the councillors of his
sovereign. He was not always right, but he almost always carried his
point against them, for seldom did any one dare to defy the violence
of his anger. With all this he was subject to severe physical
ailments, the frequent return of which in the last years of his life
exhausted even his tremendous vigor. He felt this with great sorrow,
and incessantly prayed to his God that He might take him to Himself.
He was not yet an old man in years, but he seemed so to himself--very
old and out of place in a strange and worldly universe. These years,
which did not abound in great events, but were made burdensome by
political and local quarrels, and filled with hours of bitterness and
sorrow, will inspire sympathy, we trust, in every one who studies the
life of this great man impartially. The ardor of his life had warmed
his whole people, had called forth in millions the beginnings of a
higher human development; the blessing remained for the millions,
while he himself felt at last little but the sorrow. Once he joyfully
had hoped to die as a martyr; now he wished for the peace of the
grave, like a trusty, aged, worn-out laborer--another case of a tragic
human fate.
But the greatest sorrow that he felt lay in the relation of his
doctrine to the life of his nation. He had founded a new church on his
pure gospel, and had given to the spirit and the conscience of the
people an incomparably greater meaning. All about him flourished a new
life and greater prosperity, and many valuable arts--painting and
music--the enjoyment of comfort, and a finer social culture. Still
there was something in the air of Germany which threatened ruin:
princes and governments were fiercely at odds, foreign powers were
threatening invasions--the Emperor of Spain, the Pope from Rome, the
Turks from the Mediterranean; fanatics and demagogues were
influential, and the hierarchy was not yet fallen. As to his new
gospel, had it welded the nation into greater unity and power? The
discontent had only been increased. The future of his church was to
depend on the worldly interests of a few princes; and he knew the best
among them! Something terrible was coming; the Scriptures were to be
fulfilled; the Day of Judgment was at hand. But after this God would
build up a new universe more beautiful, grander, and purer, full of
peace and happiness, a world in which no devil would exist, in which
every human soul would feel more joy over the flowers and fruit of the
new trees of heaven than the present generation over gold and silver;
where music, the most beautiful of all arts, should ring in tones much
more delightful than the most splendid song of the best singers in
this world. There a good man would find again all the dear ones whom
he had loved and lost in this world.
The longing of the creature for the ideal type of existence grew
stronger and stronger in him. If he expected the end of the world, it
was due to dim remembrances from the far-distant past of the German
people, which still hovered over the soul of the new reformer. Yet it
was likewise a prophetic foreboding of the near future. It was not the
end of the world that was in preparation, but the Thirty Years' War.
Thus he died. When the hearse with his corpse passed through the
Thuringian country, all the bells in city and hamlet tolled, and the
people crowded sobbing about his bier. A large portion of the German
national strength went into the coffin with this one man. And Philip
Melanchthon spoke in the castle church at Wittenberg over his body:
"Any one who knew him well, must bear witness to this--that he was a
very kind man, gracious, friendly, and affectionate in all
conversation, and by no means insolent, stormy, obstinate, or
quarrelsome. And yet with this went a seriousness and courage in words
and actions, such as there should be in such a man. His heart was
loyal and without guile. The severity which he used in his writings
against the enemies of the Gospel came not from a quarrelsome and
malicious spirit but from great seriousness and zeal for the truth. He
showed very great courage and manhood, and was not easily disturbed.
He was not intimidated by threats, danger, or alarms. He was also of
such a high, clear intelligence that when affairs were confused,
obscure, and difficult he was often the only one who could see at once
what was advisable and feasible. He was not, as perhaps some thought,
too unobservant to notice the condition of the government everywhere.
He knew right well how we are governed, and noted especially the
spirit and the intentions of those with whom he had to do. We,
however, must keep a faithful, everlasting memory of this dear father
of ours, and never let him go out of our hearts." Such was Luther--an
almost superhuman nature; his mind ponderous and sharply limited, his
will powerful and temperate, his morals pure, his heart full of love.
Because no other man appeared after him strong enough to become the
leader of the nation, the German people lost for centuries their
leadership of the earth. The leadership of the Germans in the realm of
intellect, however, is founded on Luther.
[Footnote 2: "_Cito remitte matri filiolum_!" ("Send the little boy
right home to his mother.")]
* * * * *
FREDERICK THE GREAT
By GUSTAV FREYTAG
TRANSLATED BY E.H. BABBITT, A.B.
Assistant Professor of German, Tufts College
What was it that, after the Thirty Years' War drew the attention of
the politicians of Europe to the little State on the northeastern
frontier of Germany which was struggling upward in spite of the Swedes
and the Poles, the Hapsburgs and the Bourbons? The inheritance of the
Hohenzollern was no richly endowed land in which the farmer dwelt in
comfort on well-tilled acres, to which wealthy merchant princes
brought, in deeply-laden galleons, the silks of Italy and the spices
and ingots of the New World. It was a poor, desolate, sandy country of
burned cities and ruined villages. The fields were untilled, and many
square miles, stripped of men and cattle, were given over to the
caprices of wild nature. When, in 1640, Frederick William succeeded to
the Electorate, he found nothing but contested claims to scattered
territories of some thirty thousand square miles. In all the fortified
places of his home land were lodged insolent conquerors. In an
insecure desert this shrewd and tricky prince established his state,
with a craft and disregard of his neighbors' rights which, even in
that unscrupulous age, aroused criticism, but at the same time, with a
heroism and greatness of mind which more than once showed higher
conceptions of German honor than were held by the Emperor himself or
any other prince of the realm. Nevertheless, when, in 1688, this
adroit statesman died, he left behind him only an unimportant State,
in no way to be reckoned among the powers of Europe. For while his
sovereignty extended over about forty-four thousand square miles,
these contained only one million three hundred thousand inhabitants;
and when Frederick II., a hundred years after his great-grandfather,
succeeded to the crown, he inherited only two million two hundred and
forty thousand subjects, not so many as the single province of Silesia
contains today. What was it then that, immediately after the battles
of the Thirty Years' War, aroused the jealousy of all the governments,
and especially of the Imperial house, and which since then has made
such warm friends and such bitter enemies for the Brandenburg
government? For two centuries neither Germans nor foreigners ceased to
set their hopes on this new State, and for an equally long time
neither Germans nor foreigners ceased to call it--at first with
ridicule, and then with spite--"an artificial structure which cannot
endure heavy storms, which has intruded without justification among
the powers of Europe." How did it come about that impartial judges
finally, soon after the death of Frederick the Great, declared that it
was time to cease prophesying the destruction of this widely hated
power? For after every defeat, they said, it had risen more
vigorously, and had repaired all the damages and losses of war more
quickly than was possible elsewhere; its prosperity and intelligence
also were increasing more rapidly than in any other part of Germany.
It was indeed a very individual and new shade of German character
which appeared in the Hohenzollern princes and their people on the
territory conquered from the Slavs, and forced recognition with sharp
challenge. It seemed that the characters there embraced greater
contrasts; for the virtues and faults of the rulers, the greatness and
the weakness of their policies, stood forth in sharp contradiction,
every limitation appeared more striking, every discord more violent,
and every achievement more astonishing. This State could apparently
produce everything that was strange and unusual, but could not endure
one thing--peaceful mediocrity, which elsewhere may be so comfortable
and useful.
With this the situation of the country had much to do. It was a border
land, making head at once against the Swedes, the Slavs, the French,
and the Dutch. There was hardly a question of European diplomacy which
did not affect the weal and woe of this State; hardly an entanglement
which did not give an active prince the opportunity to validate his
claim. The decadent power of Sweden and the gradual dissolution of
Poland opened up extensive prospects; the superiority of France and
the distrustful friendship of Holland urged armed caution. From the
very first year, in which Elector Frederick William had been obliged
to take possession of his own fortresses by force and cunning, it was
evident that there on the outskirts of German territory a vigorous,
cautious, warlike government was indispensable for the safety of
Germany. And after the beginning of the French War in 1674, Europe
recognized that the crafty policy which proceeded from this obscure
corner was undertaking also the astonishing task of heroically
defending the western boundary of Germany against the superior forces
of the King of France.
There was perhaps also something remarkable in the racial character of
the Brandenburg people, in which princes and subjects shared alike.
Down to Frederick's time, the Prussian districts had given to Germany
relatively few scholars, writers, and artists. Even the passionate
zeal of the Reformation seemed to be subdued there. The people who
inhabited the border land, mostly of the Lower Saxon strain, with a
slight tinge of Slavic blood, were a tough, sturdy race, not specially
graceful in social manners, but with unusual keenness of understanding
and clearness of judgment. Those who lived in the capital had been
glib of tongue and ready to scoff from time immemorial: all were
capable of great exertions; industrious, persistent, and of enduring
strength.
[Illustration: _From the Painting by Adolph von Menzel_
FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS ROUND TABLE]
But the character of the princes was a more potent factor than the
location of their country or the race-character of their people; for
the way in which the Hohenzollerns molded their state was different
from that of any other princes since the days of Charlemagne. Many a
princely family can show a number of rulers who have successfully
built up their state--the Bourbons, for instance, united a wide
expanse of territory into one great political body;--or who have been
brave warriors through several generations,--there never were any
braver than the Vasas or the Protestant Wittelsbachs in Sweden. But
none have been the educators of their people as were the early
Hohenzollerns, who as great landed proprietors in a devastated
country drew new men into their service and guided their education;
who for almost a hundred and fifty years, as strict managers, worked,
schemed, and endured, took risks, and even did injustice--all that
they might build up for their state a people like themselves--hard,
economical, clever, bold, with the highest civic ambitions.
In this sense we are justified in admiring the providential
character of the Prussian State. Of the four princes who ruled
it from the Thirty Years' War to the day when the "hoary-headed
abbot in the monastery of Sans Souci" closed his weary eyes, each
one, with his virtues and vices, was the natural complement of his
predecessor--Elector Frederick William, the greatest statesman
produced by the school of the Thirty Years' War, the splendor-loving
King Frederick I., the parsimonious despot Frederick William I., and
finally, in the eighteenth century, he in whom were united the talents
and great qualities of almost all his ancestors--the flower of the
family.
Life in the royal palace at Berlin was cheerless in Frederick's
childhood; poorer in love and sunshine than in most citizens'
households at that rude time. It may be doubted whether the king his
father, or the queen, was more to blame for the disorganization of the
family life--in either case through natural defects which grew more
pronounced in the constant friction of the household. The king, an odd
tyrant with a soft heart but a violent temper, tried to compel love
and confidence with a cudgel; he possessed keen insight into human
nature, but was so ignorant that he always ran the risk of becoming
the victim of a scoundrel. Dimly aware of his weakness, he had grown
suspicious and was subject to sudden fits of violence. The queen, in
contrast, was a rather insignificant woman, colder at heart, but with
a strong sense of her princely dignity; with a tendency to intrigue,
without prudence or discretion. Both had the best of intentions, and
took honest pains to bring up their children to a capable and worthy
maturity; but both unintelligently interfered with the sound
development of the childish souls. The mother was so tactless as to
make the children, even at a tender age, the confidants of her
annoyances and intrigues. The undignified parsimony of the king, the
blows which he distributed so freely in his rooms, and the monotonous
daily routine which he forced upon her, were the subject of no end of
complaining, sulking, and ridicule in her apartments. Crown Prince
Frederick grew up, the playmate of his elder sister, into a gentle
child with sparkling eyes and beautiful light hair. He was taught with
exactness what the king desired,--and that was little enough: French,
a certain amount of history, and the necessary accomplishments of a
soldier. Against the will of his father (the great King had never
surmounted the difficulties of the genitive and dative) he acquired
some knowledge of the Latin declensions. To the boy, who was easily
led and in the king's presence looked shy and defiant, the women
imparted his first interest in French literature. He himself later
gave his sister the credit for it, but his governess too was an
accomplished French woman. That the foreign atmosphere was hateful to
the king certainly contributed to make the son fond of it; for almost
systematically praise was bestowed in the queen's apartments upon
everything that was displeasing to the stern mind of the master. When
in the family circle the king made one of his clumsy, pious speeches,
Princess Wilhelmina and young Frederick would look at each other
significantly, until the mischievous face of one or the other aroused
childish laughter, and brought the king's wrath to the point of
explosion. For this reason, the son, even in his earliest years,
became a source of vexation to his father, who called him an
effeminate, untidy fellow with an unmanly pleasure in clothes and
trifles.
But from the report of his sister, for whose unsparing judgment
censure was easier than praise, it is evident that the amiability of
the talented boy had its effect upon those about him: as when, for
instance, he secretly read a French story with his sister, and recast
the whole Berlin Court into the comic characters of the novel; when
they made forbidden music with flute and lute; when he went in
disguise to her and they recited the parts of a French comedy to each
other. But in order to enjoy even these harmless pleasures the prince
was constantly forced into falsehood, deception, and disguise. He was
proud, high-minded, magnanimous, with an uncompromising love of truth.
The fact that deception was utterly repulsive to him, that even where
it was advisable he was unwilling to stoop to it, and that, if he ever
undertook it, he dissimulated unskilfully, threw a constantly
increasing strain upon his relations with his father. The king's
distrust grew, and the son's offended sense of personal dignity found
expression in the form of stubbornness.
So he grew up surrounded by coarse spies who reported every word to
the king. With a mind of the richest endowments, of the most
discerning eagerness for knowledge, but without any suitable male
society, it is no wonder that the young man went astray. In comparison
with other German courts, the Prussian might be regarded as very
virtuous: but frivolity toward women and a lack of reserve in the
discussion of the most dubious relations were pronounced even there.
After a visit to the dissolute court of Dresden, Prince Frederick
began to behave like other princes of his time, and generally found
good comrades among his father's younger officers. We know little
about him at that period, but may conclude that he ran some risk, not
of becoming depraved, but of wasting valuable years in a spendthrift
life among unworthy companions. It certainly was not alone the
increasing dissatisfaction of his father which at that time destroyed
his peace of mind and tossed him about aimlessly, but quite as much
that inner discontent, which leads an unformed youth the more wildly
astray the greater the secret demands are which his mind makes on
life.
