reading over the two letters he had just written; a triumphant smile was
upon his lip as he finished. “It will succeed,” murmured he, softly; “we
will take Magdeburg without a blow, and thus deprive the King of Prussia
of his most valuable fortress. The plan cannot miscarry; and then I
have only to convince the empress that I was the soul of this
undertaking--that I led the intrigue. Ah, I shall succeed at last--I
shall occupy a position worthy of me--and as general of our order I
shall rule the world. I shall earn this title at Magdeburg--there I will
build my throne--there I will reign! But I must consider it all once
more, to see if no error, no mistake, has escaped me. I first formed a
connection with the officer yon Kimsky, an Austrian prisoner, because
through him I could make connections between the town and the citadel.
Kimsky, at my wish, made some of his town friends acquainted with the
officers of the citadel. It was then necessary to give these new friends
some clew, some aim that would appear innocent to them, and conceal the
real plan. I chose Trenck as the protecting shield for my undertaking.
To inspire him with confidence in my agents, I obtained a sort of
credential letter from Princess Amelia, and interested her in my cause.
She provided me with money, and gave me, besides the one to Trenck, a
letter of recommendation to a sure, trustworthy friend in Magdeburg. I
was now much nearer my design. On the pretence of working for Trenck, I
worked for myself, for my position of general of the Jesuits, and for
a fortress for my empress. And thus far all my plans have succeeded.
Trenck has formed a connection with three Prussian officers of the
citadel. These, touched with sympathy for his pitiful condition, have
determined to do all in their power to release him, and are, therefore,
in constant companionship with those whom Trenck calls his friends.
These, in the mean time, are my agents and subordinates, they act for me
while acting for Trenck; the Prussian officers do not anticipate that,
in helping Trenck to his freedom, they are helping the Empress of
Austria to a new fortress. But so it is. There is no error in my plan,
it will succeed. I can rely on Trenck; he is a subject of Maria Theresa,
and his thirst for revenge is mighty. He will gain a fortress for
his empress. The avenger, through whom God has chosen to punish this
arrogant, heretical king, will arise from the depths of a subterranean
prison. All that is now left to be done is to acquaint Vienna with
the information of this undertaking, so that we may be assured that an
Austrian regiment will be in the vicinity of Magdeburg at the proper
time, and storm the citadel at a sign from us, and not have that, which
we had taken by strategy, torn from us by the King of Prussia’s superior
force. Now is a favorable time for this. For Frederick, the humiliated,
defeated king, is many miles from Magdeburg; he has been compelled to
raise the siege of Dresden, and the Austrian troops are lying there like
the Russians at Frankfort. Nor are the French far off. All these armies
will be prepared to hasten to our aid. All that now remains to be done
is to get this news safely to Vienna. But how to accomplish this is a
hard question. It were well could I go myself. But I am a prisoner of
war, and, until Magdeburg is in our power, this chain will clog me.
Another must be sent--a messenger full of courage, determination, and
hardihood. I have said this in my letter to Captain von Kimsky; he must
seek such a man amongst our sworn friends of the citadel, and give him
the sheet of paper I send in my letter. How harmless, how insignificant
this sheet of paper seems! and still, were it to fall in the King
of Prussia’s hands, it would save him a strong fortress and several
millions of thalers, for all the money of the Dresden treasury was
brought to Magdeburg for safe-keeping. Ah! ah! how much would Frederick
give for these two lines of writing, and how richly would he reward
him who gave him the key to it! I will send the key by a different
messenger, and therefore this second letter. But even if both my
messengers were intercepted, all is not lost. I have notified Trenck
also to write to Vienna for money and help. He must continue to be
the shield behind which we intrench ourselves. Should the undertaking
miscarry, we will lay it upon Trenck; should it succeed, it will be
through me, and I will not be tardy in claiming my reward. The general
of our order is old; should he, however, persist in living, his
tenacious nature must--“He did not dare to finish the sentence; but
a wild, demoniac smile supplied the words his lips dared not utter. He
arose and walked several times up and down his chamber, completely lost
in ambitious dreams of the future, for whose realization, as a true
Jesuit, he shunned no means, mindful of the motto of their order: “The
end sanctifies the means.”
