to you by Almighty God that, ardent and often expressed as my desire
to make you mine may have been, it has always been more of your
happiness than of my own that I have thought. My love for you makes me
happy; what more could marriage give me, since it could not increase
that love? Though I did not confess it to you, I always dreaded that
marriage might drag down our beautiful friendship to the level of
everyday, sordid reality. But I thought, what I still think, that _you_
would gain something by it, and this would indirectly have increased
my happiness. So there is nothing to prevent you from marrying another
man; you and I should lose nothing by that."
Strange to say, the truth of this last, audacious assertion was put
to the proof. At a somewhat advanced age, Jeannette actually fell in
love with and married a man much younger than herself. It was their
mutual admiration for Börne that brought the couple together, and in
Jeannette's answer to the letter in which Straus asks her to marry
him there is a long reference to Börne, so enlightening in its simple
eloquence that it cannot be dispensed with in this estimate of his
character as a man and as an author. She writes:
"The Doctor has no one in the world but me; I am to him friend, sister,
all that these words convey of kindliness, friendliness, sympathy. Can
you grudge this to him, to whom life has given nothing else, and who
has reconciled himself to his fate ... is even contented with it.... Ican
think of no other possibility than that the Doctor should be free to
come to us when, where, and for as long as he chooses; for altogether,
if he wishes. I can't say _you_, my heart is too full; canst _thou_
think anything else possible? If so, then all is different from what
I thought. I!--we!--dream of deserting a man like the Doctor--why,
he would be a ruined, a lost man! I would rather give up everything,
rather die, than have that upon my conscience; I could not do it,
even if I would.... I am trembling all over, and as pale as death from
writing even these few words on the subject. For nothing agitates me
so deeply as the very thought of such treason, of such infidelity to
such fidelity. As long as I live, till I draw my last breath, I shall
feel for Börne the love of a daughter for her father, of a sister for
her brother, of a friend for a friend. If you do not understand, cannot
grasp the situation, do not know me well enough--then all is over, all
is night. I can write no more. But no more is necessary. I am thankful
this is over."[3]
Events proved that Straus thoroughly entered into Jeannette's feelings,
indeed shared them. He, too, became a faithful friend to Börne. For
five months in the summer of 1833 Börne lived with them in Switzerland.
They then removed, for his sake, to Paris; where they all lived
together from the end of 1833 till his death, spending the summers
at Auteuil. The one person who permitted himself to make disparaging
comment on this arrangement was Heine, in that unfortunate passage
in his book, _Ludwig Börne_, which led to the duel in which he was
wounded by Straus. Heine afterwards, of his own free will, expunged the
passage. But in anger and grief at the harm done to his reputation by
this work on Börne, he was heard to call Jeannette the baleful woman
who, on his triumphal progress as Germany's chosen poet, crossed his
path, prophesying evil, and caused him to start back and drop his
laurel wreath in the dirt.[4]
It is certain that Jeannette never forgave Heine his unpardonable
molestation; yet no one could have been less of a Megæra. What Börne
once wrote to her, joking, as he often did, on the subject of her
faulty orthography, was almost true, namely, that in the letter he had
received that day there were more faults than she had herself, for
there was one.
In her opinions we can follow the different steps of Börne's political
development. After the Revolution of July she, too, is a radical
democrat. In the expressive words of her biographer, Schnapper-Arndt:
"She most frequently thinks with Börne, at times in opposition to him,
never without him. But she does seem to be perfectly independent in her
passionate sympathy with the revolt of the Polish nation, a feeling so
strong that it leads her to heap reproaches on Börne for being capable
at such a moment of writing about the Italian opera in Paris. The
Polish scythemen, the liberty of Poland--nothing else is worthy to be
mentioned along with this. It seems to her that every one must help;
she gives her own most cherished possessions to the cause; and nothing
can exceed her shame when Germany shows itself indifferent to it,
nothing her joy when she can send Börne proofs of the fact that a storm
of sympathy and enthusiasm is sweeping over the country."
