partake of it, and pressed our mother to call him in; but she, more
prudent than we, well knew how distasteful such gifts would be to
him. In the meantime she had prepared some supper, and would readily
have sent a portion up to his room, but he never tolerated such an
irregularity even in the most extreme cases; and after the sweet
things were removed, we endeavoured to persuade him to come down into
the ordinary dining-room. At last he allowed himself to be persuaded
unwillingly, and we had no notion of the mischief which we were
preparing for him and ourselves. The staircase ran through the whole
house, along all the ante-rooms. My father in coming down had to go
directly past the Count's apartment. This ante-room was so full of
people, that the Count, to get through much at once, resolved to come
out, and this happened unfortunately at the moment when my father
descended. The Count met him cheerfully, greeted him, and remarked,
"You will congratulate yourselves and us that this dangerous affair is
so happily terminated." "By no means!" replied my father in a rage;
"would that it had driven you to the devil, even if I had gone with
you." The Count restrained himself for a moment, and then broke out
with wrath--"You shall pay for this," cried he; "you shall find that
you have not thus insulted the good cause and myself for nothing!"
My father, meanwhile, came down very calmly, seated himself near us,
seemed more cheerful than before, and began to eat. We were glad of
this, unconscious of the dangerous method in which he had rolled the
stone from his heart. Soon afterwards my mother was called out, and
we had great pleasure in chattering to our father about the sweet
things the Count had given us. Our mother did not return. At last the
interpreter came in. At a hint from him we were sent to bed; it was
already late, and we willingly obeyed. After a night quietly slept
through, we heard of the violent commotion which had shaken the house
the previous evening. The King's Lieutenant had instantly ordered my
father to be led to the guard-house. The subalterns well knew that
he was never to be contradicted; yet they had often earned thanks by
delaying the execution of his orders. The interpreter, whose presence
of mind never forsook him, contrived to excite this disposition in them
very strongly. The tumult, moreover, was so great, that a delay brought
with it its own concealment and excuse. He had called out my mother,
and put the adjutant, as it were, into her hands, that by prayers and
representations she might gain a brief postponement of the matter.
He himself hurried up to the Count, who with great self-command had
immediately retired into the inner room, and would rather allow the
most urgent affair to stand still, than wreak on an innocent person the
ill-humour once excited in him, and give a decision derogatory to his
dignity.
The address of the interpreter to the Count, the train of the whole
conversation, were often enough repeated to us by the fat interpreter,
who prided himself not a little on the fortunate result, so that I can
still describe it from recollection.
[Side-note: The "Gossip" and Count Thorane.]
The interpreter had ventured to open the cabinet and enter, an act
which was severely prohibited. "What do you want?" shouted the Count,
angrily. "Out with you!--no one but St. Jean has a right to enter here."
"Well, suppose I am St. Jean for a moment," answered the interpreter.
"It would need a powerful imagination for that! Two of him would not
make one such as you. Retire!"
"Count, you have received a great gift from heaven, and to that I
appeal."
"You think to flatter me! Do not fancy you will succeed."
"You have the great gift, Count, even in moments of passion--in moments
of rage, of listening to the opinions of others."
"Well, well, the question now is just about opinions, to which I have
listened too long. I know but too well that we are not liked here, and
that these citizens look askance at us."
"Not all!"
"Very many. What! These towns will be imperial towns, will they?
They saw their emperor elected and crowned, and when, being unjustly
attacked, he is in danger of losing his dominions and surrendering to
an usurper; when he fortunately finds faithful allies who pour out
their blood and treasure in his behalf--they will not put up with the
slight burden that falls to their share, towards humbling the enemy!"
"But you have long known these sentiments, and have endured them like
a wise man; they are, besides, held only by a minority. A few, dazzled
by the splendid qualities of the enemy, whom you yourself prize as an
extraordinary man, a few only--as you are aware."