He saw a ring upon his hand--that ring, full of significance, before
which kings had often bowed, which was to the Jesuits what the crown is
to the king--the sacred sign of power and glory--the indisputable sign
of invisible but supreme power. He saw himself, this ring upon his hand,
subjugating nations, rewarding his friends, punishing his enemies. He
suddenly awoke from his dreams, and remembered the present with a weary
smile.
“I must not forget, in dreams of the future, the necessity for action. I
have many important things to do this day. I must take these letters to
Marietta, see her address and post them; then I must seek La Trouffle
and receive from her leave of absence, on the plea of visiting a sick
friend at Magdeburg. This will be a tedious undertaking, for she will
not agree willingly to a separation without great persuasion. I have
much influence over her, and a woman in love cannot refuse a request to
the object of her tenderness. I will obtain, through Madame du Trouffle,
a near and influential relative of the commandant of Berlin, permission
to visit Magdeburg, and through Marietta Taliazuchi I will post my two
important letters.” He laughed aloud as he thought of these two women,
so tenderly devoted to him, both so willing to be deceived by him.
“They love me in very different ways,” said he, as he finished his
toilet preparatory to going out. “Marietta Taliazuchi with the humility
of a slave, Louise du Trouffle with the grateful passion of an elderly
coquette. It would be a problem for a good arithmetician to solve, which
of these two loves would weigh most. Marietta’s love is certainly the
more pleasant and comfortable, because the more humble. Like a faithful
dog she lies at my feet; if I push her from me, she comes back, lies
humbly down, and licks the foot that kicked her. Away, then, to her, to
my tender Marietta.”
Hiding his letters in his breast, he took his hat and hastened in
the direction of Marietta’s dwelling. She received him in her usual
impassioned manner; she told him how she had suffered in their long
separation; how the thought that he might be untrue to her, that he
loved another had filled her with anguish.
Ranuzi laughed. “Still the same old song, Marietta; always full of doubt
and distrust? Does the lioness still thirst after my blood? would she
lacerate my faithless heart?”
Kneeling, as she often did, at his feet, she rested her arms on his
knees; then dropping her head on her folded hands, she looked up at him.
“Can you swear that you are true to me?” said she, in a strange, sharp
tone. “Can you swear that you love no other woman but me?”
“Yes, I can swear it!” said he, laughing.
“Then do so,” cried she, earnestly.
“Tell me an oath and I will repeat it after you.”
She looked at him firmly for several moments, and strange shadows
crossed her emotional countenance.
Ranuzi did not perceive them; he was too inattentive, too confident of
success, to entertain doubt or distrust.
“Hear the oath!” said she, after a pause. “‘I, Count Carlo Ranuzi, swear
that I love no other woman but Marietta Taliazuchi; I swear that, since
I have loved her, I have not nor ever shall kiss or breathe words
of love to any other woman. May God’s anger reach me, if my oath is
false!’”
The words fell slowly, singly from her lips, and she gazed with
unflinching eyes up at him.
Not a muscle in his countenance moved. Laughing gayly, he repeated her
words; then bent and kissed her black, shiny hair. “Are you satisfied
now, you silly child?”
“I am satisfied, for you have sworn,” said she, rising from her knees.
“Will this quiet you now, Marietta?”
“Yes, forever.”
“Well, then, now a moment to business. There are two important letters,
my beautiful darling. You see how boundless my love for you is--I
confide these letters to your care, and entreat you to post them as
usual. My heart and my secrets are in your lovely hands.”
He kissed the hands, and gave her the letters.
Marietta took and looked at them in a timid, fearful manner.
“Do they contain dangerous secrets?” said she.
“Dangerous in the extreme, my lovely one.”
“Were they intercepted and opened, would you be liable to death?” said
she, in a low, trembling voice.
He saw in these words only her solicitude and love for him.
“Certainly, I would be lost--I would have to die were these letters
opened. But fear not, my beauteous Marietta--they will not be opened; no
one would dream of intercepting the harmless letters you direct to your
friends at Magdeburg. Apart from that, no one is aware of our close
connection. We have carefully guarded the holy secret of our love; when
your husband returns from Italy, this bad world will have no evil rumors
to tell of us, and you will be enclosed in his arms as his faithful
wife. When does he come?”
“I expect him in three weeks.”
“Many glorious, quiet evenings will we enjoy together before his return.