[1] The "service book" which German employés are required to keep.
[2] On this occasion Börne writes: "Love has affected the reason of
many a human being, but I never heard of human kindness doing so. No
one was capable of this but you.... It is well that you have never
found the man of your heart--you cannot even stand wine mixed with
water."
[3] All this information on the subject of Jeannette is to be found in
Gottlieb Schnapper-Arndt's article: _Jeannette Straus-Wohl und ihre
Beziehungen zu Börne. Westermanns Monatshefte_, April 1887.
[4] (Alfred Meissner: _Erinnerungen_, p. 79, &c.
X
BÖRNE
The progress of the insurrection in Poland, which lasted from the
winter of 1830 till the summer of 1831, was followed with lively
sympathy by almost all the nations of Europe. All knew that the
struggle in Poland was deciding whether absolutism or national liberty
was to prevail in the Europe of the future. The movements of the
combatants were eagerly noted; every victory of the Poles was hailed
with popular rejoicing, every defeat was heard of with sorrow. Towards
the close of the struggle, when it became evident that the Poles,
unaided, could not triumph, numerous appeals were addressed by German
subjects to their respective governments, urging them to assist Poland.
The Germans then possessed the quality, which Bismarck afterwards laid
to their charge as a fault--a fault of which he has cured them--of
being almost more interested in the welfare of other nations than in
their own, to the extent even of desiring that welfare when it could
only be purchased by some surrender of power on the part of Germany.
When all was over with the Poles, the Germans tried to give proof of
their sympathy by showing as much hospitality as possible to the Polish
refugees on their wanderings through Central Europe to France. They
everywhere met with a warm reception; a committee was appointed in
almost every German town to collect money for them and help them on
their journey. Jeannette Wohl's letters to Börne at this time contain
many significant details. She tells that a number of Polish officers
who came by water from Hanau to Frankfort-on-Main were escorted all the
way by enthusiasts, that bands played and salutes were fired as they
entered the town, and that, they were carried shoulder high through
the crowd. When bands of Poles march through the town, all heads are
uncovered as they pass. The town defrays their expenses at the hotels.
A wounded Polish officer, who dies at one of the hotels, is followed to
his grave by thousands, including the city militia. A goldsmith sets a
splinter of iron taken from the wound of another Polish officer in the
shape of a little sword, and presents it to him.
With the fall of Poland the bulwark which protected Germany from the
influence of the Russian autocracy was broken down. The defeat of the
Poles was a defeat for the champions of liberty in every country. The
shock was a violent one.
A man who lived at Bremerhafen at the time when the infernal machine
devised by the wholesale murderer, Thomas, exploded, tells how,
immediately after he had heard the report of the fearful explosion, a
torn, bleeding hand flew in at his open window and fell upon the desk
at which he sat writing. Something of the same kind happened to German
authors' when Warsaw capitulated. Shattered Poland's dissevered hand
fell without warning upon their desks. Heine writes in 1831, in his
introduction to Kahldorf's book on the aristocracy: "I feel while I am
writing as if the blood shed at Warsaw were gushing from my paper, and
as if the Berlin officers' and diplomatists' shouts of joy were ringing
in my ears."
The three Powers that had divided Poland determined to take immediate
advantage of the victory to overpower dismayed European Liberalism,
and this in four countries at the same time--in Germany, where the
Bundestag was to inaugurate, and Prussia and Austria to carry out, a
still more energetic reaction; in Italy, which was once more to be
occupied by Austria; in Portugal, where Don Miguel was to be supported
against his brother; and in the Netherlands, where the King of Holland
was to be assisted in his struggle with rebellious Belgium.