He determined to flee to England. How the flight failed, how the anger
of the military commander, Frederick William, flamed up against the
deserting officer, every one knows. With the days of his imprisonment
in Küstrin and his stay in Ruppin, his years of serious education
began. The terrible experiences he had been through had aroused new
strength in him. He had endured, with princely pride, all the terrors
of death and of the most terrible humiliation. He had reflected in the
solitude of his prison on the greatest riddle of life--on death and
what is beyond. He had realized that there was nothing left for him
but submission, patience, and quiet waiting. But bitter, heart-rending
misfortune is a school which develops not only the good--it fosters
also many faults. He learned to keep his counsel hidden in the depth
of his soul, and to look upon men with suspicion, using them as his
instruments, deceiving and flattering them with prudent serenity in
which his heart had no share. He was obliged to flatter the cowardly
and vulgar Grumbkow, and to be glad when he finally had won him over
to his side. For years he had to take the utmost pains, over and over
again, to conquer the displeasure and lack of confidence of his stern
father. His nature always revolted against such humiliation, and he
tried by bitter mockery to give expression to his injured self-esteem.
His heart, which warmed toward everything noble, prevented him from
becoming a hardened egoist; but he did not grow any the milder or more
conciliatory, and long after he had become a great man and wise ruler,
there remained in him from this time of servitude some trace of petty
cunning. The lion sometimes, in a spirit of undignified vengeance, did
not scorn to scratch like a cat.
Still, in those years, he learned something useful too--the strict
spirit of economy with which his father's narrow but able mind cared
for the welfare of his country and his household. When, to please the
king, he had to draw up leases, and took pains to increase the yield
of a domain by a few hundred thalers; or even entered unduly into the
hobbies of the king and proposed to him to kidnap a tall shepherd of
Mecklenburg as a recruit--these doings were at first, to be sure, only
a tedious means of propitiating the king, for he asked Grumbkow to
procure for him a man to make out the lists in his stead; the officers
in public and private service informed him where a surplus was to be
made, here and there, and he continued to ridicule the giant soldiers
whenever he could with impunity. Gradually, however, the new world
into which he had been transplanted, and the practical interests of
the people and of the State, became attractive to him. It was easy to
see that even his father's turn for economy was often tyrannical and
whimsical. The king was always convinced that he wished nothing but
the best for his country, and therefore took the liberty to interfere,
in the most arbitrary manner, even in the details of the property and
business of private persons. He ordered, for instance, that no he-goat
should run with the ewes; that all colored sheep, gray, black, or
piebald, should be completely disposed of within three years, and only
fine white wool be tolerated; he prescribed exactly how the copper
standard measures of the Berlin bushel, which he had sent all over the
country (at the expense of his subjects) should be preserved and kept
locked up so as to get no dents. In order to foster the linen and
woolen industry, he decreed that his subjects should wear none of the
fashionable chintz and calico, and threatened with a hundred thalers'
fine and three days in the pillory everybody who, after eight months,
permitted a shred of calico in his house in dress, gown, cap, or
furniture coverings. This method of ruling certainly seemed severe and
petty; but the son learned to honor nevertheless the prudent mind and
good intentions which were recognizable underneath such edicts, and
himself gradually acquired a wealth of detailed knowledge such as is
not usually at the disposal of a prince--real estate values, market
prices, and the needs of the people; the usages, rights, and duties of
humble life. He even absorbed something of the pride with which the
King boasted of his business knowledge; and when he himself had become
the all-powerful administrator of his State, the unbounded advantage
which was due to his knowledge of the people and of trade became
manifest. Only in this way was the wise economy made possible with
which he managed his own household and the State finances, as well as
the unceasing care for detail by which he developed agriculture,
trade, prosperity, and culture among his people. He could examine
equally well the daily accounts of his cooks and the estimates of the
income from the domains, forests, and taxes. For his ability to judge
with precision the smallest things as well as the greatest, his people
were in great part indebted to the years during which he had sat
unwillingly as assessor at the green table at Ruppin. Sometimes,
however, there befell him also what in his father's time had been
vexatious--that his knowledge of business details was, after all, not
extensive enough, and that he, like his father, gave orders which
arbitrarily interfered with the life of his Prussians, and could not
be carried out.
Scarcely had Frederick partially recovered from the blows of the great
catastrophe of his youth, when a new misfortune fell upon him, just as
terrible as the first, and in its consequences still more momentous
for his life. He was forced by the King to marry. Heartrending is the
sorrow with which he struggles to free himself from the bride chosen
for him. "She may be as frivolous as she pleases if only she is not a
simpleton! That I cannot bear." It was all in vain. He looked upon
this alliance with bitterness and anger almost to the very day of his
wedding, and never outgrew the bitter belief that his father had thus
destroyed his emotional life. His sensitive feelings, his affectionate
heart, were bartered away in the most reckless manner. Nor by this act
was he alone made unhappy, but also a good woman who was worthy of a
better fate. Princess Elizabeth of Bevern had many noble qualities of
heart; she was not a simpleton, she did not lack beauty, and could
pass muster before the fierce criticism of the princesses of the royal
house. But we fear that, if she had been an angel from heaven, the
pride of the Prince would have protested against her, for he was
offended to the depths of his nature by the needless barbarity of a
compulsory marriage. And yet the relation was not always so cold as
has sometimes been assumed. For six years the kindness of heart and
tact of the Princess succeeded time after time in reconciling the
crown prince to her. In the retirement of Rheinsberg she was really
his helpmeet and an amiable hostess for his guests, and it was
reported by the Austrian agents to the Court of Vienna that her
influence was increasing. But her modest, clinging nature had too
little of the qualities which can permanently hold an intellectual
man. The wide-awake members of the Brandenburg line felt the need of
giving quick and pointed expression to every easily aroused feeling.
When the Princess was excited, she grew quiet as if paralyzed; she
also lacked the easy graces of society. The two natures did not agree.
Then, too, her manner of showing affection toward her husband, always
dutiful, and subordinating herself as if under a spell and overwhelmed
by his great mind, was not very interesting for the Prince, who had
acquired, with the French intellectual culture, no little of the
frivolity of French society.
When Frederick became King, the Princess soon lost even the slight
part which she had won in her husband's affections. His long absence
in the first Silesian War gave the finishing stroke to their
estrangement. The relations of husband and wife became more and more
distant. Years passed when they did not see each other, and icy
brevity and coolness can be perceived in his letters to her. Still the
fact that the King was obliged to esteem her character so highly
maintained her in her outward position. Later, his relations with
women influenced his emotions very slightly. Even his sister at
Bayreuth, sickly, nervous, embittered by jealousy of an unfaithful
husband, was estranged from her brother for years; and not until she
had given up all hope of life did this proud member of the House of
Brandenburg, aging and unhappy, seek again the heart of the brother
whose little hand she had once held as they stood before their stern
father. His mother also, to whom King Frederick always showed
excellent filial devotion, was not able to occupy a large place in his
heart. His other brothers and sisters were younger, and were only too
much disposed to hatch obscure domestic conspiracies against him. If
the King ever condescended to show any attentions to a lady of the
court or of the stage, these were in general as disturbing as they
were flattering for the persons in question. When he found
intelligence, grace, and womanly dignity united, as in Frau von Camas,
who was the Queen's first lady-in-waiting, he expressed the amiability
of his nature in many cordial attentions. But on the whole, women did
not add much light or splendor to his life, and the cordial intimacy
of family life hardly ever warmed his heart. In this direction his
feelings were dried up. This was perhaps fortunate for his people, it
was undoubtedly fatal to his private life. The full warmth of his
human feelings was reserved almost exclusively for his little circle
of intimates, with whom he laughed, wrote poetry, discussed
philosophy, made plans for the future, and later discussed his
military operations and dangers.
His married life in Rheinsberg opens the best period of his younger
years. He succeeded in bringing together there a number of well
educated, cheerful companions. The little circle led a poetic life of
which those who shared in it have left a pleasing picture. Frederick
began to work seriously on his education. The expression of emotion
easily took for him the form of conventional French versification. He
worked incessantly to acquire the refinements of the foreign style.
But his mind was also busy with more serious matters. He eagerly
sought answers to all the highest questions of humanity in the works
of the Encyclopedists and of Christian Wolff. He sat bent over maps
and battle-plans, and, along with parts for the amateur theatre and
architects' sketches, other projects were in preparation, which, a few
years later, were to arouse the attention of the world.
Then the day came when his dying father laid down the reins of
government and told the officer of the day to take his orders from the
new commander-in-chief of Prussia. How the Prince was judged by his
political contemporaries we see from the characterization which an
Austrian agent had given of him a short time before: "He is graceful,
wears his own hair, and has a somewhat careless bearing; likes the
fine arts and good cooking. He would like to begin his rule by
something striking. He is a firmer friend of the army than his father.
His religion is that of a gentleman: he believes in God and the
forgiveness of sins. He likes splendor and things on a large scale. He
will reëstablish all the court positions and bring the nobles to his
court." This prophecy was not fully justified. We seek to understand
other sides of his nature at this time. The new King was a man of
fiery, enthusiastic temperament, he was quickly aroused, and the tears
came readily to his eyes. Like his contemporaries, he too was
passionately eager to admire grandeur and to give himself up to tender
feelings in a poetical mood. He played adagios softly on his flute.
Like his worthy contemporaries, he did not easily find, in prose or
poetry, the full expression of his feelings; pathetic oratory stirred
him to tearful emotion. In spite of all his French aphorisms, the
essence of his nature was very German in this respect also.
Those who ascribe to him a cold heart have judged him unfairly. It is
not cold hearts in princes which give the most offense by their
harshness. Such hearts are almost always gifted with the art of
satisfying those about them by uniform graciousness and tactful
expression. The strongest utterances of contempt are generally found
close beside the pleasing tones of a caressing tenderness. But in
Frederick, it seems to us, there was a striking and unusual union of
two totally opposite tendencies of the emotional nature, which
elsewhere are engaged in an unending struggle. He had in equal degree
the need to idealize life for himself, and the impulse to destroy
ideal moods without mercy in himself and in others. This first
peculiarity of his was perhaps the most beautiful, perhaps the
saddest, with which a human being was ever equipped in the struggles
of earth. His was indeed a poetic nature. He possessed to a high
degree that peculiar power which endeavors to reconstruct vulgar
reality according to the ideal needs of its own nature, and covers
everything near with the grace and light of a new life. It was a
necessity for him to make over with the grace of his imagination the
image of those dear to him, and to adorn the relation to them into
which he had voluntarily entered. In this there was always a certain
kind of posing. Even where he had the most ardent feelings, he was
more in love with the glorified picture of the individual in his mind
than with the real personality. It was in such a mood that he kissed
Voltaire's hand. As soon as the difference between the ideal and the
real person became unpleasantly perceptible, he let go the person and
clung to the image. One to whom nature has given this temperament,
letting him see love and friendship chiefly through the colored glass
of a poetical mood, will always, according to the judgment of others,
show caprice in the choice of his friends. The uniform warmth which
treats with consideration all alike seems to be denied to such
natures. To any one to whom the King had become a friend in his own
fashion, he always showed the greatest attention and assiduity,
however much his moods changed at particular moments. He could become
as sentimental in his sorrow over the loss of such a friend as any
German of the Werther period. He had lived for many years on somewhat
distant terms with his sister in Bayreuth, and not until the last
years before her death, amid the terrors of a burdensome war, did her
image rise vividly again before him as that of an affectionate sister.
After her death he found a gloomy satisfaction in picturing to himself
and others the cordiality of his relations with her. He erected a
little temple to her and often made pilgrimages to it. Toward any one
who did not approach his heart through the medium of a poetic mood, or
incite him to poetic expression of his affection, or who touched a
wrong note anywhere in his sensitive nature, he was cold,
contemptuous, and indifferent--a king who only asked to what extent
the other person could be useful to him; he even pushed him aside when
he could no longer use him. Such a character may perhaps surround the
life of a young man with poetic lustre and give brightness and charm
even to common things, but unless it is coupled with a high degree of
morality, a sense of duty, and a mind set upon higher things, it will
leave him sad and lonely in later years. In the most favorable cases
it will make bitter enemies as well as very warm admirers. A somewhat
similar disposition brought to Goethe's noble soul heavy sorrows,
transitory relations, many disappointments, and a solitary old age. It
becomes doubly momentous for a king, before whom others rarely stand
with assurance and on equal terms; for his most sincere friends may
yet turn into admiring flatterers, unstable in their bearing, now
constrained under the moral spell of his majesty, now, under the
conviction of their own rights, fault-finding and discontented.
This need of ideal relations and longing for people to whom he could
unbosom himself without reserve, worked at cross purposes with
Frederick's penetrating discrimination, and his uncompromising love of
truth, which was a deadly enemy of all deception, impatiently resisted
every illusion, despised shams, and sought for the essence of things.
This scrutinizing view of life and its duties might well offer him
protection against those deceptions which oftener annoy an
imaginative prince, who gives his confidence, than a private
individual. His acuteness, however, showed itself also in savage moods
as unsparingly, sarcastically, and maliciously destructive. Where did
he get this disposition? Was it Brandenburg blood? Was it an
inheritance from his great-grandmother, the Electress Sophia of
Hanover, and his grandmother, Queen Sophia Charlotte, those
intellectual women with whom Leibniz had discussed the eternal harmony
of the universe? The harsh school of his youth certainly had had
something to do with it. His insight into the foibles of others was
keen. Wherever he saw a weak point, wherever any one's manners annoyed
or provoked him, his ready tongue was busy. His gibes fell unsparingly
upon friend and foe alike; and even where silence and patience were
demanded by every consideration of prudence, he could not control
himself. At such times his soul seemed to suffer some strange
transformation. With merciless exaggeration he distorted the picture
of his victim into a caricature. On closer examination the principal
motive here also appears to be pleasure in intellectual production. He
frees himself from an unpleasant impression by improvising against his
victim. He makes a grotesque picture with inner satisfaction and is
astonished if the victim, deeply offended, in turn takes up arms
against him. His resemblance to Luther in this respect is very
striking. Neither the king nor the reformer cared whether his behavior
was dignified or seemly, for both of them, excited like men on the
hunting field, entirely forgot the consequences in the joy of the
fight. Both did themselves and their great causes serious injury in
this way, and were honestly surprised when they discovered the fact.
