THE LEADER OF THE PEOPLE.
The inspired prophet stood on a bench, and, as he unrolled his
pictures, he endeavored to explain these mystical paintings to his
devout gazers and listeners in equally mystical language. Gotzkowsky
hastened toward this group, and pressed in silent observation close up
to Pfannenstiel's side.
The linen-weaver, wholly possessed by his prophetic god, had in the
mean while unrolled another picture, and holding it up high with
solemn countenance, exclaimed with a screaming voice: "The day of
judgment is at hand, and destiny is at your door! In my dream I saw a
face like unto no other face, and I heard a voice, and the voice was
like unto no other voice!"
"And yet you heard it! What ears you must have!" said Gotzkowsky,
laughing.
The prophet answered calmly, "Yes! for then were seen invisible
things, and then were heard inaudible sounds!" And showing a fresh
picture to the crowd, he continued: "Look at this picture, which
I found this morning on my sheet. It contains the history of your
future, and God announced it to me as I sat at my loom weaving. I
heard a voice crying, 'Pfannenstiel, my beloved son, dost thou hear
me?' And I fell on my knees and answered, 'Yes, I hear.' 'Dost thou
know what thou art weaving?' asked the voice. 'Yes,' said I, 'it is
linen shirting for the almshouse.' 'No,' said the voice, 'it is a
cloth of weeping for the town of Berlin, for the daughters of your
fathers will shed tears, and there will be moaning and weeping.'"
These last words he accompanied with a sobbing and plaintive howl,
in which his trembling hearers joined. They assured each other in
uncomfortable whispers that Pfannenstiel's prophecies usually came
true, and that, even before the war, he had predicted the coming of
this day of terror.
But soon Pfannenstiel raised his voice, and its hoarse croaking
sounded above the loud conversation and anxious cries of the
multitude. "Woe unto Berlin!" cried he, with shrieking pathos. "Blood
will flow within her walls! The voice said unto me, 'I will look upon
red, but it will not be a scarlet cloak, and when the red banner waves
thrones will tremble, and there will be no end to the lamentation.
And the cock will crow, and the heavens will shine blood-red, and
everywhere and in all places men will cry, "Blood! blood is the drink
of new life; blood makes young what is old; blood wipes out sworn
debts; blood makes the proud humble. Let us drink blood!"'"
Here the prophet was interrupted by the loud cries and wailing of
the multitude. The women broke out in tears, sank on their knees
and prayed, or clung trembling and weeping to their moody-looking
husbands.
Pfannenstiel looked with an air of proud triumph on this evident
effect of his speech, and then continued in a more subdued tone: "But
the voice said to me, 'Hope, and every thing will turn out well, and
the blood which flows will transform itself into a purple robe, and
men will call it freedom. Out of death will arise life.' Therefore
fall down on your knees, for the hour of judgment has come, and prayer
alone, but not the sword, can save you."
The multitude, carried away by the deception, were in the act of
obeying this order, when Gotzkowsky, who could no longer restrain
himself, stepped rapidly forward, his countenance radiant, and his
eyes sparkling with anger.
"Listen not to this hypocritical set, this lying prophet, my people!"
cried he, with a voice of thunder. "He will make cowards of you all,
cowards who will submit to the yoke, howling and whining. You would
not have this ignominy put upon you. You will be men, who will defend
their liberty with noble courage to the last drop of their blood,
against the invading hordes of barbarians. For the barbarians are
coming, and their fierce wrath threatens your wives and children. Will
you submit to the Russians with a humble whine?"
"No, no!" cried the men, and many a clinched fist was raised, and many
a wild but muttered oath was heard.
At this moment there arose in the street a confused sound of screams
and yells, then the hollow roll of the drum, and the deep clang of the
alarm-bell, which summoned the citizens to the town-hall.
The garden gates were now violently thrown open, and a band of stout
workmen was seen hastening in wild disorder toward Gotzkowsky.
These were the workmen from Gotzkowsky's factories, industrious men,
who had preferred working in the factory, and not losing their time,
to the enjoyment of the day's festival, and to whom Gotzkowsky had
ordered double wages to be paid, that they might not lose their share
in the celebration of his daughter's birthday.
"The Russians are at the gates!" cried they. "All the citizens are
arming themselves. We have no arms. Give us arms, master!"
The cry was taken up by those who had just been listening to
Pfannenstiel's words. "Yes, give us arms, give us arms. We are no
cowards, we will fight!" Gotzkowsky's flashing eye flew across the
multitude, and he saw in the earnest countenances of the men that they
were serious in their demand, and in their desire to fight. "Well,
then, if you will fight, you shall not want for weapons," cried he,
joyfully. "I have, as you know, in my house, a collection of costly
arms. Follow me, my children; we will go to the armory, and each one
shall take what he likes best. On such a day as this, arms do not
belong to any one in particular, but are the property of him who can
find and make use of them. That is the sacred right of manhood. The
country is in danger! Come to my armory and arm yourselves!"
The men shouted for joy at Gotzkowsky's words, and pushed after him
with wild impetuosity into the house, and the large hall, in which
the costly weapons were tastefully grouped and ornamentally arranged
against the walls. With eager haste the men possessed themselves
of these arms, and Gotzkowsky saw with glad pride his rare Damascus
blades, his delicately carved silver-mounted pistols, his daggers
inlaid with gold, his costly ornamented sabres and guns in the hands
of his warlike workmen. He then armed himself, and his men, always
accustomed to look upon him cheerfully and willingly as their leader,
fell into line behind him in a long military procession.
"Now, then, my children," cried he, "let us go to the town-hall and
offer our services to the magistrates."
And at the head of his workmen he left the house. Soon deep silence
reigned in these rooms, so lately filled with noise and tumult.
The garden, too, had become deserted and empty. Pfannenstiel alone
remained in his elevated position, gazing pensively, as in a dream, on
his collection of pictures.
After this silence had lasted some time, Krause and Kretschmer crept,
cautiously looking around them, out of the summer-house in which they
had secreted themselves up to this moment. Their countenances were
pale and angry.
"Gotzkowsky is a puffed-up fool," exclaimed Krause, with a dark frown.
"With his swaggering phrases he has seduced these workmen away from
us, to rush into the fight like wounded wild boars, and to bring the
Russians down upon us."
"We must not give up all hope," said Kretschmer; "the people are timid
and fickle, and whoever will give them the sweetest words wins them
over to his side. Come, let us try our luck elsewhere. Every thing
depends upon our being beforehand with this braggart Gotzkowsky, and
getting first the ear of the people. You, Pfannenstiel, come with us,
and get up your words strong and spirited, so that the stupid people
may believe you."
Pfannenstiel clapped up his picture-book, and threw his cloak with
majestic dignity over his lean shoulders. "The people are like a flock
of sheep," said he; "they want a leader, never mind who. Only the
leader must be there at the right hour; and if God has bestowed upon
him the gift of eloquence, he can lead them either into the church to
contrite prayer, or to the slaughterfield to bloody combat. The people
are a flock of sheep, nothing more!"
"Come, then," cried Kretschmer pathetically; "come and be their
bellwether, and lead the people into the church."
* * * * *