"Yes, indeed! I have known and suffered it too long, otherwise this man
would not have presumed to utter such insults to my face, and at the
most critical moment. Let them be as many as they please, they shall
be punished in the person of this their audacious representative, and
perceive what they have to expect."
"Only delay, Count."
"In certain things one cannot act too promptly."
"Only a little delay, Count."
"Neighbour, you think to mislead me into a false step; you shall not
succeed."
"I would neither lead you into a false step nor restrain you from
one; your resolution is just; it becomes the Frenchman and the King's
Lieutenant; but consider that you are also Count Thorane!"
"He has no right to interfere here."
"But the gallant man has a right to be heard."
"What would he say then?"
"King's Lieutenant," he would begin, "you have so long had patience
with so many gloomy, untoward, bungling men, if they were not really
too bad. This man has certainly been too bad, but control yourself,
King's Lieutenant, and every one will praise and extol you on that
account."
"You know I can often endure your jests, but do not abuse my good-will.
These men--are they then completely blinded? Suppose we had lost the
battle, what would have been their fate at this moment? We fight up to
the gates, we shut up the city, we halt, we defend ourselves to cover
our retreat over the bridge. Think you, the enemy would have stood with
his hands before him? He throws grenades, and what he has at hand, and
they catch where they can. This house-holder--what would he have? Hero,
in these rooms, a bomb might now have burst, and another have followed
it;--in these rooms, the cursed China-paper of which I have spared,
incommoding myself, by not nailing up my maps! They ought to have spent
the whole day on their knees."
How many would have done that!"
"They ought to have prayed for a blessing on us, and to have gone out
to meet the generals and officers with tokens of honour and joy, and
the wearied soldiers with refreshments. Instead of this, the poison of
party-spirit destroys the fairest and happiest moments of my life, won
by so many cares and efforts."
"It is party-spirit; but you will only increase it by the punishment
of this man. Those who think with him will proclaim you a tyrant and
a barbarian:--they will consider him a martyr, who has suffered for
the good cause; and even those of the other opinion, who are now his
opponents, will see in him only their fellow-citizen, will pity him,
and while they confess your justice, will yet feel that you have
proceeded too severely."
"I have listened to you too much already,--now, away with you!"
"Hear only this. Remember this is the most unheard-of thing that could
befall this man, this family. You have had no reason to be edified
by the good-will of the master of the house; but the mistress has
anticipated all your wishes, and the children have regarded you as
their undo. With this single blow, you will for ever destroy the peace
and happiness of this dwelling. Indeed, I may say, that a bomb falling
into the house, would not have occasioned greater desolation. I have so
often admired your self-command, Count; give me this time opportunity
to adore you. A warrior is worthy of honour who considers himself a
guest in the house of an enemy; but here there is no enemy, only a
mistaking man. Control yourself, and you will acquire an everlasting
fame."
"That would be odd," replied the Count, with a smile.
"Merely natural," continued the interpreter; "I have not sent the wife
and children to your feet, because I know you detest such scenes; but
I will depict to you this wife and these children, how they will thank
you. I will depict them to you conversing all their lives of the battle
of Bergen, and of your magnanimity on this day, relating it to their
children, and children's children, and inspiring even strangers with
their own interest for you: an act of this kind can never perish."
"But you do not hit my weak side yet, interpreter! About posthumous
fame I am not in the habit of thinking; that is for others, not for me;
but to do right at the moment, not to neglect my duty, not to prejudice
my honour--that is my care. We have already had too many words; now
go--and receive the thanks of the thankless, whom I spare."
[Side-note: Thorane's Magnanimity.]
The interpreter, surprised and moved by this unexpectedly favourable
issue, could not restrain his tears, and would have kissed the Count's
hands. The Count motioned him off, and said severely and seriously,
"You know I cannot bear such things." And with these words he went
into the ante-room, to attend to his pressing affairs, and hear the
claims of so many expectant persons. So the matter was disposed of, and
the next morning we celebrated with the remnants of the yesterday's
sweetmeats, the passing over of an evil through the threatenings of
which we had happily slept.