To be sure, the blows with the cudgel or the whip which the great monk
of the sixteenth century dealt were far more terrible than the
pin-pricks of the great prince in the age of enlightenment. But when a
king teases and mocks and sometimes pinches maliciously, it is harder
to forgive him for his undignified behavior; for he frequently engages
in an unequal contest with his victims. The great prince treated all
his political opponents in this way, and aroused deadly enemies
against himself. He joked at the table, and put in circulation
stinging verses and pamphlets about Madame de Pompadour in France and
the Empresses Elizabeth and Maria Theresa. Similarly, he sometimes
caressed, sometimes scolded and scratched his poetical ideal,
Voltaire; but he also proceeded in this way with people whom he really
esteemed highly, in whom he put the greatest confidence, and whom he
took into the circle of his intimate friends. He brought the Marquis
d'Argens to his court, made him chamberlain, member of the Academy,
and one of his nearest and dearest friends. The letters which he wrote
to him from the camps of the Seven Years' War are among the most
beautiful and touching records that the King has left us. When
Frederick came home from the war it was his fond hope that the marquis
would live with him in his palace at Sans Souci. And a few years later
this charming relation was broken up in the most painful manner. How
was that possible! The marquis was perhaps the best Frenchman that the
King had brought into his circle, a man of honor, with fine feelings,
fine education, and really devoted to the King; but he was neither a
great character nor an especially strong man. For years the King had
admired in him a scholar--which he was not--a wise, clear-sighted,
assured philosopher with pleasing wit and fresh humor; he had in short
set up an extremely pleasing, fanciful image of him. Now, in daily
intercourse, Frederick found himself mistaken. A lack of robustness on
the part of the Frenchman, causing him to dwell with hypochondriac
exaggeration on his poor health, annoyed the King, who began to
realize that the aging marquis was neither a great genius nor an
intellectual giant. The ideal which he had formed of him was
destroyed. Now the King began to make fun of him on account of his
weaknesses. The sensitive Frenchman thereupon asked for leave of
absence, that a sojourn of a few months in France might restore his
health. The King was offended by this ill-humored attitude, and
continued his raillery in friendly letters which he sent him. He said
that it was rumored that a werewolf had appeared in France. This was
undoubtedly the marquis, in the disguise of a Prussian and a sick man,
and he asked if he had begun to eat little children. He had not
formerly had that bad habit, but people change a good deal in
traveling. The marquis, instead of a few months, stayed two winters.
When he was about to return, he sent certificates from his physicians.
Probably the worthy man had really been ill, but the King was
deeply offended by this awkward attempt at justification on the
part of an old friend, and when the latter returned, the old intimacy
was gone forever. The King would not let him go, but he took pleasure
in punishing the renegade by stinging speeches and harsh jokes.
Finally the Frenchman, deeply hurt, asked for his dismissal. His
request was granted, and the sorrow and anger of the King is seen from
the wording of the order. When the marquis, in the last letter which
he wrote the King before his death, represented to him again, and not
without bitterness, how scornfully and badly he had treated an
unselfish admirer, Frederick read the letter without a word. But he
wrote with grief to the dead man's widow telling her of his friendship
for her husband, and had a costly monument erected for him in a
foreign land. The great prince fared similarly with most of his
intimates. Magic as was his power to attract, he had demoniac
faculties for repelling. But if any one is disposed to blame the man
for this, let him be told that hardly another king in history has so
unsparingly disclosed his most intimate soul-life to his friends as
Frederick.
Frederick had worn the crown only a few months when the Emperor
Charles VI. died. Now everything urged the young King to risk a
master-stroke. That he determined upon such a step was in itself, in
spite of the momentary weakness of Austria, a token of bold courage.
The countries which he ruled had perhaps a seventh as many inhabitants
as the broad lands of Maria Theresa. True, his army was for the time
being far superior to the Austrian in numbers and discipline, and
according to the ideas of the time, the mass of the people was not
then in the same way as today available for recruiting purposes. Nor
did he fully realize the greatness of Maria Theresa. But even in the
preparations for the invasion the King showed that he had long hoped
to measure himself against Austria. In an exalted mood he entered upon
a struggle which was to be decisive for his own life and that of his
State. He cared little at heart for the right which he might have to
the Silesian duchies, and which with his pen he tried to prove before
Europe. For this the policy of the despotic States of the seventeenth
and eighteenth centuries had no regard whatever. Any one who could
find a plausible defense of his cause made use of it, but in case of
need the most improbable argument, the most shallow pretext, was
sufficient. In this way Louis XIV. had made war; in this way the
Emperor had followed up his interests against the Turks, Italians,
Germans, French, and Spaniards; in this way a great part of the
successes of the great Elector had been frustrated by others. Just
where the rights of the Hohenzollerns were the plainest, as in
Pomerania, they had been most ruthlessly curtailed, and by no one more
than by the Emperor and the Hapsburgs. Now the Hohenzollerns sought
their revenge. "Be my Cicero and prove the right of my cause, and I
will be your Cæsar and carry it through," Frederick wrote to Jordan
after the invasion of Silesia. Gaily, with light step as if going to a
dance, the King entered upon the fields of his victories. There was
still cheerful enjoyment of life, sweet coquetry with verse, and
intellectual conversation with his intimates on the pleasures of the
day, on God, nature, and immortality, which he considered the spice of
life. But the great task upon which he had entered began to have its
effect upon his soul even in the early weeks, even before he had
passed through the fiery ordeal of the first great battle. And from
that time on it hammered and forged upon his soul until it turned his
hair gray and hardened his fiery heart into ringing steel. With that
wonderful clearness which was peculiar to him, he watched the
beginning of these changes. He even then viewed his own life as from
without. "You will find me more philosophical than you think," he
writes to his friend. "I have always been so--sometimes more,
sometimes less. My youth, the fire of passion, the longing for glory,
and, to tell you the whole truth, curiosity, and finally, a secret
instinct, have forced me out of the sweet peace which I enjoyed, and
the wish to see my name in the gazettes and in history has led me into
new paths. Come here to me. Philosophy will maintain her rights, and I
assure you that if I had not this cursed love of fame, I should think
only of peaceful comfort."
When the faithful Jordan actually came to him and the King saw the man
of peaceful enjoyment timid and uncomfortable in the field, he
suddenly realized that he himself had become another and a stronger
man. The guest who had been honored by him so long as the more
scholarly, and who had corrected his verses, criticized his letters,
and been far ahead of him in the knowledge of Greek philosophy, now,
in spite of all his philosophical training, gave the King the
impression of a man without courage. With bitter derision Frederick
attacked him in one of his best improvisations, contrasting the
warrior in himself with the weak philosopher. In however bad taste the
ridiculing verses were with which he overwhelmed Jordan again and
again, the return of the old cordial feeling was just as quick; but it
was the first gentle hint of fate for the King himself. The same thing
was to befall him often. He was to lose valuable men, loyal friends,
one after another; not only by death, but still more by the coldness
and estrangement which arose between his nature and theirs. For the
way upon which he had now entered was destined to develop more and
more all the greatness, but also all the narrow features, of his
nature, up to the limit of human possibility. The higher he rose above
others, the smaller their natures inevitably appeared to him. Almost
all whom in later years he measured by his own standard were far from
able to endure the test, and the dissatisfaction and disappointment
which he then experienced became again keener and more relentless
until he himself, from a solitary height, looked down with stony eyes
upon the doings of the men at his feet; but always, even to his last
hours, the piercing chill of his searching glance was broken by the
bright splendor of soft human feelings, and the fact that these were
left to him is what makes his great tragic figure so affecting.
During the first war, to be sure, he still looked back with longing to
the calm peace of his "Remusberg," and felt deeply the exaction of the
tremendous fate which had already involved him. "It is hard to bear
with equanimity this good and bad fortune," he writes; "one may appear
indifferent in success and unmoved in adversity, the features of the
face can be controlled; but the man, the inward man, the depths of the
heart, are affected none the less." And he concludes hopefully, "All
that I wish for myself is that success may not destroy in me the human
feelings and virtues, to which I have always clung. May my friends
find me as I have always been." And at the end of the war he writes:
"See, your friend is victorious for the second time! Who would have
said a few years ago that your pupil in philosophy would play a
soldier's part in the world; that Providence would use a poet to
overthrow the political system of Europe?" This shows how fresh and
young Frederick felt when he returned to Berlin in triumph after his
first war.
For the second time he took the field to assert his claim to Silesia.
Again he was victorious. He had already the calm confidence of a tried
general. His joy at the excellence of his troops was great. "All that
flatters me in this victory," he wrote to Frau von Camas, "is that I
could contribute by a quick decision and a bold manoeuvre to the
preservation of so many good people. I would not have the least of my
soldiers wounded for vain glory, which no longer deceives me." But in
the midst of the contest came the death of two of his dearest friends,
Jordan and Kayserlingk. His grief was touching: "In less than three
months I have lost my two most faithful friends, people with whom I
had lived daily, pleasant companions, honorable men, and true friends.
It is hard for a heart that was made so sensitive as mine to restrain
my deep sorrow. When I come back to Berlin, I shall be almost a
stranger in my own fatherland, lonesome in my own house. You too have
had the misfortune to lose at one time several people who were dear to
you. I admire your courage, but I cannot imitate it. My only hope is
in time, which can overcome everything in nature. It begins by
weakening the impressions on our brains, and only ceases when it
destroys us utterly. I anticipate with terror visiting all the places
which call up in me sad memories of friends whom I have lost forever."
And four weeks after their death he writes to the same friend, who
tried to console him: "Do not believe that pressure of business and
danger give distraction in sadness. I know from experience that that
is a poor remedy. Unfortunately only four weeks have passed since my
tears and my sorrow began, but after the violent outbursts of the
first days, I feel myself just as sad, just as little consoled, as at
the beginning." And when his worthy tutor, Duhan, sent him at his
request some French books which Jordan had left behind, the King
wrote, late in the autumn of the same year: "Tears came into my eyes
when I opened the books of my poor dear Jordan. I loved him so much,
it will be hard to realize that he is no more." Not long after the
King lost also the intimate friend to whom this letter was addressed.
The loss, in 1745, of the friends of his youth was an important
turning point in the King's mental life. With these unselfish,
honorable men almost everything died which had made him happy in his
intercourse with others. The intimacies into which he now entered as a
man were all of another kind. Even the best of the new acquaintances
received perhaps his occasional confidence, but never his heartfelt
friendship. The need for stimulating intellectual intercourse
remained, and became even stronger and more imperative, for in this
too he was unique; he never could dispense with cheerful and
confidential companions, with light, almost reckless conversation,
flitting through all shades of human moods, thoughtful or frivolous,
from the greatest questions of the human race down to the little
events of the day. Immediately after his accession he had written to
Voltaire and invited him to his court. He had first met the Frenchman
in 1740 on a journey near Wesel. Soon after, Voltaire had come to
Berlin for a few days, at heavy expense. He had even then impressed
the King as a jester, but Frederick felt nevertheless an infinite
respect for the talent of the man. Voltaire was to him the greatest
poet of all times, the master of ceremonies of Parnassus, where the
King himself was so anxious to play a part. Frederick's desire to have
this man in his train became stronger and stronger. He regarded
himself as his pupil; he wished to have all his verses approved by the
master; among his Brandenburg officials he pined for the wit and
spirit of the elegant Frenchman, and finally, his vanity as a
sovereign was concerned--he wanted to be a prince of the _beaux
esprits_ and philosophers, as he had become a glorious leader of
armies. After the second Silesian war his intimates were mostly
foreigners. After 1750 he had the pleasure of seeing the great
Voltaire also as a member of his court. It was no misfortune that this
unworthy man endured for only a few years his sojourn among the
barbarians.
During these ten years, from 1746 to 1756, Frederick acquired literary
independence, and that importance as a writer which is not yet
sufficiently appreciated in Germany. As to his French poetry, a German
can only judge imperfectly. He was a facile poet, who was easily
master of every mood in metre and rhyme, but from the point of view
of a Frenchman, he never completely overcame in his lyric poetry the
difficulties of a foreign language, however diligently his confidants
revised his work. He even lacked, it seems to us, the uniform
rhetorical spirit, that style which in Voltaire's time was the first
mark of a born poet. The effect of beautiful and noble sentiments, in
splendid phraseology, is spoiled by trivial thoughts and commonplace
expressions in the next line. Nor was the development of his taste
sufficiently assured and independent. In his esthetic judgment he was
quick, both to admire and to condemn; in reality, he was much more
dependent upon the opinion of his French acquaintances than his pride
would have admitted. What was best, moreover, in French poetry at that
time--the return to Nature and the struggle of the beauty of reality
against the fetters of an antiquated conventionalism--remained to him
a sealed book. For a long time he looked upon Rousseau as an eccentric
vagabond, and upon the conscientious and accurate spirit of Diderot
even as shallow. And yet it seems to us that there often appear in his
poems, especially in the light improvisations which he made to please
his friends, a wealth of poetical detail and a charming tone of true
feeling, which at least his model Voltaire might have envied.
Frederick's history of his times is, like Cæsar's _Commentaries_, one
of the most important documents of historical literature. True, like
the Roman general, like all practical statesmen, he stated facts as
they are reflected in the soul of a participant. He does not give due
value to everything or full justice to everybody, but he knows
infinitely more than is revealed to one at a distance, and he wrote of
some of the motives underlying the great events, not without
prejudice, yet with magnanimity toward his opponents. Writing at times
without the enormous reference material which a professional historian
must collect about him, he was occasionally deceived by his memory and
his judgment, though both were very reliable. He was, moreover,
composing an apology for his house, his politics, his campaigns; and,
like Cæsar, he sometimes ignores facts or interprets them as he wishes
them to go down to posterity; but his love of truth and the frankness
with which he treats his house and his own actions are no less
admirable than his sovereign calm and the ease with which he soars
above events, in spite of the little rhetorical embellishments which
were due to the taste of his time.
His many-sidedness is as astonishing as his productiveness. One of the
greatest military writers, a historian of importance, a clever poet,
and at the same time a popular philosopher, a practical statesman,
even a writer of very free and easy anonymous pamphlets, and sometimes
a journalist, he was always ready to take up his pen for anything that
inspired him and aroused his passions or enthusiasm, or to attack, in
verse or prose, any one who provoked or annoyed him--not only the pope
and the Empress, the Jesuits and the Dutch journalists, but also old
friends if they seemed lukewarm to him,--which he could not
endure,--or if they actually threatened to break with him. Never since
Luther has there been such a belligerent, relentless, untiring writer.
