MR. KRETSCHMER, OF THE VOSSIAN GAZETTE.
The editor of the _Vossian Gazette_, Mr. Kretschmer, sat at his desk,
busily writing. That he was a learned man was seen by his earnest,
care-worn forehead, his large, well-powdered wig, and above all by the
disorder and confusion which reigned in the whole room. Besides which,
Mr. Kretschmer wore a dressing-gown, thickly sprinkled with ink-spots,
the official robe of his literary dignity. And whosoever beheld him in
this robe, his long pipe in his mouth, filling the room with a thick
blue smoke, seated on his high tripod before his desk, could not but
believe that Mr. Kretschmer was a learned man.
But more than this, he was a great politician. Thereto testified the
numerous journals which lay scattered about on the floor, but more
especially the nineteen quarto volumes, which stood above on the
book-shelf, lettered in gold on the back, "VOSSIAN GAZETTE," and under
that the number of the year, from 1740 to 1759. The _Vossian Gazette_
was then a young, blooming rose, of scarcely nineteen summers. It
could still pass for a vigorous, handsome, and perhaps even innocent
young maiden; and Mr. Kretschmer was the editor of the _Vossian
Gazette_. Had he not, then, a right to be regarded as a great
politician?
Mr. Kretschmer was at this moment occupied in writing an article for
the next morning's paper, and as he had just received news "by special
courier" of another battle, subsequent to that of Liegnitz, which
had resulted favorably for the Prussians, he was composing, with the
courage of a lion, an extra, which fairly glowed with ardent hatred
against the oppressors and cannibals, namely, the Russians and the
Austrians; and declared that the salvation of all Germany depended on
the supreme dominion of Prussia.
The bold editor of the _Vossian Gazette_ in this article called
upon the people to fly to arms against the "incendiary oppressors
of Freedom and the people's rights," as he called the Russians; he
exhorted even the women and girls to fight, and called upon them to
grasp the sword in their tender hands instead of the needle. Finally,
he entreated all Berlin, if ever the _incendiary enemy_ should
approach the gates, rather to let the whole city be destroyed by fire,
and bury themselves in the ruins before they submitted to the foe.
Mr. Kretschmer then laid his pen down, and revised with a satisfied
look what he had written.
"That will have an effect," said he, rubbing his hands together,
delighted. "When his majesty, our heroic king, returns victorious to
Berlin, I will send him this sheet of the _Vossian Gazette_, and I
know that he will be satisfied with my heroism."
He looked again at the paper. "Beautiful, beautiful!" exclaimed
he, with a self-satisfied smile. "My pen has shot nothing less than
bomb-shells and grape, and my ink has turned into whole streams of the
enemy's blood. And why should I not be bold, it being perfectly safe,
since the king must certainly be victorious, and the enemy has no idea
of visiting Berlin? Tschernitscheff and Tottleben are quietly encamped
on the other side of the Oder; Soltikoff with his army is near
Frankfort; and Count Lacy with his Austrians is waiting an opportunity
to give battle to our king. Thus, as I said, I can safely exhort the
good citizens of Berlin to defend themselves heroically against the
infamous spoiler. How beautifully this peroration sounds: 'People
of Berlin! rather let yourselves be buried under the ruins of your
burning city than submit to an incendiary enemy!'--_Incendiary_,"
repeated he thoughtfully, "that is rather a strong expression, and if
the Russians do come, they will revenge themselves for it; but, pshaw!
the Russians are not coming, and I can safely send this article to
the press. And, furthermore, did not the king himself stigmatize the
Russians as such? Yes, I remember last year, after the unfortunate
invasion of the Russians, he looked down from the steeple in Frankfort
upon the devastation of the country, and cried out with angry
indignation, 'Incendiaries! incendiaries!' The expression is at least
official, and can therefore remain."
Mr. Kretschmer seized the bell-rope, and began to ring violently.
Immediately the door opened, and a small boy entered with a portfolio
under his arm.
"Devil," said Mr. Kretschmer, majestically, "here is my article; run
as fast as you can to the printing-office with it, and impress upon
the compositor the necessity of haste, and, above all things, not
to make such mistakes as he did lately, when, in speaking of
the Russians, he put 'friends' instead of 'fiends,' which was an
unpardonable and most treasonable error of expression."
The little boy took the paper and laid it in his portfolio.
"The printer told me to ask you," said he, "if you had written nothing
yet for the 'Miscellaneous.' _Spener's Journal_ had yesterday such
a beautiful 'Miscellaneous,' and told about a woman who had four
children at a birth, and a stork which had arrived and built its nest,
although it was the month of October."
Mr. Kretschmer frowned. "_Spener's Journal_ always has some wonderful
news, and amuses the Berlin people with all kinds of stupid gossip,"
grumbled he. "The rivalry of such a paper is unbearable."
"Well, how about the miscellaneous intelligence?" asked the printer's
boy.
Mr. Kretschmer stamped his foot angrily. "Go to the devil!" said he.
At this moment there was heard a loud crying and shouting; and while
the printer's boy pitched out of the door, Mr. Kretschmer hurried to
the window to find out the cause of the uproar.
A heaving, noisy crowd filled the street below, and had halted right
under the editor's window. In the midst thereof was seen the tall,
lank figure of a man, whose extraordinary appearance enchained the
attention of the multitude, and excited afresh their shouts and
derisive laughter. And, in fact, nothing could be more striking or
fantastic than this man. Notwithstanding the cool October weather,
his gigantic figure was clothed from head to foot in gray linen,
harmonizing strangely with the gray color of his skin and hair,
which latter fell in long locks from his uncovered head down on his
shoulders, and gave to the apparition the semblance of a pyramidical
ash-heap, out of which his eyes shone like two burning coals. Around
his shoulders hung a long cloak of gray linen, which, in addressing
the multitude, he sometimes threw around him in picturesque folds,
sometimes spread out wide, enveloping his long arms in it, so that he
looked like an expanded bat.