Whether the interpreter really spoke so wisely, or merely so painted
the scene to himself, as one is apt to do after a good and fortunate
action, I will not decide; at least he never varied it in repeating
it. Indeed, this day seemed to him both the most anxious and the most
glorious in his life.
One little incident will show how the Count in general rejected all
false parade, never assumed a title which did not belong to him, and
how witty he was in his more cheerful moods.
A man of the higher class, who was one of the abstruse, solitary
Frankforters, thought he must complain of the quartering of the
soldiers upon him. He came in person, and the interpreter proffered him
his services, but the other supposed that he did not need them. He came
before the Count with a most becoming bow, and said, "Your excellency!"
The Count returned the bow, as-well as the "excellency." Struck by this
mark of honour, and not supposing but that the title was too humble,
he stooped lower, and said, "Monseigneur." "Sir," said the Count, very
seriously, "we will not go further, or else we may easily bring it to
Majesty." The ether gentleman was extremely confused, and had not a
word to utter. The interpreter, standing at some distance, and apprised
of the whole affair, was wicked enough not to move, but the Count,
with much cheerfulness, continued, "Well now, for instance, sir, what
is your name?" "Spangenberg," replied the other. "And mine," said the
Count, "is Thorane. Spangenberg, what is your business with Thorane?
Now, then, let us sit down; the affair shall at once be settled."
And thus the affair was indeed settled at once, to the great
satisfaction of the person I have here named Spangenberg, and the
same evening, in our family circle, the story was not only told by
the waggish interpreter, but was given with all the circumstances and
gestures.
After these confusions, disquietudes, and grievances, the former
security and thoughtlessness soon returned, in which the young
particularly live from day to day, if it be in any degree possible. My
passion for the French theatre grew with every performance. I did not
miss an evening, though on every occasion, when after the play I sat
down with the family to supper,--often putting up-with the remains,--I
had to endure the constant reproaches of my father, that theatres were
useless, and would lead to nothing. In these cases I adduced all and
every argument which is at hand for the apologists of the stage when
they fall into a difficulty like mine. Vice in prosperity and virtue
in misfortune, are in the end set right by poetical justice. Those
beautiful examples of misdeeds punished, _Miss Sarah Sampson_, and
the _Merchant of London_, were very energetically cited on my part;
but, on the other hand, I often came off worst when the _Fouberies de
Scapin_, and others of the sort, were in the bill, and I was forced to
bear reproaches for the delight felt by the public in the deceits of
intriguing servants, and the successful follies of prodigal young men.
Neither party was convinced; but my father was very soon reconciled to
the theatre when he saw that I advanced with incredible rapidity in the
French language.
[Side-note: Juvenile Attempt at the Drama.]
Men are so constituted that everybody would rather undertake himself
what he sees done by others, whether he has aptitude for it or not.
I had soon exhausted the whole range of the French stage; several
pieces I had already witnessed for the third and fourth times; all
had passed before my eyes and mind, from the stateliest tragedy to
the most frivolous after-piece; and as when a child I had presumed to
imitate Terence, I did not fail now as a boy, on a much more inciting
occasion, to copy the French forms to the best of my ability and
want of ability. There were then performed some half-mythological,
half-allegorical pieces in the taste of PIRON; they partook somewhat
of the nature of parody, and were much liked. These representations
particularly attracted me: the little gold wings of a lively Mercury,
the thunderbolt of a disguised Jupiter, an amorous Danaë, or by
whatever name a fair one visited by the gods might be called, if indeed
it were not a shepherdess or huntress to whom they descended. And as
elements of this kind, from _Ovid's >Metamorphosis_, or the _Pantheon
Mythicum_ of Pomey, were humming in swarms about my head--I had soon
put together in my imagination a little piece of the kind, of which I
can only say that the scene was rural, and that there was no lack in
it of king's daughters, princes, or gods. Mercury, especially, made so
vivid an impression on my senses, that I could almost be sworn that I
had seen him with my own eyes.