As soon as he put pen to paper he was like Proteus, everything: sage
or intriguer, historian or poet, whatever the situation demanded,
always an active, fiery, intellectual--sometimes also an
ill-mannered--man, with never a moment's thought of his royal
position. Whatever he liked he praised in poems or eulogies: the noble
doctrines of his own philosophy, his friends, his army, religious
liberty, independent investigation, tolerance, and popular education.
The conquering power of Frederick's mind had reached out in all
directions. When ambition inspired him to victory it seemed as if
there were no obstacle that would check him. Then came the years of
trial--seven years of terrible, heartrending cares--the great period,
in which the heaviest tasks that ever a man accomplished were laid
upon his rich, ambitious spirit, in which almost everything perished
which was his own possession, joy and happiness, peace and selfish
comfort; in which also many pleasing and graceful characteristics of
the man were to disappear, that he might become the self-sacrificing
prince of his people, the foremost servant of his State, and the hero
of a nation. No lust of conquest made him take the field this time; it
had long been plain to him that he was fighting for his own life and
that of his State. But his determination had grown only the stronger.
Like the stormwind he purposed to dash into the clouds which were
collecting from all sides about his head, and to break up the
thunderbolts through the energy of an irresistible attack, before they
were discharged. He had never been conquered up to this time. His
enemies had been beaten every time he had fallen upon them with his
terrible instrument--the army. Herein lay his only hope. If his
well-tried power did not fail him now, he might save his State.
But in the very first conflict with his old enemy, the Austrians, he
saw that they, too, had learned from him and were changed. He exerted
his strength to the utmost, and at Kollin it failed him. The 18th of
June, 1757, is the most momentous day in Frederick's life. There
happened on that day what twice more in this war snatched victory from
him--the general had underestimated his enemy and had expected the
impossible from his own brave army. After a short period of
stupefaction Frederick arose with new strength. Instead of an
aggressive war, he had been forced to wage a desperate war of defense.
His foes attacked his little country from all sides. He entered upon a
death struggle with every great power of the Continent, master of only
four million men and a defeated army. Now his talent as general showed
itself as he escaped the enemy after defeats and again attacked in the
most unexpected quarters and beat them, faced first one army and then
another, unsurpassed in his dispositions, inexhaustible in expedients,
unequaled as leader of troops in battle. So he stood, one against
five--Austrians, Russians, French, any one of whom was his superior in
strength, and at the same time against the Swedes and the Imperial
troops. For five years he struggled thus against armies far larger
than his own--every spring in danger of being crushed merely by
numbers, every autumn free again. A loud cry of admiration and
sympathy ran through Europe; and among those who gave the loudest
praise, although reluctantly, were his most bitter enemies. Now, in
these years of changing fortune, when the King himself experienced
such bitter vicissitudes of the fortune of war, his generalship was
the astonishment of all the armies of Europe. How, always the more
rapid and skilful, he managed to establish his lines against his
opponents; how so often he outflanked in an oblique position the
weakest wing of the enemy, forced it back, and put it to rout; how his
cavalry, which, newly organized, had become the strongest in the
world, dashed in fury upon the foe, broke their ranks, scattered their
battalions: all this was celebrated everywhere as a new advance in
military art, and the invention of surpassing genius. The tactics and
the strategy of the Prussian army came to be for almost half a century
the ideal and model for all the armies of Europe. It was the unanimous
opinion that Frederick was the greatest general of his time, and that
there had been few leaders since the beginning of history who could be
compared with him. It seemed incredible that the smaller numbers so
often conquered the greater, and even when defeated, instead of being
routed, faced the enemy, who had hardly recovered from his injuries,
as threatening and fully equipped as before. Today we praise not only
the field operations of the King, but also the wise prudence with
which he handled his supplies. He knew very well how much he was
limited by having to consider the commissariat, and the thousands of
carts in which he had to take with him the provisions and the daily
supplies of the soldiers; but he also knew that this method was his
only salvation. Once, when after the battle of Rossbach he made the
astonishing march into Silesia--one hundred and eighty-nine miles in
fifteen days--he, in the greatest danger, abandoned his old method. He
made his way through the country as other armies did at that time,
and quartered his men upon the people. But he wisely returned at once
to his old plan. For as soon as his enemies learned to imitate this
free movement, he was certainly doomed. When the old militia in his
ancient provinces rose to arms again, helped to drive out the Swedes,
and bravely defended Colberg and Berlin, he accepted their assistance
without objection; but he took pains not to encourage a guerilla war;
and when his East Frisian peasantry revolted independently against the
French and were severely punished by them for it, he told them with
brutal frankness that it was their own fault, for war was a matter for
soldiers; the business of the peasants and citizens should be
uninterrupted industry, the payment of taxes, and the furnishing of
recruits. He well knew that he was lost if a people's war in Saxony
and Bohemia should be aroused against him. This readiness, indicative
of the cautious general, to restrict himself to military forms, which
alone made the contest possible for him, may be reckoned among his
greatest qualities.
Louder and louder became the cry of sorrow and admiration with which
Germans and foreigners watched this death-struggle of the lion at bay.
As early as 1740 the young King had been praised by the Protestants as
the champion of freedom of conscience and enlightenment, against
intolerance and the Jesuits. When, a few months after the battle at
Kollin, he completely defeated the French at Rossbach, he became the
hero of Germany. A glad cry of joy broke out everywhere. For two
hundred years the French had done great wrong to the divided country;
now the German national idea began to revolt against the influence of
French culture, and the King, who himself greatly admired Parisian
poetry, had effectively routed the Parisian generals with German
musket balls. It was such a brilliant victory, such a humiliating
defeat of the hereditary enemy, that everywhere in Germany there was
hearty rejoicing. Even where the soldiers of a State were fighting
against King Frederick, the people at home in city and country
rejoiced at the blows he dealt in good old German fashion. And the
longer the war lasted, the more active became the faith in the King's
invincibility, and the higher rose the confidence of the Germans. For
the first time in long, long years they now had a hero of whose
military glory they could be proud--a man who accomplished what seemed
more than human. Innumerable anecdotes about him ran through the
country. Every little touch about his calmness, good humor, kindness
to individual soldiers, and the loyalty of his army, traveled hundreds
of miles. How, in danger of death, he played the flute in his tent,
how his wounded soldiers sang chorals after the battle, how he took
off his hat to a regiment--he has often been imitated since--all this
was reported on the Neckar and the Rhine, was printed, and listened to
with merry laughter and tears of emotion. It was natural that poets
should sing his praise. Three of them had been in the Prussian army:
Gleim and Lessing, as secretaries of Prussian generals, and Ewald von
Kleist, a favorite of the younger literary circles, as an officer,
until the bullet struck him at Kunersdorf. But still more touching for
us is the loyal devotion of the Prussian people. The old provinces,
Prussia, Pomerania, Brandenburg, and Westphalia, were suffering
unspeakably by the war, but the proud joy of having a share in the
hero of Europe often lifted even humble men above their own
sufferings. Citizens and peasants took the field as militiamen again
and again for years. When a number of recruits from the province of
Cleves and the county of Ravensberg deserted after a lost battle and
returned home, the deserters were declared perjurers by their own
fellow-countrymen and relatives, were excluded from the villages and
driven back to the army.
Foreign opinion was no less enthusiastic. In the Protestant cantons of
Switzerland there was as warm sympathy with the King's fate as if the
descendants of the Rütli men had never been separated from the German
empire. There were people there who were made ill by vexation when the
King's cause was in a bad way. It was the same in England. Every
victory of the King aroused wild joy in London. Houses were
illuminated and pictures and laudatory poems offered for sale. In
Parliament Pitt announced with admiration every new deed of the great
ally. Even at Paris, in the theatres and salons, people were rather
Prussian than French. The French derided their own generals and the
clique of Madame de Pompadour. Whoever was on the side of the French
arms, so Duclos reports, hardly dared to give expression to his views.
In St. Petersburg, the grand duke Peter and his party were such good
Prussians that they grieved in secret at every reverse of Frederick's
cause. The enthusiasm penetrated even to Turkey and to the Khan of
Tartary; and this respectful admiration of a whole continent outlasted
the war. When Hackert, the painter, was traveling through the interior
of Sicily, a gift of honor of wine and fruit was offered him by the
city council because they had heard that he was a Prussian, a subject
of the great King for whom they wished thereby to show their
reverence; and Muley Ismail, the emperor of Morocco, released without
any ransom the crew of a ship belonging to a citizen of Emden, whom
the Berbers had brought prisoner to Mogador, sent them in new clothes
to Lisbon, and assured them that their King was the greatest man in
the world, that no Prussian should be a prisoner in his land, and that
his cruisers would never attack the Prussian flag.
Poor oppressed soul of the German people! Long years had passed since
the men between the Rhine and the Oder had felt the joy of being
esteemed above others among the nations of the earth! Now by the magic
of one man's power everything was transformed. The German citizen,
awakened as from an anxious dream, looked out upon the world and
within to his own heart. Men had long vegetated quietly, without a
past in which they could rejoice, without a great future in which they
could hope. Now all at once they felt that they, too, had a share in
the honor and the greatness of the world; that a king and his people,
all of their blood, had given to the German national idea a golden
setting, and to the history of civilization a new meaning. Now they
were experiencing the struggles, ventures, and victories of a great
man. Work on in your study, peaceful thinker, fantastic dreamer! You
have learned over-night to look down with a smile upon foreign ways
and to expect great things of your own talent. Try to realize, now,
what flows from your heart!
But while the youthful power of the people shook its wings with
enthusiastic warmth, how did the great prince feel who was struggling
ceaselessly against his enemies? The inspiring cry of the people rang
in his ears as a feeble sound. The King heard it almost with
indifference. His heart grew calmer and colder. To be sure, passionate
hours of sorrow and heart-rending cares came to him over and over
again. He kept them hidden from his army; his calm face became harder,
his brow more deeply furrowed, and his expression more rigid. Only
before a few intimates he opened his heart from time to time, and then
for a moment the sorrow of the man who had reached the limits of human
possibilities broke forth.
Ten days after the battle of Kollin his mother died. A few weeks
afterward he drove in anger his brother August Wilhelm from the army,
because he had not been strong enough to lead it. The next year this
brother died "of sorrow," as the officer of the day announced to the
King. Shortly after he received the news of the death of his sister at
Bayreuth. One after another his generals fell by his side, or lost the
King's confidence, because they were not equal to the superhuman tasks
of this war. His veterans, the pride of his heart, hardened warriors,
seasoned in three fierce wars, who, dying, stretched out their hands
toward him and called his name, were crushed in entire companies about
him, and what came to fill the broad gaps that death incessantly
mowed in his army were young men, some good material, but many
worthless. The King made use of them as he did of others, more
sternly, more severely. His glance and his word gave courage and
devotion even to the inferior sort, but still he knew that all this
was not salvation. His criticism became brief and cutting, his praise
rare. So he lived on; five summers and winters came and went; the work
was gigantic; his thinking and scheming was inexhaustible, his eagle
eye scrutinized searchingly the most remote and petty circumstances,
and yet there was no change, and no hope anywhere. The King read and
wrote in leisure hours just as before; he composed verses and kept up
a correspondence with Voltaire and Algarotti, but he was prepared to
see all this come soon to an end--a swift and sudden one. He carried
in his pocket day and night something which could make him free from
Daun and Laudon. At times the whole affair filled him with disdain.
The letters of the man from whom Germany dates a new epoch in its
intellectual life deserve to be read with reverence by every German.
When you find him writing to Frau von Camas, "For the last six years I
have felt that it is the living, not the dead, for whom one should be
sorry," if you are shocked by the gloomy energy of his determination
you must beware of thinking that in it the power of this remarkable
spirit found its highest expression. It is true that the King had some
moments of desperation when he longed for death by the enemy's bullet
in order not to be forced to use the capsule which he carried in his
pocket. He was indeed fully determined not to ruin the State by living
as a captive of Austria; to this extent what he writes is terribly
true. But he was also of a poetic temperament, a child of the century
which so longed for great deeds and found such immense satisfaction in
the expression of exalted feelings. He was, to the bottom of his
heart, a German with the same emotional needs as, for instance, the
infinitely weaker Klopstock and his admirers. The consideration and
resolute expression of his final resolve made him freer and more
cheerful at heart. He wrote to his sister at Bayreuth about it in the
momentous second year of the war; and this letter is especially
characteristic, for his sister also was determined not to survive him
and the downfall of his house; and he approved this decision, to
which, by the way, he gave little attention in his gloomy satisfaction
at his own reflections. The two royal children had once secretly
recited, in the house of their stern father, the parts of French
tragedies; now their hearts beat again in the single thought of
freeing themselves by a Catonian death from a life full of
disappointment, confusion, and suffering. But when the excited and
nervous sister fell seriously ill, Frederick forgot all his Stoic
philosophy, and clinging fast to life with a passionate tenderness,
worried and mourned over her who was the dearest to him of his family.
When she died, his poignant grief was perhaps increased by the feeling
that he had interfered in too tragic a manner with a tender woman's
life. Thus, even in the greatest of all Germans born in the first half
of the eighteenth century, poetic feelings, and the wish to appear
beautiful and great, were strangely mingled with the serious realities
of life. Poor little Professor Semler who, while under the deepest
emotion, still studied his attitudes and worked over his polite
phrases, and the great King, who in cool expectation of the hour of
his death, still wrote of suicide in beautifully balanced
periods--both were sons of the same age, in which pathos, which had
not yet found worthy expression in art, luxuriated like climbing
plants about the realities of life. But the King was greater than his
philosophy. In reality he never lost his courage, nor the persistent,
defiant vigor characteristic of the old Germans, nor the secret hope
which a man needs in every difficult task.
And he held out. The forces of his enemies grew weaker, their generals
were worn out, and their armies were scattered. Finally Russia
withdrew from the coalition. This, and the King's last victories,
turned the balance. He had won. He had not only conquered Silesia, but
vindicated its possession for his Prussian kingdom. But while his
people rejoiced, and the loyal citizens of his capital prepared a
festive reception for him, he shunned their merrymaking and withdrew
silent and alone to Sans Souci. He said that he wished to spend his
remaining days in peace, living for his people.