And now, farewell--I must leave you.”
“You must leave me?”
“I must, Marietta.”
“And where are you going?” said she, looking at him earnestly.
“Jealous again,” said he, laughing. “Calm yourself, Marietta, I go to no
woman. Besides this, have you not my oath?”
“Where are you going?” said she, with a sharp questioning look.
“I have an engagement to meet some friends--the meeting takes place in
the house of a Catholic priest. Are you satisfied, Marietta? or do you
still fear that some dangerous rendezvous calls me from you?”
“I fear nothing,” said she, smiling; “you have reassured me.”
“Then, my beloved, I entreat you to command me to go, for if you do not,
though I know I ought, I cannot leave you. But, no--first I will see you
direct these letters.”
“You shall,” said she, taking a pen and directing them.
Ranuzi took the letters and examined them.
“This simple feminine address is the talisman that protects me and my
secret. And this I owe to you, my darling, to you alone. But will you
finish your work of mercy? Will you post these letters at once?”
“I will do so, Carlo.”
“Will you swear it?” said he, laughing; “swear it to me by our love.”
“I swear it--swear it by my love.”
“And now, farewell, Marietta!--farewell for to-day. To-morrow I hope to
see you again.”
He took her in his arms and whispered words of love and tenderness in
her ear. He did not notice, in his impatience to leave, how cold and
quiet she was. He took his hat, and bowing gayly left the room.
She stood where he had left her, her arms hanging listlessly at her
side, her head bowed upon her breast. She listened intently to his every
movement. Now he was on the last stair, now in the hall--when he had
crossed it he would be at the street door. With a wild shriek she fled
from the room, and hastened down the steps.
“Carlo! Carlo! wait a moment!”
His hand was on the door-knob; he stood still and looked back. She was
by his side--pale, with burning eyes and trembling lips, she threw her
arms around him and kissed him passionately.
“Farewell, my Carlo!--farewell, thou lover of my soul, thou light of my
eyes!”
She kissed his mouth, his eyes, his hands; she pressed him to her heart,
and then she pushed him from her, saying, in cold, rough tones, “Go! go,
I say!”
Without again looking at him she hurried up the stairs. Ranuzi, laughing
and shaking his head at her foolishness, left the house with a contented
and assured heart.
CHAPTER VII. THE ACCUSATION.
This time Marietta did not call him back; she did not gaze after him
from the window, as she was accustomed to do; she stood, pale as death,
in the middle of the room, with panting breath, with flashing eyes;
motionless, but with eager and expectant mien, as if listening to
something afar off.
To what was Marietta listening? Perhaps to the echo of his step in the
silent, isolated street; perhaps to the memories which, like croaking
birds of death, hovered over her head, as if to lacerate and destroy
even her dead happiness; perhaps she listened to those whispering voices
which resounded in her breast and accused Ranuzi of faithlessness and
treachery. And was he, then, really guilty? Had he committed a crime
worthy of death?
Marietta was still motionless, hearkening to these whispered voices in
her breast.
“I will deliberate yet once more,” said she, walking slowly through the
room, and sinking down upon the divan. “I will sit again in judgment
upon him, and my heart, which in the fury of its pain still loves him,
my heart shall be his judge.”
And now she called back once again every thing to her remembrance. The
golden, sunny stream of her happy youth passed in review before her, and
the precious, blissful days of her first innocent love. She recalled all
the agony which this love had caused her, to whose strong bonds she had
ever returned, and which she had never been able to crush out of her
heart. She thought of the day in which she had first seen Ranuzi in
Berlin; how their hearts had found each other, and the old love, like a
radiant Phoenix, had risen from the ashes of the past, to open heaven
or hell to them both. She remembered with scornful agitation those happy
days of their new-found youthful love; she repeated the ardent oaths
of everlasting faith and love which Ranuzi had voluntarily offered; she
remembered how she had warned him, how she had declared that she would
revenge his treachery and inconstancy upon him; how indolently, how
carelessly he had laughed, and called her his tigress, his anaconda.
She then recalled how suddenly she had felt his love grow cold, how
anxiously she had looked around to discover what had changed him--she
could detect nothing. But an accident came to her assistance--a bad,
malicious accident. During the war there were no operas given in Berlin,
and Marietta was entirely unoccupied; for some time she had been giving
singing lessons--perhaps for distraction, perhaps to increase her
income; she had, however, carefully preserved this secret from
Ranuzi--in the unselfishness of her love she did not wish him to know
that she had need of gold, lest he might offer her assistance.