"Ah! it is Pfannenstiel, our prophetic linen-weaver," said Mr.
Kretschmer, smiling, as he opened his window, and exchanged a look of
recognition with the man who was gazing up at him.
The linen-weaver and prophet had rapidly acquired some renown in
Berlin by his prophecies and predictions. The people believed in his
mystic words and soothsayings and mistaken fanaticism. He related to
them his visions and apparitions; he told about the angels and the
Lord Jesus, who often visited him; about the Virgin Mary, who appeared
in his room every night, and inspired him with what he was to say to
the people, and gave him pictures whose mystic signification he was to
interpret to them. The prophet possessed more than a hundred of these
pictures, given him by celestial apparitions. He had them carefully
pasted together, and rolled up always with him. These pictorial
sheets, roughly painted on coarse paper, served the linen-weaver in
lieu of cards or coffee-grounds, for the purpose of prophesying to the
people and announcing the future to them; and the good folks of Berlin
believed in these prophecies with firm faith, and listened with devout
confidence to the words of their prophet.
Pfannenstiel was in the act of unrolling his pictures, and the
multitude, which, just before, had been shouting and screaming, became
suddenly silent, and gazed up at the weaver with intense expectation.
A breathless silence ensued, and, far down the street, sounded the
prophet's loud and sonorous voice. He pointed to the last of his
pictures, which, in coarse, clumsy drawing, represented a town, from
the houses of which flames arose in the most variegated colors.
"Behold! behold!" cried the prophet, "and fall on your knees and pray!
Yes, pray! for I tell you the Holy Ghost appeared to me, His wings
dripping with blood, and in His burning and flaming beak He held this
picture which I now show you."
"Well, then, how is it that the picture is not burnt too, if the Holy
Ghost held it in His burning beak?" asked an impudent shoemaker's boy.
A low laugh ran through the crowd, but this was soon suppressed by
angry, threatening voices, commanding silence and quiet.
The prophet turned with an air of majestic composure toward the
questioner: "Why was not this picture burnt? Because God wished to
perform a miracle, to manifest Himself to me in His glory, and to
prove to me that this vision was from Him, and not from the devil.
Yes, indeed, God gave me this picture that we might be warned--not
to terrify us. Listen, therefore, to my voice, and learn what God
announces to you from my mouth."
"I would like indeed to hear what the stupid rascal is going to
announce to these poor foolish devils," muttered Mr. Kretschmer,
leaning out of the window and listening attentively.
Pfannenstiel continued: "Behold these columns of fire rising from the
houses of this town. This town is Berlin, and the fire will burst out
of the roofs of your houses. Woe! woe! will sound in your streets, and
weeping and lamentation will fill the air. I say unto you, watch and
pray! Strew ashes on your heads, and fall down on your knees and pray
to God for mercy, for the enemy is before your gates, and ere the sun
sets the Russians will enter your town! I say unto you, verily I
say unto you, God spoke to me in a voice of thunder, and said,
'The Russians are coming!' Fall down and pray, for the Russians are
coming!"
"The Russians are coming!" cried the terrified multitude and some
among them turned pale. The weeping women folded their hands in
prayer; the men looked around timidly, and the frightened children
clung to their mothers in dread of the Russians, whose name was
synonymous with that of savages and cannibals. Even Kretschmer could
not help feeling somewhat terrified. He drew back thoughtfully from
the window, muttering with a shudder, "The Russians are coming!"
The people crowded around the prophet in still narrower circles, and
in more piercing tones wept and cried out: "What shall we do? What
shall we do to be saved? Have mercy, O God! Have mercy on Berlin, for
the Russians are coming!"
"Yes, they are coming!" cried Pfannenstiel. "God told me so in the
roll of His thunder and the lightning of His eyes; and he said to me:
'Go and say to the people of Berlin, "The Russians are coming!" and
thou shalt see in the same hour how their hearts will shrink, and how
cast down they will be; how their eyes will run tears, and their
lips utter prayers, for the Russian is the sworn enemy of the Berlin
people; and as often as the cry, "The Russians are coming," sounds
through the streets of Berlin, there will be wailing and lamentation
in every house and every heart; and they will bow down in timid
contrition and abject obedience. Speak, therefore, to them, and say,
"The Russians are coming!" that they may become humble and quiet; that
the proud word may be silenced on their lips, and that they may submit
in peace.'"
"What shall we do?" asked the people. "Help us, advise us, for thou
art our prophet."
Pfannenstiel drew himself up to his utmost height, and an expression
of triumphant cunning sparkled in his eyes. "Do you not understand
the voice of God? God commands you to withdraw in silence and peace to
your own dwellings, to weep and pray. Go, then! Let the word of your
mouth and the rebelliousness of your hearts be silent. Go home to your
huts, shut the doors and windows, and do not venture out, for without,
death and the Russians await you!"
Obedient to the voice of their prophet, the crowd separated in
different directions, and dispersed quietly.
Pfannenstiel looked after them with a smile of scorn; then silently
rolled up his pictures, threw his gray cloak over his shoulders, and,
casting a serious and significant look up at Mr. Kretschmer's window,
strode down the street slowly and with an air of majestic dignity.
* * * * *