Immediately after the suppression of the Polish revolt, a note was
addressed by the Cabinet of St. Petersburg to the German governments,
in which Russia advised them to keep the revolutionary tendencies in
their respective countries in check, and offered them her assistance in
doing so. The censorship at once became more severe, and many Liberal
newspapers and periodicals were suppressed. The Chambers of the South
German States protested, and the utterances of the Liberal press, in
spite of all warnings and threats, became more violent and reckless
from day to day. The general belief had hitherto been that it was
the desire of the sovereigns to meet the wishes of their people, but
that they were held back by their advisers. Now this belief fell to
the ground. The conviction became general that the unification of all
the German countries in one constitutional, strongly democratic State
was at hand. Politically short-sighted, and imbued with all manner of
optimistic ideas, the general public were unable to believe that such
a movement as that originated by the Revolution of July could exhaust
itself without any political result. The champions of Liberalism had
preached "progress" as a religion, and people had arrived at the belief
that progress must inevitably be victorious, and that each attempt at
reaction would actually work for good in the end.
Such was the state of public opinion at the time of the publication
of the first volume of Börne's _Letters from Paris_, which gained him
great popularity. They were promptly suppressed. (November 1831.) This
suppression, and the abuse heaped on the author by his opponents, added
to the sensation which the bold language of the book had created.
In these letters, Börne's style is only occasionally humorous, whereas
in his earlier writings it invariably was so. We seldom find the
quiet, resigned sort of humour distinguishing, for instance, his
characteristic description of his capture by night and his imprisonment
in Frankfort in 1820: "I was refused a boot-jack _Stiefelknecht_ = boot
servant or slave), that the distressing symbol of servitude might not
be always before my eyes. I was only allowed to use knife and fork in
the presence of a warder, in case I should injure myself. Paper, pen,
and ink were granted me only after repeated entreaties, and paper in
restricted quantity; they were afraid my health might suffer from my
sitting still too much. Every evening a warder came with a lantern to
examine the stove and see that it did not smoke, as smoke might be
injurious to my fine eyes; he also examined the grating in front of the
window, to make sure that thieves could not break in, &c, &c."
It is only at the commencement of his stay in Paris, while he is kept
in a state of constant elation by the supposed attainment of great
political results, that he still jests lightly and freely (as, for
example, on the subject of the many Princes Henry of Reuss, Greiz, and
Schleiz, who are now being punished by the revolution in Gera for all
the agony the committing to memory of their respective numbers cost him
at school); the jesting tone soon vanishes from his letters, and the
striking, convincing similes are all that remains of his old style.
His chief feeling, when he thinks of his Fatherland, is shame. In
the Days of July, Englishmen and Dutchmen, Spaniards and Italians,
Poles and Greeks, helped to fight for the liberty of France, which
means the liberty of all nations; but no Germans were there. With its
administration of justice, its censorship, and its guilds, Germany will
soon be the antiquarian museum of Europe. But more obnoxious to him
than anything else is the German spirit of loyalty and humility. The
Spaniards, the Italians, the Russians, and all the others are slaves;
the people that speak the German tongue are lackeys. Slavery only makes
men unhappy, it does not degrade them; servitude degrades. (January
25th 1831.) At an international dinner in Paris, when speeches were
being made by Liberals of every nationality, shame for his country
prevented him from getting up to speak on its behalf. He thought: These
Poles, these Spaniards, who have spoken, represent their country. "But
what do I represent? what achievements do I recall? I stand alone,
I am a lackey, wearing, like all other Germans, the livery of Count
Münch-Bellinghausen." (14th December 1831.)
Closely connected with this feeling of shame is an irritability, an
inclination to be indignant with every one and everything, which gives
a certain impression of weakness, of failing health. Everything, great
and small, is "infuriating--from the long-suffering of the nations
and their slowness to rise in revolt, to a rude letter from Spontini
to the Berlin orchestra; from the proposal to grant Louis Philippe a
liberal civil-list, to the deficiencies of an encyclopædia.[1]
As time goes on he actually seeks out provocations. We come upon such
expressions as: "I am cheerful, for I have been angry;" or "You cannot
give me greater pleasure than by reporting cases of German stupidity to
me."
