BE PRUDENT.
These two men, who so unexpectedly appeared at the side of the
prophetic weaver, were none else than the two editors, Kretschmer and
Krause, who came to support him in his exhortations in favor of peace,
and to use their eloquence on the multitude assembled in front of the
town-hall.
Mr. Krause opened: "Listen to me, good citizens of Berlin; look at
my gray hairs. Age has the advantage, if not of wisdom, at least of
experience. Listen to my advice. You who wish to fight for liberty, be
at least prudent and moderate."
"None of your moderation!" cried the tailor. "We won't be moderate!"
"But you will be reasonable and prudent, won't you?" cried Mr.
Kretschmer, with his clear, penetrating voice, raising himself on
tiptoe, and casting his large, light-blue eyes over the crowd. "You
will be reasonable, certainly, and in reason you can tell me what you
wish, and we can deliberate, and decide whether that which you wish,
is reasonable."
"We want arms."
"But why do you want arms?"
"To fight the enemy," cried the shoemaker, whom the crowd seemed
tacitly to recognize as their mouthpiece.
"You really wish, then, to fight?" asked Mr. Kretschmer. "You wish
to precipitate yourselves into a fight, with the certainty of being
defeated. You wish to put yourselves in opposition to an enemy who
out-numbers you ten times; who, with sneering pride, will drive your
little band of warriors, with his cannon, to destruction! Consider
what you are about to do! Twelve thousand Russians are now before
your gates; their cannon pointed against your walls, your houses, your
churches, and they are awaiting only an opportunity of springing upon
you like a tiger on his prey. And what have we to oppose them? Our
little garrison consists of invalids and wounded men; for our young
men, able to fight, are all with the king on the bloody fields of
Silesia, and only a small band of worthy citizens remains here. Can
they fight against an overwhelming enemy, ten times their number? Can
they wish to do it?"
No one answered this question. The countenances became thoughtful, and
the redness of anger grew paler on their cheeks.
"Yes," cried one of the people, "we are very weak."
"We cannot think of gaining a victory," grumbled out another.
Mr. Kretschmer perceived, by the darkening faces and downcast look of
his audience, that the prudence he was preaching had already commenced
to press the courage of the poor people into the background, and
raising his voice still higher he continued:
"Your fighting will be a species of suicide. Your wives and children
will curse you for having killed their husbands and fathers. Worthy
citizens! be prudent, and remember that work and not war is your
calling. Go home, then, and mind your business; take care of your
wives and children, and bow your heads in humbleness, for necessity
will teach you prudence."
Mr. Kretschmer stopped, and the silent assembly seemed to be
considering whether they should listen to his prudent advice. Even
the heroic tailor had climbed down from the hump of the shoemaker, and
remained thoughtful and silent.
"The man is right," cried the shoemaker, in his grumbling, bass voice.
"Yes, indeed," said his gossip, the glover; "why should we sacrifice
our legs and arms? We can't beat them anyhow."
"Now, my friends," whispered Kretschmer to his associates, "now is
your turn to speak. My breath is exhausted. You speak now and finish
the good work I commenced. Admonish the people to be moderate."
"I will make them perfectly enthusiastic in the cause of peace
and quiet," said Mr. Krause, in a low voice. "You shall see how
irresistible the stream of my eloquence will be," and striding forward
with pathetic mien, and raising both arms as if to implore the people,
he exclaimed in a loud voice: "You say so, and it is so! We cannot be
victorious. Now, my opinion is, that as we cannot beat the enemy, we
ought not to fight him, and in that way we can cheat him out of his
victory. For where there is no fight, there can be no victory. Resist
the armed bands with the quiet obstacle of mental fortitude. Do not
act, but submit. Submit with a defiant air. Do not use your weapons,
but do not yield them up to the enemy. Keep your hands on the hilts
of your swords, and be quiet. When they mock and abuse you, be silent;
but let them read your defiance in your countenances; when they press
upon you with sword and cannon, retire with a proud smile, and do not
defend yourselves, and we will see whether they are brutal enough to
attack peaceful non-combatants. Act in this way, and the moral victory
is yours, and you then will have conquered the enemy by your moral
greatness, even if you are physically subdued. Against cannon
and bayonets a people cannot defend themselves except by passive
resistance, by submission, with secret and silent hatred in their
hearts. Use no other weapons than this passive resistance, and
posterity will praise you, and say of you, with admiration, that
you were no heroes of fight, but heroes of passive resistance. Your
country will be proud of you!"
Mr. Krause paused, and leaned, worn out, on the shoulder of the
prophetic linen-weaver.
"You may be in the right," said the tailor, still rebellious at heart;
"all that sounds right and reasonable, but still it don't suit me,
and I don't see how the country can be proud of us, if we behave like
cowards, and let ourselves be bamboozled this way."