I presented my friend Derones with a very neat copy, made by myself,
which he accepted with quite a special grace, and with a truly
patronizing air, glanced hastily over the manuscript, pointed out a
few grammatical blunders, found some speeches too long, and at last
promised to examine and judge the work more attentively when he had
the requisite leisure. To my modest question, whether the piece could
by any chance be performed, he assured me that it was not altogether
impossible. In the theatre, he said, a great deal went by favour, and
he would support me with all his heart: only the affair must be kept
private; for he had himself once on a time surprised the directors with
a piece of his own, and it would certainly have been acted if it had
not been too soon detected that he was the author. I promised him all
possible silence; and already saw in my mind's eye the name of my piece
posted up in large letters on the comers of the streets and squares.
Light-minded as my friend generally was, the opportunity of playing the
master was but too desirable. He read the piece through with attention,
and while he sat down with me to make some trivial alterations,
turned the whole thing, in the course of the conversation, completely
topsy-turvy, so that not one stone remained on another. He struck out,
added, took away one character, substituted another,--in short, went
on with the maddest wantonness in the world, so that my hair stood on
end. My previous persuasion that he must understand the matter, allowed
him to have his way, for he had often laid before me so much about the
Three Unities of Aristotle, the regularity of the French drama, the
probability, the harmony of the verse, and all that belongs to these,
that I was forced to regard him, not merely as informed, but thoroughly
grounded. He abused the English and scorned the Germans; in short, he
laid before me the whole dramaturgic litany which I have so often in my
life been compelled to hear.
Like the boy in the fable, I carried my mangled offspring home, and
strove in vain to bring it to life. As, however, I would not quite
abandon it, I caused a fair copy of my first manuscript, after a few
alterations, to be made by our clerk, which I presented to my father,
and thus gained so much that for a long time he let me eat my supper in
quiet after the play was over.
[Side-note: Dramatic Theories.]
This unsuccessful attempt had made me reflective, and I resolved now to
learn at the very sources, these theories, these laws, to which every
one appealed, but which had become suspicious to me chiefly through
the impoliteness of my arrogant master. This was not indeed difficult,
but laborious. I immediately read Corneille's _Treatise on the Three
Unities_, and learned from that how people would have it, but why
they desired it so was by no means clear to me; and what was worst of
all, I fell at once into still greater confusion when I made myself
acquainted with the disputes on the _Cid_, and read the prefaces in
which Corneille and Racine are obliged to defend themselves against the
critics and public. Here at least I plainly saw that no man knew what
he wanted; that a piece like _the Cid_, which had produced the noblest
effect, was to be condemned at the command of an all-powerful cardinal;
that Racine, the idol of the French living in my day, who had now also
become my idol--(for I had got intimately acquainted with him when
Schöff Von Olenschlager made us children act _Britannicus_, in which
the part of Nero fell to me)--that Racine, I say, even in his own day,
was not able to get on with the amateurs nor critics. Through all this
I became more perplexed than ever, and after having pestered myself a
long time with this talking backwards and forwards, and theoretical
quackery of the previous century, threw them to the dogs, and was the
more resolute in casting all the rubbish away, the more I thought I
observed that the authors themselves who had produced excellent things,
when they began to speak about them, when they set forth the grounds
of their treatment, when they desired to defend, justify, or excuse
themselves, were not always able to hit the proper mark. I hastened
back again, therefore, to the living present, attended the theatre far
more zealously, read more scrupulously and connectedly, so that I had
perseverance enough this time to work through the whole of Racine and
Molière, and a great part of Corneille.
The King's Lieutenant still lived at our house. He in no respect
had changed his deportment, especially towards us; but it was
observable, and the interpreter made it still more evident to us,
that he no longer discharged his duties with the same cheerfulness
and zeal as at the outset, though always with the same rectitude
and fidelity. His character and habits, which showed the Spaniard
rather than the Frenchman; his caprices, which were not without their
influence on his business; his unbending will under all circumstances;
his susceptibility as to everything that concerned his person or
reputation--all this together might perhaps sometimes bring him into
conflict with his superiors. Add to this, that he had been wounded in
a duel, which had arisen in the theatre, and it was deemed wrong that
the King's Lieutenant, himself chief of police, should have committed
a punishable offence. As I have said, all this may have contributed to
make him live more retired, and here and there perhaps to act with less
energy.