But in the years immediately following the Revolution of July, shame
and anger are drowned in a storm-tossed sea of hope. Börne feels as
absolutely certain of the speedy approach of a universal conflagration,
followed by the victory of liberty, as the first Christians felt of the
immediate end of the world, followed by the day of judgment, with its
decree of salvation for the elect, and damnation for the hard of heart.
He is in a state of excitement which makes it impossible for him to be
the chronicle-writer of his time; he feels that it is his mission to be
its prophet, in twelve long volumes, if need be.[2]
Alas, it is only the pessimistic prophets who, sooner or later, always
prove to be right. And Börne was an optimistic prophet, an enthusiast,
naïvely and incorrigibly given to believing in what he wished. Events
in France have inspired him with the belief that the death-knell of the
reaction has sounded. He seriously reproaches himself for being ashamed
to kiss such and such a Frenchman's hand, "the hand which has burst
our fetters, and given to us serfs the accolade of knighthood." (17th
September 1830.) He knows that the end is at hand. On the occasion of
Charles X.'s laying some foundation-stone, Börne remarks that it is
high time for kings to stop making themselves ridiculous by laying the
foundation-stones of buildings. It would be more suitable for them now
to nail the last tile on the roofs. For the time is at hand when the
royal cooks will ask each other: "For whom shall we be preparing dinner
to-morrow?" (19th September 1830.) A month after this, being asked
what he thinks likely to happen, he expresses his firm conviction that
the following spring will see the whole of Europe in conflagration.
He pities the diplomatists, positively feels sympathy for them. When
the Polish insurrection breaks out, he does not believe, taking the
great strength of the Russians into consideration, that it will be as
easy for the Poles as for the Belgians to attain their object, but
is sure that they will succeed in the end. And like a refrain recurs
the assertion that, one after another, all the countries of Europe
will emancipate themselves, Germany alone remaining in its miserable
condition. And yet at times he foresees the salvation of Germany. When
the cholera is raging in Moscow, he understands its signification,
sees the finger of God in it: "This is once more the naked hand of
God. The Powers are prevented from gathering together great armies,
and if, in spite of everything, they persist in doing so ... I have a
presentiment--no, it is more than that, I _know_ that the cholera will
do what as yet nothing else has had the power to do, it will rouse the
most procrastinating and timid nation on the face of the earth to show
courage." (3rd November 1830.) His confidence in the ultimate success
of the Poles increased, supporting itself on the theory that those
always win who have no choice but victory or death. At the close of
the year 1830 he is certain that the ruling sovereigns are doomed; his
"modest" New Year's wish for his friend and himself is, that 1831 maybe
a better year for them than it will be for emperors and kings. He will
have to say to his servant: "If an emperor comes, keep your eye upon
him, and don't leave him alone in my room." And he ends by assuring
him that in 1831 a dozen of eggs will be of more value than a dozen
princes. (26th December 1830.)
On the 8th of January 1831, he maintains that if only the Poles can
avoid a pitched battle, the Russians, "powerful as they are, are lost."
And he still takes it for granted that the French will take up arms in
defence of Poland: France would be insane (_ganz von Sinnen_) if she
did not take advantage of this unique opportunity to weaken the power
of Russia. On the 11th of February he is perfectly positive that there
will be war. He himself has never doubted it for a single day, and
many who would not believe it before, have come round to his opinion.
Outbursts of rejoicing are frequent. The Poles have once more received
help from above; there is "tolerably certain" news of rebellion having
broken out in several Russian provinces. On the 6th of March, when
things are looking extremely bad for Poland, he has another false piece
of news to rejoice over. A Parisian commercial house has received
intelligence that the Russian forces have been scattered, and also that
the Lithuanians are in revolt behind them, "which will decide matters."
He is jubilant. From this time onwards, tyrants will be threatened with
the Poles, as naughty children are threatened with the chimney-sweep.
Nicholas boasted that he would roll the Poles together like a ball of
yarn; the ball has turned into a bomb, which has blown him to pieces!