In the first twenty-three years of his reign he had struggled
and fought to maintain his power against the world. Twenty-three
years more he was destined to rule peacefully over his people as
a wise, stern patriarch. He guided his State with the greatest
self-denial, though with insistence on his own ways, striving for
the greatest things, but yet in full control even of the smallest.
Many of his ideas have been left behind by the advance of modern
civilization--they were the result of the experiences of his youth
and early manhood. Thought was to be free; every man to think what he
pleased, but to do his duty as a citizen. He himself subordinated his
comfort and his expenditures to the welfare of the State, meeting the
whole expense of the royal household with some two hundred thousand
thalers; thinking first of the advantage of his people and last of
himself. His subjects, in their turn, he felt should bear cheerfully
whatever duties and burdens he imposed upon them. Every one was to
remain in the station in which birth and education had placed him. The
noblemen were to be landholders and officers; to the citizens belonged
the towns, trade, manufacturing, instruction, and invention; to the
peasant, the land and the menial work. But in his sphere each one was
to be prosperous and happy. Equal, strict, ready justice for every
one; no favors to the highborn and rich--rather, in case of doubt, the
humble should have the preference. To increase the number of useful
men; to make every activity as profitable and as perfect as possible;
to buy as little as possible abroad; to produce everything at home,
exporting the surplus--these were the leading principles of his social
and economic theories. He exerted himself incessantly to increase the
acreage of arable land, and to provide new places for settlers. Swamps
were drained, lakes drawn off, dikes thrown up. Canals were dug and
money advanced to found new factories. At the instigation and with the
financial support of the government cities and villages were rebuilt,
more solid and sanitary than they had been before. The farmers' credit
system, fire insurance societies, and the Royal Bank were founded.
Everywhere public schools were established. Educated people were
brought in from abroad; the government officials everywhere were
required to be educated, and regulated by examination and strict
inspection. It is the duty of the historian to enumerate and praise
all this, if also to mention some unsuccessful attempts of the King,
which were inevitable owing to his endeavor to control everything
himself.
The King cared for all his lands, and by no means least for his child
of sorrow, the newly won Silesia. When he conquered this great
district it had a few more than a million inhabitants. They realized
vividly the contrast between the easy-going Austrian management and
the precise, restless, stirring rule of Prussia. In Vienna the
catalogue of prohibited books had been larger than at Rome; now bales
of books came incessantly from Germany into the province, reading and
buying were astonishingly free, even printed attacks upon the
sovereign himself. In Austria it was the privilege of the aristocracy
to wear foreign cloth. When the father of Frederick the Great of
Prussia had forbidden the importation of cloth, he had first of all
dressed himself and his princes in domestic goods. In Vienna no office
had been considered aristocratic if it implied anything but a nominal
function; all the actual work was a matter for subordinates. A
chamberlain stood higher than a veteran general or minister. In
Prussia even the highest born was little esteemed if he was not useful
to the State, and the King himself was a most exact official, who
watched and scolded over every thousand thalers saved or spent. Any
one in Austria who left the Catholic Church was punished with
confiscation of property and banishment; under the Prussians anybody
could leave or join any church--that was his own affair. Under the
imperial rule the government had been, on the whole, negligent if it
had been forced to occupy itself with any matter; the Prussian
officials had their noses and their hands in everything. In spite of
the three Silesian wars the province grew to be far more prosperous
than it had been under the Empire. Up to this time a hundred years had
not been sufficient to wipe out the visible traces of the Thirty
Years' War. The people remembered well how in the cities the heaps of
rubbish from the time of the Swedish invasions had lain about, and
between the remaining houses there were patches of waste ground
blackened by fire. Many small cities still had log houses in the old
Slavic style, with thatched or shingled roofs, patched up shabbily
from time to time. In a few decades the Prussians removed the traces
not only of former devastations, but also of the recent Seven Years'
War. Frederick laid out several hundred new villages, had fifteen
good-sized towns rebuilt in regular streets--largely with funds from
the royal treasury--and had compelled the landed proprietors to
restore several thousand farms which they had abolished as individual
holdings, and install upon them tenants with rights of succession.
Under the Empire the taxes had been lower, but they had been unfairly
distributed and had fallen chiefly upon the poor, the nobility being
exempt from the greater part of them. The collection was imperfect,
much was embezzled or poorly applied; relatively little came into the
imperial treasury. The Prussians, on the contrary, divided the country
into small districts, appraised every acre of land, and in a few years
abolished almost all exemptions. The outlying country now paid its
land taxes and the cities their excise duties. So the province bore
the double burden with greater ease, and no one but the privileged
classes grumbled; and with all this, it could maintain forty thousand
soldiers, whereas formerly there had been in the province only about
two thousand. Before 1740 the nobility had lived _en grand seigneur_.
All who were Catholic and rich lived in Vienna. Everybody else who
could raise enough money betook himself to Breslau. Now the majority
of landholders lived on their estates, the poverty-stricken nobles
disappeared, the nobility knew that the King honored them if they
looked after the cultivation of the land, and that the new master
showed cold contempt to those who neither managed their estates nor
filled civil or military positions. Formerly lawsuits had been endless
and expensive, hardly to be carried through without bribery and
sacrifice of money. Now it was observed that the number of lawyers
decreased, so quickly came the decisions. Under the Austrians, to be
sure, the caravan trade with the East had been greater; the people of
the Bukowina and Hungary, and also the Poles, turned elsewhere and
were already looking toward Trieste; but in place of this, new
manufacturing industries arose; wool and textiles, and in the mountain
valleys a flourishing linen industry. Many found the new era
uncomfortable, many were really incommoded by its severity; but few
dared to deny that on the whole things had been greatly improved.
But another thing in the Prussian system was astonishing to the
Silesians, and soon gained a secret power over their minds. This was
the Spartan spirit of devotion on the part of the King's servants,
which appeared so frequently even among the humblest officials; for
instance, the revenue collectors, never popular even before the
introduction of the French system. In this case they were retired
subaltern officers, veteran soldiers of the King, who had won his
battles for him and grown gray in powder smoke. They sat now by the
gates smoking their pipes; with their very small pay they could
indulge in no luxuries; but they were on the spot from early morning
until late at night, doing their duty skilfully, precisely and
quickly, as old soldiers are wont to do. Their minds were always on
their service; it was their honor and their pride. For years to come
old Silesians from the time of the great King used to tell their
grandchildren how the punctuality, strictness, and honesty of the
Prussian officials had astonished them. In every district
headquarters, for instance, there was a tax collector. He lived in his
little office, which was perhaps also his bedroom, and collected in a
great wooden bowl the land taxes, which the village officials brought
into his room monthly on an appointed day. Many thousand thalers were
entered on the lists, and were delivered, to the last penny, to the
great main treasuries. The pay too of such a man was small. He sat and
collected and stowed in purses until his hair became white and his
trembling hands were no longer able to manage the two-groschen pieces.
And it was the pride of his life that the King knew him personally,
and if he ever drove through the place would silently look at him from
his great eyes, while the horses were being changed, or, if he was
very gracious, give him a slight nod. With respect and a certain awe
the people looked upon even these subordinate servants of the new
principle, and the Silesians were not alone in this. Something new had
come into the world in general. It was not a mere figure of speech
when Frederick called himself the foremost servant of his State. As he
had taught his wild nobility on the battlefield that it was the
highest honor to die for the Fatherland, so his untiring, faithful
care forced upon the soul of the least of his servants in the distant
border towns the great idea of the duty of living and working first of
all for the good of his King and his country.
When the province of Prussia was forced, in the Seven Years' War, to
do homage to Empress Elizabeth, and remained for several years
incorporated in the Russian Empire, the officers of the district found
means nevertheless to raise money and grain for their King in secret,
and in spite of a foreign army and government. Great skill was used to
accomplish the transportation. There were many in the secret, but not
a traitor among them. In disguise they stole through the Russian lines
at the risk of their lives, although they knew that they would reap
small thanks from the King, who did not care for his East Prussians at
all. He spoke contemptuously of them, and showed them unwillingly the
favors which he bestowed on the other provinces. His face turned to
stone whenever he learned that one of his young officers was born
between the Memel and the Vistula, and after the war he never trod on
East Prussian soil. But this conduct did not disturb the East
Prussians in their admiration. They clung with faithful love to
their ungracious lord, and his best and most enthusiastic eulogist was
Emanuel Kant.
Life in the King's service was serious, often hard--work and
deprivation without end. It was difficult even for the best to satisfy
the strict master; and the greatest devotion received but curt thanks.
If a man was worn out he was likely to be coldly cast aside. There was
work without end everywhere: something new, something beginning, some
scaffolding of an unfinished structure. To a foreign visitor this life
did not seem at all graceful; it was austere, monotonous, and rude,
with little beauty or carefree cheerfulness. And as the King's
bachelor household, his taciturn servants, and the submissive
intimates under the trees of the quiet garden, gave a foreign guest
the impression of a monastery, so in all Prussian institutions he
found something of the renunciation and the discipline of a great busy
monastic brotherhood.
For something of this spirit had been transmitted even to the people
themselves. Today we honor in this an undying merit of Frederick II.,
for this spirit of abnegation is still the secret of the greatness of
the Prussian State, and the final and best guarantee of its
permanence. The artfully constructed machine which the great King had
set up with so much intelligence and effectiveness was not to last
forever; twenty years after his death it broke down; but in the fact
that the State did not perish with it, that the intelligence and
patriotism of the citizens were able of their own accord to establish
under his successors a new life on a new basis, we see the secret of
Frederick's greatness.
Nine years after the close of the last war which was fought for the
possession of Silesia, Frederick increased his domain by a new
acquisition, not much less in area, but thinly populated--the Polish
districts which have since become German territory under the name of
West Prussia.
If the King's claims to Silesia had been doubtful, all the acumen of
his officials was now needed to make a show of some uncertain right to
portions of the new acquisition. About this the King himself was
little concerned. He had defended before the world with almost
superhuman heroism the occupation of Silesia. This province was united
to Prussia by streams of blood. In the case of West Prussia the craft
of the politician did the work almost alone, and for a long time the
conqueror lacked in public opinion that justification for his action
which, as it seems, is given by the horrors of war and the capricious
fortune of the battlefield. But this last acquisition of the King's,
though wanting in the thunder of guns and the trumpets of victory, was
yet, of all the great gifts which the German people owe to Frederick
II., the greatest and most abounding in fortunate consequences.
Through several hundred years the Germans had been divided and hemmed
in and encroached upon by neighbors greedy for conquest; the great
King was the first conqueror who again pushed the German boundaries
toward the east. A hundred years after his great ancestor had in vain
defended the fortresses of the Rhine against Louis XIV., Frederick
gave the Germans again the explicit admonition that it was their duty
to carry law, education, liberty, culture, and industry into the east
of Europe. His whole territory, with the exception of a few Old Saxon
districts, had been originally German, then Slavic, then again won
from the Slavs by fierce wars or colonization; never since the
migrations of the Middle Ages had the struggle ceased for the broad
plains east of the Oder; never since the conquest of Brandenburg had
this house forgotten that it was the warden of the German border.
Whenever wars ceased the politicians were busy. The Elector Frederick
William had freed Prussia, the territory of the Teutonic Knights, from
feudal allegiance to Poland. Frederick I. had boldly raised this
isolated colony to a kingdom. But the possession of East Prussia was
insecure. It was not the corrupt republic of Poland which threatened
danger, but the rising power of Russia. Frederick had learned to
respect the Russians as enemies; he knew the soaring ambition of
Empress Catherine, and as a prudent prince seized the right moment.
The new territory--Pomerelia, the _voivodeship_ (administrative
province) of Kulm and Marienburg, the bishopric of Ermeland, the city
of Elbing, a portion of Cujavia, a portion of Posen--united East
Prussia with Pomerania and Brandenburg. It had always been a border
land. Since the early times people of different races had crowded into
the coasts of the Baltic: Germans, Slavs, Lithuanians, and Finns. From
the thirteenth century the Germans had made their way into this
Vistula country as founders of cities and agriculturists: Teutonic
Knights, merchants, pious monks, German noblemen and peasants. On both
sides of the Vistula arose the towers and boundary stones of German
colonies--supreme among them the magnificent city of Danzig, the
Venice of the Baltic, the great seaport of the Slavic countries, with
its rich St. Mary's Church and the palaces of its merchant princes;
and beyond it on another arm of the Vistula, its modest rival, Elbing:
farther up, the stately towers and broad avenues of Marienburg; near
it the great princely castle of the Teutonic order, the most beautiful
architectural monument of Northern Germany; and in the Vistula valley,
on a rich alluvial soil, the old prosperous colonial estates: one of
the most productive countries of the world, protected against the
devastations of the Slavic stream by massive dikes dating back to the
days of the Knights. Still farther up were Marienwerder, Graudenz,
Kulm, and in the low lands of the Netze, Bromberg, the centre of the
German border colonies among a Polish population. Smaller German towns
and village communities were scattered through the whole territory,
and the rich Cistercian monasteries of Oliva and Peplin had been
zealous colonizers. But in the fifteenth century the tyrannical
severity of the Teutonic order had driven the German cities and
landowners of West Prussia to an alliance with Poland.
The Reformation of the sixteenth century won the submission not only
of the German colonists but of three-quarters of the nobility in the
great republic of Poland; and toward 1590 about seventy out of a
hundred parishes in the Slavic district of Pomerelia were Protestant.
It seemed for a short time as if a new commonwealth and a new culture
were about to develop in the Slavic East--a great Polish State with
German elements in the cities. But the introduction of the Jesuits
brought an unsalutary change. The Polish nobility returned to the
Catholic Church: in the Jesuit schools their sons were trained to
proselytizing fanaticism, and from that time on the Polish State
declined, conditions becoming worse and worse.