Meanwhile, a considerable part of the pictures he had ordered had been
delivered. Count Thorane passed his leisure hours in examining them,
while in the aforesaid gable-room he had them nailed up, canvas after
canvas, large and small, side by side, and because there was want of
space, even one over another, and then taken down and rolled up. The
works were constantly inspected anew; the parts that were considered
the most successful were repeatedly enjoyed; but there was no want of
wishes that this or that had been differently done.
Hence arose a new and very singular operation. As one painter best
executed figures, another middle-grounds and distances, a third trees,
a fourth flowers, it struck the Count that these talents might perhaps
be combined in the paintings, and that in this way perfect works might
be produced. A beginning was made at once, by having for instance
some beautiful cattle painted into a finished landscape. But because
there was not always adequate room for all, and a few sheep more or
less was no great matter to the cattle-painter, the largest landscape
proved in the end too narrow. Now also the painter of figures had to
introduce the shepherd, and some travellers; these deprived each other
of air, as we may say; and we marvelled that they were not all stifled,
even in the most open country. No one could anticipate what was to
come of the matter, and when it was finished it gave no satisfaction.
The painters were annoyed. They had gained something by their first
orders, but lost by these after-labours, though the Count paid for
them also very liberally. And as the parts worked into each other in
one picture by several hands, produced no good effect after all the
trouble, every one, at last, fancied that his own work had been spoiled
and destroyed by that of the others; hence the artists were within a
hair's-breadth of falling out, and becoming irreconcilably hostile
to each other. These alterations, or rather additions, were made in
the before-mentioned studio, where I remained quite alone with the
artists; and it amused me to hunt out from the studies, particularly of
animals, this or that individual or group, and to propose it for the
foreground or the distance, in which respect they many times, either
from conviction or kindness, complied with my wishes.
[Side-note: The Painter Seekatz.]
The partners in this affair were therefore greatly discouraged,
especially Seekatz, a very hypochondriacal, retired man, who indeed by
his incomparable humour was the best of companions among friends, but
who, when he worked, desired to work alone, abstracted and perfectly
free. This man, after solving difficult problems, and finishing them
with the greatest diligence and the warmest love, of which he was
always capable, was forced to travel repeatedly from Darmstadt to
Frankfort, either to change something in his own pictures, or to touch
up those of others, or even to allow, under his superintendence, a
third person to convert his pictures into a variegated mess. His
peevishness augmented, his resistance became more decided, and a great
deal of effort was necessary on our part to guide this "gossip"--for he
was one also--according to the Count's wishes. I still remember that
when the boxes were standing ready to pack up all the pictures, in the
order in which the upholsterer at their place of destination might
fix them up at once, a small but indispensable bit of afterwork was
demanded, but Seekatz could not be moved to come over. He had, by way
of conclusion, done the best he could, having represented in paintings
to be placed over the doors, the four elements as children and boys,
after life, and having expended the greatest care, not only on the
figures, but on the accessories. These were delivered and paid for, and
he thought he was quit of the business for ever; but now he was to come
over again, that he might enlarge, by a few touches of his pencil, some
figures, the size of which was too small. Another, he thought, could do
it just as well; he had already set about some new work; in short, he
would not come. The time for sending off the pictures was at hand; they
must also have opportunity to dry; every delay was precarious; and the
Count, in despair, was about to have him fetched in military fashion.
We all wished to see the pictures finally gone, and found at last no
expedient than for the gossip interpreter to seat himself in a wagon,
and fetch over the refractory subject, with his wife and child. He was
kindly received by the Count, well treated, and at last dismissed with
liberal payment.