Börne actually has visions of Paris illuminated on the occasion. On the
18th of March, when it is no longer possible to believe in the truth
of the favourable news, he is already mounted on a new chimera. All is
well; for in France itself a great change is impending: "Matters here
are in such a position, that I daily, nay hourly, expect a revolution.
Things cannot continue as they are for four weeks longer...."
It is undoubtedly a strong proof of Börne's honesty that he allowed
Jeannette to publish his letters as they came from his pen, unedited,
without any suppression or modification of prophetic passages to which
facts speedily gave the lie. But their perusal does not increase
our faith in him as a politician. The contradiction between what is
prophesied and what happens is at times so marked as to be comical.
On the 25th of December he is in despair because of Lafayette's
indecision: Lafayette is omnipotent, can bring about whatever he
pleases, has only to threaten to give up the command of the National
Guard to reduce the king, the ministers, and the Chambers to immediate
submission. Next day, the 26th of December, he announces shortly
that Lafayette has been deposed from his command, without so much
as a dog barking. Strange, says the reader to himself, that such an
eager politician should never have felt it a necessity to study the
science of politics, in order to be able to form his conclusions with
some understanding of the subject--that he should have been perfectly
satisfied to produce ephemeral journalistic effusions, of value to-day,
to-morrow cast into the oven.
What constantly misleads Börne is that optimism of his, which has
been already alluded to, an optimism at once naïve and fanatical,
which perpetually discovers reasons why the evil that happens is at
the same time the best thing that could happen. In March 1831, he
trembles for the Poles, and declares that he is prepared for the worst.
"But," he continues, "such a victory would be more disastrous for the
Russians than all their defeats. The arrogant Nicholas would become
presumptuous, and believe that he could dispose of France as easily
as of Poland." What a ground of comfort! Börne goes on hoping for a
revolution in Paris which shall shake all thrones. But it does not
come. He presently discovers that this quietness of France is more
dangerous for the crowned heads than anything else could be. On the
30th of November 1831, he writes: "For forty years France has been the
crater of Europe. When that crater ceases to shoot forth flames, no
throne in Europe will be safe for one night.... Nothing could have been
so disastrous for the monarchs as the fall of Warsaw. They have ruined
a miracle, and therefore now believe themselves capable of working
miracles." In other words: A revolution in Paris is good, no revolution
is still better. The victory of Poland would have been the ruin of the
monarchs; the fall of Poland is more fatal for them still.
At the bottom of all this is Börne's very remarkable, implicit faith
in God, which is but rarely disturbed by the doubts of his ever active
brain. The formula to which he almost always has recourse when he
needs comfort is, that he trusts in God. Nicholas advances against the
Poles with an overwhelming force; Börne "trusts in God." It is, as a
matter of fact, only the Polish nobility who have risen in revolt, but
Börne "trusts in the wisdom of God and the stupidity of his so-called
representatives." He himself is, he declares, wiser than all the rest
in France, as he was wiser than the rest in Germany; why? Because he
"believes in God and nature," while the others believe in men and
politics.
Yet at times his faith wavers. We saw how at first he rejoiced over the
cholera, saw the finger of God in it, felt that it would drive even
the Germans to revolution. Only two months later (19th January 1831)
he describes its actual effect, the manner in which it is paralysing
the nations and aiding in the demolition of such liberty as still
exists. At first he wrote: "What nothing else has been able to do,
the cholera will do;" now it is the exact opposite: "What no Emperor
of Russia, no devil could prevent, the cholera prevents." And he who
saw in that plague "God's naked hand," now exclaims: "And the priests
would have us believe that this is a judgment of God!" Nine months
later (25th November) he gets out of the difficulty with a witty,
thoughtless joke: "It is not often that God sends a heavenly commission
of justice down to earth to investigate into the stewardship of his
representatives, and so far, when such a thing has happened, it has
not improved matters. The heavenly emissaries are out of their element
on earth; they make mistakes, they even allow themselves to be bribed.
We saw this lately, in the case of the Asiatic cholera, which punished
the oppressed in place of the oppressors. God only helps those who
help themselves."[3]