The attitude of the Germans in West Prussia was not uniform toward the
proselytizing Jesuits and Slavic tyranny. A large proportion of the
immigrant German nobles became Catholic and Polish; the townsmen and
peasants remained for the most part obstinately Protestant. So there
was added to the conflict in language conflict in religious creed, and
to race hatred a religious frenzy. In this century of enlightenment
the persecution of Germans in these districts became fanatical. One
church after another was torn down, the wooden ones set on fire, and
after the church was burned the village had lost its right to a
parish: German preachers and school teachers were driven out and
disgracefully maltreated. "_Vexa Lutheranum dabit thalerum_" ("harry a
Lutheran and he will give up a thaler") was the usual motto of the
Poles against the Germans. One of the greatest landowners in the
country, a certain Unruh of the Birnbaum family, the starost of
Gnesen, was sentenced to die, after having his tongue pulled out and
his hands chopped off, because he had copied from German books into a
notebook sarcastic remarks about the Jesuits. There was no more
justice, no more safety. The national party of the Polish nobility, in
alliance with fanatic priests, persecuted most passionately those whom
they hated as Germans and Protestants. All sorts of plunder-loving
rabble collected on the side of the "patriots" or "confederates." They
collected into bands, overran the country in search of plunder, and
fell upon the smaller towns and German villages, not only from
religious zeal, but still more from the greed of booty. The Polish
nobleman Roskowsky wore boots of different colors, a red one to
indicate fire, and a black one for death. Thus he rode, levying
blackmail, from one place to another, and in Jastrow he had the hands,
the feet, and finally the head of the Protestant preacher Willich cut
off and thrown into a swamp. This happened in 1768.
Such was the condition of the country just before the Prussian
occupation. It was a state of things that might perhaps be found now
in Bosnia, but would be unheard of in the most wretched corner of
Christian Europe.
While still only a boy of twelve in the palace in Berlin, Frederick
the Great had been reminded by his father's anger and sorrow that the
kings of Prussia had a duty as protectors toward the German colonies
on the Vistula. For in 1724 a loud call from that quarter for help had
rung through Germany, and the bloody tragedy at Thorn became an
important subject of public interest and of diplomacy. During a
procession which the Jesuits were conducting through the city, some
Polish nobles of the Jesuit college had insulted some citizens and
schoolboys, and the angered populace had broken into the Jesuit school
and college and inflicted damage. This petty street-riot had been
brought up in the Polish parliament, sitting as a trial court, and the
parliament, after a passionate speech by the leader of the Jesuits,
had condemned to death the two burgomasters of the city and sixteen
citizens; whereupon the Jesuit party hastened to put to death the head
burgomaster, Rössner, and nine citizens, in some cases with barbarous
cruelty. The church of St. Mary was taken from the Protestants, the
clergymen driven out, and the school closed. King Frederick William
had tried in vain at the time to help the unfortunate city. He had
prevailed upon all the neighboring powers to send stern notes, and had
felt himself bitterly grieved and humiliated when all his
representations were disregarded; now after fifty years his son came
to put an end to this barbarous disorder, and to unite again with
Prussia this land which before the Polish sovereignty had belonged to
the Teutonic order.
[Illustration: FREDERICK THE GREAT ON A PLEASURE TRIP
_From the Painting by Adolph von Menzel_]
Danzig, to be sure, indispensable to the Poles, maintained itself
through these decades of disorder in aristocratic seclusion. It
remained a free city under Slavic protection, for a long time
suspicious of the great King and not well disposed toward him. Thorn
also had to wait twenty years longer in oppression, separated from the
other German colonies, as a Polish border city. But the energetic
assistance of the King saved the country and most of the German towns
from destruction. The Prussian officials who were sent into the
country were astonished at the desolation of the unheard-of situation
which existed but a few days' journey from their capital. Only certain
larger towns, in which the German life had been protected by strong
walls and the old market traffic, and some sheltered country
districts, inhabited exclusively by Germans (such as the lowlands near
Danzig, the villages under the mild rule of the Cistercians of Oliva,
and the prosperous German places of the Catholic Ermeland), were left
in tolerable condition. Other towns lay in ruins, as did most of the
farmsteads of the open country. The Prussians found Bromberg, a German
colonial city, in ruins; and it is even yet impossible to determine
exactly how the city came into that condition. In fact, the
vicissitudes which the whole Netze district had undergone in the last
nine years before the Prussian occupation are completely unknown. No
historian, no document, no chronicle, gives reports of the destruction
and the slaughter which must have raged there. Evidently the Polish
factions fought between themselves, and crop failures and pestilence
may have done the rest. Kulm had preserved from an earlier time its
well-built walls and stately churches, but in the streets the
foundation walls of the cellars stood out of the decaying wood and
broken tiles of the crumbled buildings. There were whole streets of
nothing but such cellar rooms in which wretched people lived. Of the
forty houses of the main market-place twenty-eight had no doors, no
roofs, no windows, and no owners. Other cities were in a similar
condition.
The majority of the country people also lived in circumstances which
seemed pitiable to the King's officers, especially on the borders of
Pomerania, where the Wendish Cassubians dwelt. Whoever approached a
village there saw gray huts with ragged thatch on a bare plain without
a tree, without a garden--only the wild cherry-trees were indigenous.
The houses were built of poles daubed with clay. The entrance door
opened into a room with a great fireplace and no chimney; heating
stoves were unknown. Seldom was a candle lighted, only pineknots
brightened the darkness of the long winter evenings. The chief article
of the wretched furniture was a crucifix with a holy water basin
below. The filthy and uncouth people lived on rye porridge, often on
herbs which they cooked like cabbage in a soup, on herrings, and on
brandy, to which women as well as men were addicted. Bread was baked
only by the richest. Many had never in their lives tasted such a
delicacy; few villages had an oven. If the people ever kept bees they
sold the honey to the city dwellers, they also trafficked in carved
spoons and stolen bark; in exchange for these they got at the fairs
their coarse blue cloth coats, black fur caps, and bright red
kerchiefs for the women. Looms were rare and spinning-wheels were
unknown. The Prussians heard there no popular songs, no dances, no
music--pleasures which even the most wretched Pole does not give up;
stupid and clumsy, the people drank their wretched brandy, fought, and
fell into the corners. And the country nobility were hardly different
from the peasants; they drove their own primitive plows and clattered
about in wooden shoes on the earthen floors of their cottages. It was
difficult even for the King of Prussia to help these people. Only the
potato spread quickly; but for a long time the fruit-trees which had
been planted by order were destroyed by the people, and all other
attempts at promoting agriculture met with opposition.
Just as poverty-stricken and ruined were the border districts with a
Polish population. But the Polish peasant in all his poverty and
disorder at least kept the greater vivacity of his race. Even on the
estates of the higher nobility, of the starosts, and of the crown, all
the farm buildings were dilapidated and useless. Any one who wished to
send a letter must employ a special messenger, for there was no post
in the country. To be sure, no need was felt of one in the villages,
for most of the nobility knew no more of reading and writing than the
peasants. If any one fell ill, he found no help but the secret
remedies of some old village crone, for there was not an apothecary in
the whole country. If any one needed a coat he could do no better than
take needle in hand himself--for many miles there was no tailor,
unless one of the trade made a trip through the country on the chances
of finding work. If any one wished to build a house he must provide
for artisans from the West as best he could. The country people were
still living in a hopeless struggle with the packs of wolves, and
there were few villages in which every winter men and animals were not
decimated. If the smallpox broke out, or any other contagious disease
came upon the country, the people saw the white image of pestilence
flying through the air and alighting upon their cottages; they knew
what such an apparition meant: it was the desolation of their homes,
the wiping out of whole communities; and with gloomy resignation they
awaited their fate. There was hardly anything like justice in the
country. Only the larger cities maintained powerless courts. The
noblemen and the starosts inflicted their punishments with
unrestrained caprice. They habitually beat and threw into horrible
dungeons not only the peasants but the citizens of the country towns
who were ruled by them or fell into their hands. In the quarrels which
they had with one another, they fought by bribery in the few courts
which had jurisdiction over them. In later years that too had almost
ceased. They sought vengeance with their own resources, by sudden
onslaughts and bloody sword-play.
It was in reality an abandoned country without discipline, without
law, without masters. It was a desert; on about 13,000 square miles
500,000 people lived, less than forty to a square mile. And the
Prussian King treated his acquisition like an uninhabited prairie. He
located boundary stones almost at his pleasure, then moved them some
miles farther again. Up to the present time the tradition remains in
Ermeland, the district around Heilberg and Braunsberg, with twelve
towns and a hundred villages, that two Prussian drummers with twelve
men conquered all Ermeland with four drumsticks. And then the King in
his magnificent manner began to build up the country. He was attracted
by precisely these run-down conditions, and West Prussia henceforth
became, as Silesia had been before, his favorite child, which with
infinite care, like a dutiful mother, he washed and brushed, provided
with new clothes, forced into school and good behavior, and never let
out of his sight. The diplomatic negotiations about the conquest were
still going on when he sent a troop of his best officials into the
wilderness. The territory was subdivided into small districts, in the
shortest possible time the whole land area was appraised and equitably
taxed, each district provided with a provincial magistrate, with a
court, and with post-offices and sanitary police. New parishes were
called into life as if by magic, a company of 187 school teachers was
brought into the country--the worthy Semler had chosen and drilled
part of them--and squads of German artisans were got together, from
the machinist down to the brickmaker. Everywhere was heard the bustle
of digging, hammering, building. The cities were filled with
colonists, street after street rose from the ruins, the estates of the
starosts were changed into crown estates, new villages of colonists
were laid out, new agricultural enterprises ordered. In the first year
after the occupation the great canal was dug, which in a course of a
dozen miles or so unites the Vistula by way of the Netze with the Oder
and the Elbe. A year after the King issued the order for the canal he
saw with his own eyes laden Oder barges 120 feet long enter the
Vistula, bound east. Through the new waterway broad stretches of land
were drained and immediately filled with German colonists. Incessantly
the King urged on, praised, and censured. However great the zeal of
his officials was, it was seldom able to satisfy him. In this way, in
a few years, the wild Slavic weeds which had sprung up here and there
even over the German fields were brought under control, and the Polish
districts, too, got used to the orderliness of the new life; and West
Prussia showed itself, in the wars after 1806, almost as stoutly
Prussian as the old provinces.
While the gray-haired King planned and created, year after year passed
over his thoughtful head. His surroundings became stiller and more
solitary; the circle of men whom he took into his confidence became
smaller. He had laid aside his flute, and the new French literature
appeared to him shallow and tedious. Sometimes it seemed to him as if
a new life were budding under him in Germany, but he was a stranger to
it. He worked untiringly for his army and for the prosperity of his
people; the instruments he used were of less and less importance to
him, while his feeling for the great duties of his crown became ever
loftier and more passionate.
But just as his seven years' struggle in war may be called superhuman,
so now there was in his work something tremendous, which appeared to
his contemporaries sometimes more than earthly and sometimes inhuman.
It was great, but it was also terrible, that for him the prosperity of
the whole was at any moment the highest thing, and the comfort of the
individual so utterly nothing. When he drove out of the service with
bitter censure, in the presence of his men, a colonel whose regiment
had made a vexatious mistake on review; when in the swamp land of the
Netze he counted more the strokes of the 10,000 spades than the
sufferings of the workmen who lay ill with malarial fever in the
hospitals he had erected for them; when he anticipated with his
restless demands the most rapid execution, there was, though united
with the deepest respect and devotion, a feeling of awe among his
people, as before one whose being is moved by some unearthly power. He
appeared to the Prussians as the fate of the State, unaccountable,
inexorable, omniscient, comprehending the greatest as well as the
smallest. And when they told each other that he had also tried to
overcome Nature, and that yet his orange trees had perished in the
last frosts of spring, then they quietly rejoiced that there was a
limit for their King after all, but still more that he had submitted
to it with such good-humor and had taken off his hat to the cold days
of May.
With touching sympathy the people collected all the incidents of the
King's life which showed human feeling, and thus gave an intimate
picture of him. Lonesome as his house and garden were, the imagination
of his Prussians hovered incessantly around the consecrated place. If
any one on a warm moonlight night succeeded in getting into the
vicinity of the palace, he found the doors open, perhaps without a
guard, and he could see the great King sleeping in his room on a camp
bed. The fragrance of the flowers, the song of the night birds, the
quiet moonlight, were the only guards, almost the only courtiers of
the lonely man. Fourteen times the oranges bloomed at Sans Souci after
the acquisition of West Prussia--then Nature asserted her rights over
the great King. He died alone, with but his servants about him.
He had set out in his prime with an ambitious spirit and had wrested
from fate all the great and magnificent prizes of life. A prince of
poets and philosophers, a historian and general, no triumph which he
had won had satisfied him. All earthly glory had become to him
fortuitous, uncertain and worthless, and he had kept only his iron
sense of duty incessantly active. His soul had grown up and out of the
dangerous habit of alternating between warm enthusiasm and sober
keenness of perception. Once he had idealized with poetic caprice some
individuals, and despised the masses that surrounded him. But in the
struggles of his life he lost all selfishness, he lost almost
everything which was personally dear to him; and at last came to set
little value upon the individual, while the need of living for the
whole grew stronger and stronger in him. With the most refined
selfishness he had desired the greatest things for himself, and
unselfishly at last he gave himself for the common good and the
happiness of the humble people. He had entered upon life as an
idealist, and even the most terrible experiences had not destroyed
these ideals but ennobled and purified them. He had sacrificed many
men for his State, but no one so completely as himself.
Such a phenomenon appeared unusual and great to his contemporaries; it
seems still greater to us who can trace even today in the character of
our people, in our political life, and in our art and literature, the
influence of his activities.
* * * *
THE LIFE OF THEODOR FONTANE
By WILLIAM A. COOPER, A.M.
Associate Professor of German, Leland Stanford Jr. University
Theodor Fontane was by both his parents a descendant of French
Huguenots. His grandfather Fontane, while teaching the princes of
Prussia the art of drawing, won the friendship of Queen Luise, who
later appointed him her private secretary. Our poet's father, Louis
Fontane, served his apprenticeship as an apothecary in Berlin. In 1818
the stately Gascon married Emilie Labry, whose ancestors had come from
the Cevennes, not far from the region whence the Fontanes had
emigrated to Germany. The young couple moved to Neu-Ruppin, where they
bought an apothecary's shop. Here Theodor was born on the thirtieth of
December, 1819.
Louis Fontane was irresponsible and fantastic, full of _bonhomie_, and
an engaging story teller. He possessed a "stupendous" fund of
anecdotes of Napoleon and his marshals, and told them with such charm
that his son acquired an unusual fondness for anecdotes, which he
indulges extensively in some of his writings, particularly the
autobiographical works and books of travel. The problem of making both
ends meet seems to have occupied the father less than the
gratification of his "noble passions," chief among which was card
playing. He gambled away so much money that in eight years he was
forced to sell his business and move to other parts. He purposely
continued the search for a new business as long as possible, but
finally bought an apothecary's shop in Swinemünde.