"Do you hush, tailor!" cried the hunchbacked shoemaker. "The chap
thinks because he can manage a sharp needle, he must be able to yield
a broadsword; but let me tell you, my brave boy, that a stick with a
sword hurts worse than a prick with a needle. It is not only written,
'Shoemaker, stick to your last,' but also, 'Tailor, stick to your
needle.' Are we soldiers, that we must fight? No, we are respectable
citizens, tailors and shoemakers, and the whole concern is no business
of ours. And who is going to pay us for our legs and arms when they
have been cut off?"
"Nobody, nobody is going to do it!" cried a voice from the crowd.
"And who is going to take care of our wives and children when we are
crippled, and can't earn bread for them? Perhaps they are going to
put us in the new almshouse, which has just been built outside of the
King's Gate, and which they call the Oxen-head."
"No, no, we won't go into the Oxen-head!" screamed the people. "We
won't fight! let us go home."
"Yes, go home, go home!" cried Krause and Kretschmer, delighted, and
Pfannenstiel repeated after them--
"Let us go home!"
And indeed the groups began to separate and thin out; and the two
editors, who had descended from their bench, mixed with the crowd, and
enforced their peaceful arguments with zealous eloquence.
But it seemed as if Fortune did not favor them, for now down the
neighboring street came Gotzkowsky with his band of armed workmen. He
drew them up in front of the town-hall. The sight of this bold
company of daring men, with determined countenances and flashing
eyes, exercised a magical influence on the people; and when Gotzkowsky
addressed them, and with overpowering eloquence and burning words
implored them to resist, when with noble enthusiasm he summoned them
to do their duty, and to remember their honors as men, the versatile
crowd began again to cry out--"Arms, arms! give us arms!"
But the humpbacked shoemaker still remained cowed and timid, and the
threatenings of the preachers of peace still sounded in his ears.
He threw up his arms and cried out: "Children, remember what the
gentlemen told us. Have nothing to do with fighting. Be wise and
prudent!"
"The devil take your prudence!" cried Gotzkowsky. In an hour like this
we have no need of prudence; we want courage! Won't you fight?"
"No, we won't!" cried the shoemaker, resolutely. "We want to keep our
arms and legs."
"We don't want to go to the Oxen-head!" exclaimed another.
Gotzkowsky broke out impetuously: "Are you men, who dare to talk in
this way? You are afraid of losing your limbs, and you are not afraid
of losing, by your cowardice, your most valuable possessions, your
liberty and your honor. Even if you do crawl through our streets as
cripples, your wives and children will point to you with pride, and
men will whisper to each other, 'He too was one of the heroes
who fought for liberty, one of the brave men who, when Berlin was
besieged, met the enemy, and fought bravely for our rights.'"
"That's fine," cried the tailor, carried away by Gotzkowsky's fiery
words. "Yes, let us be heroes, let us fight!"
At the windows of the town-hall above, hid behind the curtains, the
wise members of the city Council still stood and listened with anxious
hearts to what was going on below. The countenance of the chief
burgomaster became ashy pale, and drops of cold sweat stood on his
brow. "This Gotzkowsky will ruin us all," sighed he heavily. "He does
not think what he is doing. His foolhardiness will compel us all to
be brave. But we will have to pay for our liberty, not only with our
blood, but with our fortunes. And this man, who calculates so badly,
pretends to be a merchant! But we must yield to this rash mob, for to
oppose an excited people might bring even the honorable Council into
danger. Good Heavens!" cried he, interrupting himself, "what is this
again?"
To the sound of martial music, there was seen coming down the street a
band of scar-covered veterans, the invalids of the first years of the
war. Some limped, others carried their arms in slings, others again
had their heads bound up; but one could perceive, by their serious,
determined faces, that they were animated by a high and cheerful
courage, which placed them above physical suffering. In their midst,
on a litter, was borne the brave General von Seidlitz, whose wounds,
received in the battle of Kunersdorf, had not yet healed; but the
danger which threatened Berlin had roused him from a bed of suffering,
and, as he could not walk, he had himself carried to the battery at
the Kottbuss Gate, the defence of which he had undertaken.
As the hero turned to the people with a friendly greeting, and
exhorted them to courage, with short and appropriate words, there
sounded from a thousand voices an enthusiastic "Hurrah!" The people
waved their hats, and cried loudly and tumultuously up at the windows
of the Council, "Give us arms--arms!"
At the window above stood the chief burgomaster, with trembling limbs
and livid face. "It is decided," said he, softly; "the people of
Berlin are determined to die as heroes, or purchase their liberty with
all the wealth of the town," and, with a weak cry of grief, he sank
fainting into the arms of the head alderman.
The assistant burgomaster opened the window and cried out: "You shall
have arms. We will defend Berlin with our last breath, and to the last
drop of our blood!"
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