His young wife was passionate and independent, energetic and
practical, but unselfish. To her husband's democratic tendency she
opposed a strong aristocratic leaning. Their ill fortune in Neu-Ruppin
affected her nerves so seriously that she went to Berlin for treatment
while the family was moving.
In Swinemünde the father put the children in the public school, but
when the aristocratic mother arrived from Berlin she took them out,
and for a time the little ones were taught at home. The unindustrious
father was prevailed upon to divide with the mother the burden of
teaching them and undertook the task with a mild protest, employing
what he humorously designated the "Socratic method." He taught
geography and history together, chiefly by means of anecdotes, with
little regard for accuracy or thoroughness. Though his method was far
from Socratic, it interested young Theodor and left an impression on
him for life. His mother confined her efforts mainly to the
cultivation of a good appearance and gentle manners, for, as one might
perhaps expect of the daughter of a French silk merchant, she valued
outward graces above inward culture, and she avowedly had little
respect for the authority of scholars and books.
After a while an arrangement was made whereby Theodor shared for two
years the private lessons given by a Dr. Lau to the children of a
neighbor, and "whatever backbone his knowledge possessed" he owed to
this instruction. A similar arrangement was made with the private
tutor who succeeded Dr. Lau. He had the children learn the most of
Schiller's ballads by heart. Fontane always remained grateful for
this, probably because it was as a writer of ballads that he first won
recognition. If we look upon the ballad as a poetically heightened
form of anecdote we discover an element of unity in his early
education, and that will help us to understand why the technique of
his novels shows such a marked influence of the ballad.
"How were we children trained?" asks Fontane in _My Childhood Years_.
"Not at all, and excellently," is his answer, referring to the lack of
strict parental discipline in the home and to the quiet influence of
his mother's example.
[Illustration: _Permission Berlin Photo Co, New York_
THEODOR FONTANE HANNS FECHNER]
Among the notable events of the five years Theodor spent in
Swinemünde, were the liberation of Greece, the war between Russia and
Turkey, the conquest of Algiers, the revolution in France, the
separation of Belgium from Holland, and the Polish insurrection.
Little wonder that the lad watched eagerly for the arrival of the
newspapers and quickly devoured their contents.
In Swinemünde the family again lived beyond their means. The father's
extravagance and his passion for gambling showed no signs of
abatement. The mother was very generous in the giving of presents, for
she said that what money they had would be spent anyhow and it might
as well go for some useful purpose. The city being a popular summer
resort, they had a great many guests from Berlin during the season,
and in the winter they frequently entertained Swinemünde friends.
Theodor left home at the age of twelve to begin his preparation for
life. The first year he spent at the gymnasium in Neu-Ruppin. The
following year (1833) he was sent to an industrial school in Berlin.
There he lived with his uncle August, whose character and financial
management remind one of our poet's father. Theodor was irregular in
his attendance at school and showed more interest in the newspapers
and magazines than in his studies. At the age of sixteen he became the
apprentice of a Berlin apothecary with the expectation of eventually
succeeding his father in business. After serving his apprenticeship he
was employed as assistant dispenser by apothecaries in Berlin, Burg,
Leipzig, and Dresden. When he reached the age of thirty he became a
full-fledged dispenser and was in a position to manage the business of
his father, but the latter had long ago retired and moved to the
village of Letschin. The Fontane home was later broken up by the
mutual agreement of the parents to dissolve their unhappy union. The
father went first to Eberswalde and then to Schiffmühle, where he died
in 1867; the mother returned to Neu-Ruppin and died there in 1869.
The beginning of Theodor's first published story appeared in the
_Berliner Figaro_ a few days before he was twenty years of age. The
same organ had previously contained some of his lyrics and ballads.
The budding poet had belonged to a Lenau Club and the fondness he had
there acquired for Lenau's poetry remained unchanged throughout his
long life, which is more than can be said of many literary products
that won his admiration in youth. He also joined a Platen Club, which
afforded him less literary stimulus, but far more social pleasure.
During his year in Leipzig he brought himself to the notice of
literary circles by the publication, in the _Tageblatt_, of a
satirical poem entitled _Shakespeare's Stocking_. As a result he was
made a member of the Herwegh Club, where he met, among others, the
celebrated Max Müller, who remained his life-long friend. After a year
in Dresden Fontane returned to Leipzig, hoping to be able to support
himself there by his writings. He made the venture too soon. When he
ran short of funds he visited his parents for a while and then went to
Berlin to serve his year in the army (1844). He was granted a furlough
of two weeks for a trip to London at the expense of a friend. In
Berlin he joined a Sunday Club, humorously called the "Tunnel over the
Spree," at the meetings of which original literary productions were
read and frankly criticised. During the middle of the nineteenth
century almost all the poetic lights of Berlin were members of the
"Tunnel." Heyse, Storm, and Dahn were on the roll, and Fontane came
into touch with them; he and Storm remained friends in spite of the
fact that Storm once called him "frivolous." Fontane later evened the
score by classing Storm among the "sacred kiss monopolists." The most
productive members of the Club during this period (1844-54) were
Fontane, Scherenberg, Hesekiel, and Heinrich Smidt. Smidt, sometimes
called the Marryat of Germany, was a prolific spinner of yarns, which
were interesting, though of a low quality. He employed, however, many
of the same motives that Fontane later put to better use. Hesekiel was
a voluminous writer of light fiction. From him Fontane learned to
discard high-sounding phrases and to cultivate the true-to-life tone
of spoken speech. Scherenberg, enthusiastically heralded as the
founder of a new epic style, confined himself largely to poetic
descriptions of battles.
When Fontane joined the "Tunnel" the particular _genre_ of poetry in
vogue at the meetings was the ballad, due to Strachwitz's clever
imitations of Scottish models. Fontane's lyrics were too much like
Herwegh's to win applause, but his ballads were enthusiastically
received. One, in celebration of Derfflinger, established his standing
in the Club, and one in honor of Zieten brought him permanently into
favor with a wider public; these poems were composed in 1846. Two
years later he read two books that for a long time determined his
literary trend--Percy's _Reliques of Ancient English Poetry_ and
Scott's _Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border_. He began to write ballads
on English subjects and one of them, _Archibald Douglas_, created a
great sensation at the "Tunnel" meeting and has ever since maintained
its place among the best German poems. Its popularity is partly due to
the fact that it was so appropriately set to music by Carl Löwe. When
Fontane returned to Berlin in 1852, after a summer's absence in
England, he felt estranged from the "Tunnel" and ceased attending the
meetings. Two noblemen members, von Lepel and von Merckel, who had
become his friends, introduced him to the country nobility of the Mark
of Brandenburg, which enabled him to make valuable additions to his
portfolio of studies later drawn upon for his novels, among others,
_Effi Briest_.
In 1847 Fontane passed the apothecary's examination by a "hair's
breadth" and soon found employment in Berlin. In the March Revolution
(1848) he played a comical rôle, but was subsequently elected a
delegate to the first convention to choose a representative. For a
year and a quarter he taught two deaconesses pharmacy at an
institution called "Bethany." When that employment came to an end he
decided that the hoped-for time had finally arrived to give up the
dispensing of medicines and earn his living by his pen. Some of his
new ballads were accepted by the _Morgenblatt_, and a volume of
verses, dedicated to his fiancée, found a publisher. When news arrived
of the victory of Denmark over Schleswig-Holstein at Idstedt (1850) he
set out for Kiel to enlist in the army. In Altona he received a letter
offering him a position in the press department of the Prussian
Ministry of the Interior. He accepted immediately and at the same time
wrote to Emilie Kummer, to whom he had been engaged for five years,
proposing that they should be married in October. She hastened to
secure an apartment in Berlin and furnish it, and the wedding was
celebrated on the sixteenth of October. Fontane thought he had entered
the harbor of success, but he lost his ministerial position in six
weeks and was again at sea. He had, however, a companion ready to
share his trials and triumphs, and their union proved to be very
happy.
In the summer of 1852 he was sent by the Prussian Ministry to London
to study English conditions and write reports for the government
journals, _Preussische Zeitung_ and _Die Zeit_. In 1855 he was again
sent to England, and this time his journalistic engagement lasted for
four years. Accounts of his experiences are contained in _A Summer in
London_ (1854) and _Beyond the Tweed_ (1860). From 1860 to 1870 he was
on the staff of the _Kreuzzeitung_ and during this time served as a
war correspondent in the campaigns of 1864, 1866, and 1870-71. While
accompanying the army in France he was seized with a desire to visit
the home of Joan of Arc at Domrémy, and was captured, taken for a spy,
and imprisoned for a time on the island of Oléron in the Atlantic
Ocean. An interesting account of his experiences is given in _Prisoner
of War_ (1871). During his years in England he had taken advantage of
the opportunity to visit Scotland and familiarize himself with its
picturesque beauties and its wealth of historical and literary
associations. In the midst of these travels the thought had occurred
to him that his own Mark of Brandenburg had its beauties, too, and its
wealth of associations. On returning to Berlin he began his long
series of journeyings through his native province, making a thorough
study of both country and people, particularly the Junkers, for which
his trained powers of observation, combined with warm patriotism and
true love of historical research, eminently fitted him. His published
records of these travels, _Rambles through the Mark of Brandenburg_
(1862-81) and _Five Castles_ (1889), won for him the title of the
interpreter of the Mark. His right to this distinction was further
established by the novels in which he later employed the fruits of
these studies.
Fontane is equally celebrated as an interpreter of Berlin, where he
lived for over fifty years, being the one prominent German writer to
identify himself with a great city. His two autobiographical works,
_From Twenty to Thirty_ and _C.F. Scherenberg_, tell of his early
experiences in the Prussian capital. From 1870 to 1889 he was dramatic
critic for the _Vossische Zeitung_, for which he reviewed the
performances at the Royal Theatre. In one of his last criticisms he
hailed Hauptmann as a dramatist of promise. In 1876 he was elected
secretary of the Berlin Academy of Arts, but served only a brief time.
In 1891 the Emperor made him a present of three thousand marks for his
services to German literature. In 1894 the University of Berlin
bestowed upon him the honorary title of doctor of philosophy. He died
on the twentieth day of September, 1898.
Fontane's lyric poetry in the narrower sense is not of a high order;
in fact almost none of his writings show the true lyric quality. There
is also a striking lack of the dramatic element in his works, and he
seems to have felt this limitation of his genius, for he studiously
avoided the portrayal of scenes that might prove intensely dramatic.
As a writer of ballads he excelled and ranks among the foremost of
Germany. The British subjects he treated were impressed upon him
during his travels in England and his study of English history. His
German themes were taken largely from Prussian history, particularly
the period of Frederick the Great. His permanent place in the history
of German literature is due, however, not so much to his verse as to
his prose writings. He is best known as a novelist, and in the field
of the modern novel he is one of the most conspicuous figures.
German novels of the older school were usually too long for a single
volume. Fontane's first important work of fiction, _Before the Storm_,
filled four volumes; but he had so much trouble in finding a publisher
for it that he began to write one-volume novels, introducing a
practice which has since become the common tradition. He employed in
them a typical feature of the technique of the ballad, which leaps
from one situation to another, leaving gaps to be filled by the fancy
of the reader. He says himself, in _Before the Storm_: "I have always
observed that the leaping action of the ballad is one of the chief
characteristics and beauties of this branch of poetry. All that is
necessary is that fancy be given the right kind of a stimulus. When
that end is attained, one may boldly assert, the less told the
better."
At the beginning of Fontane's career the Berlin novelists were
disciples of Scott, but the only one to survive was Alexis, who
adapted Scott's method to the Mark of Brandenburg. Fontane imitated
him in _Before the Storm_ (1878), which deals with conditions in the
Mark before the wars of liberation. _Schach von Wuthenow_ (1883), a
sort of prelude to _Before the Storm_, was far superior as a novel and
helped to establish Fontane's supremacy among his contemporaries, for
he had become the leader of the younger generation after the
publication of two stories of crimes, _Grete Minde_ (1880) and
_Ellernklipp_ (1881), and the creation of the modern Berlin novel, in
_L'Adultera_ (1882). _L'Adultera_ unfolds the history of a marriage of
reason between a young wife and a considerably older husband, a
situation which Fontane later treated, with important variations and
ever increasing skill, in _Count Petöfi_ (1884), _Cécile_ (1887), and
_Effi Briest_ (1895). With his inexhaustible fund of observation to
draw upon he could make the action of his novels a minor consideration
and concentrate his rare psychological powers upon realistic
conversations in which characters reveal themselves and incidentally
acquaint us intimately with others. We see and hear what the world
ordinarily sees and hears. A past master in the art of suggestion,
which he acquired in his ballad period, Fontane omits many scenes that
others would elaborate with minute detail, such as love scenes and
passionate crises, and contents himself with bringing vividly before
us his true-to-life figures in their historical and social
environments. As a conservative Prussian he believed in the supremacy
of the law and the punishment of transgression, and his works reflect
this belief.
_Trials and Tribulations_ (1887) and _Stine_ (1890) were the first
German novels absolutely to avoid the introduction of exciting scenes
merely for effect. These histories of mismated couples from different
social strata are recounted with hearty simplicity, deep understanding
of life, and frank recognition of human weakness, but without
condemnation, tears, or pointing a moral. They made Fontane famous.
_Frau Jenny Treibel_ (1892), an exquisitely humorous picture of the
Berlin _bourgeoisie_, and _Effi Briest_ "the most profound miracle of
Fontane's youthful art," added considerably to the fame of the
gray-haired "modern," while _The Poggenpuhls_ (1896) and _Stechlin_
(1898) won him further laurels at a time when most writers would long
ago have been resting on those they had already achieved. If a line
were drawn to represent graphically his productivity from his sixtieth
year on, it would take the form of a gradually rising curve.
His career as a novelist began so late in life that when he once
discovered his particular field he cultivated it with persistent
diligence and would not allow himself to be drawn away by enthusiasts
into other fields. Strength of character was not, however, a new
phenomenon in his life, for as long ago as the days when he was an
active member of the "Tunnel" he had come in close contact with the
Kugler coterie in Berlin, where the so-called Munich school
originated, and yet he did not follow his friends in that eclectic
movement. So when the naturalistic school of writers began to win
enthusiastic support, even though he found himself in the main in
sympathy with their announced creed, he did not join them in practice.
He felt that what the literature of the Fatherland needed was
"originality," and he sought to attain it in his own way, apart from
storm and stress. As his mind matured through accumulated knowledge of
the world, and his heart mellowed through years of experience and
observation, he rose to a point of view above sentiment and prejudice,
where the fogs of passion melt away and the light of kindly wisdom
shines.
[Illustration: FONTANE MONUMENT AT NEU RUPPIN.]
* * * * *
_THEODOR FONTANE_
* * * * *
EFFI BRIEST (1895)
TRANSLATED AND ABRIDGED BY WILLIAM A. COOPER, A.M.
Associate Professor of German, Leland Stanford Jr. University
CHAPTER I
In front of the old manor house occupied by the von Briest family
since the days of Elector George William, the bright sunshine was
pouring down upon the village road, at the quiet hour of noon. The
wing of the mansion looking toward the garden and park cast its broad
shadow over a white and green checkered tile walk and extended out
over a large round bed, with a sundial in its centre and a border of
Indian shot and rhubarb. Some twenty paces further, and parallel to
the wing of the house, there ran a churchyard wall, entirely covered
with a small-leaved ivy, except at the place where an opening had been
made for a little white iron gate. Behind this arose the shingled
tower of Hohen-Cremmen, whose weather vane glistened in the sunshine,
having only recently been regilded. The front of the house, the wing,
and the churchyard wall formed, so to speak, a horseshoe, inclosing a
small ornamental garden, at the open side of which was seen a pond,
with a small footbridge and a tied-up boat. Close by was a swing, with
its crossboard hanging from two ropes at either end, and its frame
posts beginning to lean to one side. Between the pond and the circular
bed stood a clump of giant plane trees, half hiding the swing.
The terrace in front of the manor house, with its tubbed aloe plants
and a few garden chairs, was an agreeable place to sit on cloudy days,
besides affording a variety of things to attract the attention. But,
on days when the hot sun beat down there, the side of the house toward
the garden was given a decided preference, especially by the mother
and the daughter of the house. On this account they were today sitting
on the tile walk in the shade, with their backs to the open windows,
which were all overgrown with wild grape-vines, and by the side of a
little projecting stairway, whose four stone steps led from the
garden to the ground floor of the wing of the mansion. Both mother and
daughter were busy at work, making an altar cloth out of separate
squares, which they were piecing together. Skeins of woolen yarn of
various colors, and an equal variety of silk thread lay in confusion
upon a large round table, upon which were still standing the luncheon
dessert plates and a majolica dish filled with fine large
gooseberries.
Swiftly and deftly the wool-threaded needles were drawn back and
forth, and the mother seemed never to let her eyes wander from the
work. But the daughter, who bore the Christian name of Effi, laid
aside her needle from time to time and arose from her seat to practice
a course of healthy home gymnastics, with every variety of bending and
stretching. It was apparent that she took particular delight in these
exercises, to which she gave a somewhat comical turn, and whenever she
stood there thus engaged, slowly raising her arms and bringing the
palms of her hands together high above her head, her mother would
occasionally glance up from her needlework, though always but for a
moment and that, too, furtively, because she did not wish to show how
fascinating she considered her own child, although in this feeling of
motherly pride she was fully justified. Effi wore a blue and white
striped linen dress, a sort of smock-frock, which would have shown no
waist line at all but for the bronze-colored leather belt which she
drew up tight. Her neck was bare and a broad sailor collar fell over
her shoulders and back. In everything she did there was a union of
haughtiness and gracefulness, and her laughing brown eyes betrayed
great natural cleverness and abundant enjoyment of life and goodness
of heart. She was called the "little girl," which she had to suffer
only because her beautiful slender mother was a full hand's breadth
taller than she.
Effi had just stood up again to perform her calisthenic exercises when
her mother, who at the moment chanced to be looking up from her
embroidery, called to her: "Effi, you really ought to have been an
equestrienne, I'm thinking. Always on the trapeze, always a daughter
of the air. I almost believe you would like something of the sort."
"Perhaps, mama. But if it were so, whose fault would it be? From whom
do I get it? Why, from no one but you. Or do you think, from papa?
There, it makes you laugh yourself. And then, why do you always dress
me in this rig, this boy's smock? Sometimes I fancy I shall be put
back in short clothes yet. Once I have them on again I shall courtesy
like a girl in her early teens, and when our friends in Rathenow come
over I shall sit in Colonel Goetze's lap and ride a trot horse. Why
not? He is three-fourths an uncle and only one-fourth a suitor. You
are to blame. Why don't I have any party clothes? Why don't you make a
lady of me?"
"Should you like me to?"
"No." With that she ran to her mother, embraced her effusively and
kissed her.
"Not so savagely, Effi, not so passionately. I am always disturbed
when I see you thus."
At this point three young girls stepped into the garden through the
little iron gate in the churchyard wall and started along the gravel
walk toward the round bed and the sundial. They all waved their
umbrellas at Effi and then ran up to Mrs. von Briest and kissed her
hand. She hurriedly asked a few questions and then invited the girls
to stay and visit with them, or at least with Effi, for half an hour.
"Besides, I have something else that I must do and young folks like
best to be left to themselves. Fare ye well." With these words she
went up the stone steps into the house.
Two of the young girls, plump little creatures, whose freckles and
good nature well matched their curly red hair, were daughters of
Precentor Jahnke, who swore by the Hanseatic League, Scandinavia, and
Fritz Reuter, and following the example of his favorite writer and
fellow countryman, had named his twin daughters Bertha and Hertha, in
imitation of Mining and Lining. The third young lady was Hulda
Niemeyer, Pastor Niemeyer's only child. She was more ladylike than the
other two, but, on the other hand, tedious and conceited, a lymphatic
blonde, with slightly protruding dim eyes, which, nevertheless, seemed
always to be seeking something, for which reason the Hussar Klitzing
once said: "Doesn't she look as though she were every moment
expecting the angel Gabriel?" Effi felt that the rather captious
Klitzing was only too right in his criticism, yet she avoided making
any distinction between the three girl friends. Nothing could have
been farther from her mind at this moment. Resting her arms on the
table, she exclaimed: "Oh, this tedious embroidery! Thank heaven, you
are here."
"But we have driven your mama away," said Hulda.
"Oh no. She would have gone anyhow. She is expecting a visitor, an old
friend of her girlhood days. I must tell you a story about him later,
a love story with a real hero and a real heroine, and ending with
resignation. It will make you open your eyes wide with amazement.
Moreover, I saw mama's old friend over in Schwantikow. He is a
district councillor, a fine figure, and very manly."
"Manly? That's a most important consideration," said Hertha.
"Certainly, it's the chief consideration. 'Women womanly, men manly,'
is, you know, one of papa's favorite maxims. And now help me put the
table in order, or there will be another scolding."
It took but a moment to put the things in the basket and, when the
girls sat down again, Hulda said: "Now, Effi, now we are ready, now
for the love story with resignation. Or isn't it so bad?"
"A story with resignation is never bad. But I can't begin till Hertha
has taken some gooseberries; she keeps her eyes glued on them. Please
take as many as you like, we can pick some more afterward. But be sure
to throw the hulls far enough away, or, better still, lay them here on
this newspaper supplement, then we can wrap them up in a bundle and
dispose of everything at once. Mama can't bear to see hulls lying
about everywhere. She always says that some one might slip on them and
break a leg."
"I don't believe it," said Hertha, applying herself closely to the
berries.
"Nor I either," replied Effi, confirming the opinion. "Just think of
it, I fall at least two or three times every day and have never broken
any bones yet. The right kind of leg doesn't break so easily;
certainly mine doesn't, neither does yours, Hertha. What do you think,
Hulda?"
"One ought not to tempt fate. Pride will have a fall."
"Always the governess. You are just a born old maid."
"And yet I still have hopes of finding a husband, perhaps even before
you do."
"For aught I care. Do you think I shall wait for that? The idea!
Furthermore one has already been picked out for me and perhaps I shall
soon have him. Oh, I am not worrying about that. Not long ago little
Ventivegni from over the way said to me: 'Miss Effi, what will you bet
we shall not have a charivari and a wedding here this year yet?'"
"And what did you say to that?"
"Quite possible, I said, quite possible; Hulda is the oldest; she may
be married any day. But he refused to listen to that and said: 'No, I
mean at the home of another young lady who is just as decided a
brunette as Miss Hulda is a blonde.' As he said this he looked at me
quite seriously--But I am wandering and am forgetting the story."
"Yes, you keep dropping it all the while; may be you don't want to
tell it, after all?"
"Oh, I want to, but I have interrupted the story a good many times,
chiefly because it is a little bit strange, indeed, almost romantic."
"Why, you said he was a district councillor."
"Certainly, a district councillor, and his name is Geert von
Innstetten, Baron von Innstetten."
All three laughed.
"Why do you laugh?" said Effi, nettled. "What does this mean?"
"Ah, Effi, we don't mean to offend you, nor the Baron either.
Innstetten did you say? And Geert? Why, there is nobody by that name
about here. And then you know the names of noblemen are often a bit
comical."
"Yes, my dear, they are. But people do not belong to the nobility for
nothing. They can endure such things, and the farther back their
nobility goes, I mean in point of time, the better they are able to
endure them. But you don't know anything about this and you must not
take offense at me for saying so. We shall continue to be good friends
just the same. So it is Geert von Innstetten and he is a Baron. He is
just as old as mama, to the day."
"And how old, pray, is your mama?"
"Thirty-eight."
"A fine age."
"Indeed it is, especially when one still looks as well as mama. I
consider her truly a beautiful woman, don't you, too? And how
accomplished she is in everything, always so sure and at the same time
so ladylike, and never unconventional, like papa. If I were a young
lieutenant I should fall in love with mama."
"Oh, Effi, how can you ever say such a thing?" said Hulda. "Why, that
is contrary to the fourth commandment."
"Nonsense. How can it be? I think it would please mama if she knew I
said such a thing."
"That may be," interrupted Hertha. "But are you ever going to tell the
story?"
"Yes, compose yourself and I'll begin. We were speaking of Baron von
Innstetten. Before he had reached the age of twenty he was living over
in Rathenow, but spent much of his time on the seignioral estates of
this region, and liked best of all to visit in Schwantikow, at my
grandfather Belling's. Of course, it was not on account of my
grandfather that he was so often there, and when mama tells about it
one can easily see on whose account it really was. I think it was
mutual, too."
"And what came of it?"
"The thing that was bound to come and always does come. He was still
much too young and when my papa appeared on the scene, who had already
attained the title of baronial councillor and the proprietorship of
Hohen-Cremmen, there was no need of further time for consideration.
She accepted him and became Mrs. von Briest."
"What did Innstetten do?" said Bertha, "what became of him? He didn't
commit suicide, otherwise you could not be expecting him today."
"No, he didn't commit suicide, but it was something of that nature."
"Did he make an unsuccessful attempt?"
"No, not that. But he didn't care to remain here in the neighborhood
any longer, and he must have lost all taste for the soldier's career,
generally speaking. Besides, it was an era of peace, you know. In
short, he asked for his discharge and took up the study of the law, as
papa would say, with a 'true beer zeal.' But when the war of seventy
broke out he returned to the army, with the Perleberg troops, instead
of his old regiment, and he now wears the cross. Naturally, for he is
a smart fellow. Right after the war he returned to his documents, and
it is said that Bismarck thinks very highly of him, and so does the
Emperor. Thus it came about that he was made district councillor in
the district of Kessin."
"What is Kessin? I don't know of any Kessin here."
"No, it is not situated here in our region; it is a long distance away
from here, in Pomerania, in Farther Pomerania, in fact, which
signifies nothing, however, for it is a watering place (every place
about there is a summer resort), and the vacation journey that Baron
Innstetten is now enjoying is in reality a tour of his cousins, or
something of the sort. He wishes to visit his old friends and
relatives here."
"Has he relatives here?"
"Yes and no, depending on how you look at it. There are no
Innstettens here, there are none anywhere any more, I believe. But he
has here distant cousins on his mother's side, and he doubtless wished
above all to see Schwantikow once more and the Belling house, to which
he was attached by so many memories. So he was over there the day
before yesterday and today he plans to be here in Hohen-Cremmen."
"And what does your father say about it?"
"Nothing at all. It is not his way. Besides, he knows mama, you see.
He only teases her."
At this moment the clock struck twelve and before it had ceased
striking, Wilke, the old factotum of the Briest family, came on the
scene to give a message to Miss Effi: "Your Ladyship's mother sends
the request that your Ladyship make her toilet in good season; the
Baron will presumably drive up immediately after one o'clock." While
Wilke was still delivering this message he began to put the ladies'
work-table in order and reached first for the sheet of newspaper, on
which the gooseberry hulls lay.
"No, Wilke, don't bother with that. It is our affair to dispose of the
hulls--Hertha, you must now wrap up the bundle and put a stone in it,
so that it will sink better. Then we will march out in a long funeral
procession and bury the bundle at sea."
Wilke smiled with satisfaction. "Oh, Miss Effi, she's a trump," was
about what he was thinking. But Effi laid the paper bundle in the
centre of the quickly gathered up tablecloth and said: "Now let all
four of us take hold, each by a corner, and sing something sorrowful."
"Yes, Effi, that is easy enough to say, but what, pray, shall we
sing?"
"Just anything. It is quite immaterial, only it must have a rime in
'oo;' 'oo' is always a sad vowel. Let us sing, say:
'Flood, flood,
Make it all good.'"
While Effi was solemnly intoning this litany, all four marched out
upon the landing pier, stepped into the boat tied there, and from the
further end of it slowly lowered into the pond the pebble-weighted
paper bundle.
"Hertha, now your guilt is sunk out of sight," said Effi, "in which
connection it occurs to me, by the way, that in former times poor
unfortunate women are said to have been thrown overboard thus from a
boat, of course for unfaithfulness."
"But not here, certainly."
"No, not here," laughed Effi, "such things do not take place here. But
they do in Constantinople and it just occurs to me that you must know
about it, for you were present in the geography class when the teacher
told about it."
"Yes," said Hulda, "he was always telling us about such things. But
one naturally forgets them in the course of time."
"Not I, I remember things like that."