One of her first scholars was Camilla von Kleist, the daughter of Madame
du Trouffle, and soon teacher and scholar became warm friends. Camilla,
still banished by her mother to the solitude of the nursery, complained
to her new friend of the sorrows of her home and the weariness of her
life. Carried away by Marietta’s sympathy and flattering friendship, the
young girl had complained to the stranger of her mother; in the desire
to make herself appear an interesting sacrifice to motherly tyranny, she
accused that mother relentlessly; she told Madame Taliazuchi that she
was always treated as a child because her mother still wished to appear
young; that she was never allowed to be seen in the saloon in the
evening, lest she might ravish the worshippers and lovers of her mother.
Having gone so far in her confidences, the pitiable daughter of this
light-minded mother went so far as to speak of her mother’s adorers.
The last and most dangerous of these, the one she hated most bitterly,
because he came most frequently and occupied most of her mother’s
time and thoughts, she declared to be the Count Ranuzi. This was the
beginning of those fearful torments which Marietta Taliazuchi had for
some months endured--tortures which increased with the conviction that
there was truly an understanding between Ranuzi and Madame du Trouffle;
that Ranuzi, under the pretence of being overwhelmed with important
business, refused to pass the evening with her, yet went regularly every
evening to Madame du Trouffle.
Marietta had endured this torture silently; she denied herself the
consolation of complaining to any one; she had the courage, with smiling
lips, to dispute the truth of Camilla’s narratives, and to accuse her of
slander; she would have conviction, she longed for proof, and Camilla,
excited by her incredulity, promised to give it.
One day, with a triumphant air, she handed Marietta a little note she
had stolen from her mother’s writing-desk. It was a poem, written in
French, in which Ranuzi, with the most submissive love, the most glowing
tenderness, besought the beautiful Louise to allow him to come in the
evening, to kneel at her feet and worship as the faithful worship the
mother of God.
Marietta read the poem several times, and then with quiet composure
returned it to Camilla; but her cheeks were deadly pale, and her lips
trembled so violently, that Camilla asked her kindly if she was not
suffering.
“Yes,” she replied, “I suffer, and we will postpone the lesson. I must
go home and go to bed.”
But Marietta did not go home. Beside herself, almost senseless with pain
and rage, she wandered about through the streets, meditating, reflecting
how she might revenge herself for this degradation, this faithlessness
of her beloved.
At last she found the means; with firm step, with crimson cheeks, and
a strange smile upon her tightly-compressed lips, she turned toward the
castle. There she inquired for the Marquis d’Argens, and Ranuzi’s evil
genius willed that D’Argens should be found at that time in Berlin--he
was generally only to be seen at Sans-Souci. Marietta did not know the
marquis personally, but she had heard many anecdotes of the intellectual
and amiable Provencal; she knew that the marquis and the king were
warmly attached, and kept up a constant correspondence. For this reason,
she addressed herself to D’Argens; she knew it was the easiest and
quickest way to bring her communication immediately before the king. The
marquis received her kindly, and asked her to make known her request.
At first Marietta was mute, regret and repentance overcame her; for a
moment she almost resolved to be silent and to go away. Soon, however,
her wrath was awakened, and armed her with the courage of despair: with
panting breath, with strange disordered taste, she said: “I have come to
tell you a secret--an important secret, which concerns the king.”
The good marquis turned pale, and asked if it related to any attempt
upon the life of the king?
“Not to his life, but it was a secret of the greatest importance,”
she replied. Then, however, when the marquis asked her to make a full
disclosure, she seemed suddenly to see Ranuzi’s handsome face before
her; he looked softly, reproachfully at her with his great fathomless
eyes, whose glance she ever felt in the very depths of her heart; she
was conscious that the old love was again awake in her, and by its
mighty power crowding out the passion of revenge. A lingering hesitation
and faint-heartedness overcame her--confused and stammering, she said
she would only confide her secret to the king himself, or to that person
whom the king would authorize to receive it.
The marquis, in a vivacious manner, pressed her to speak, and made
conjectures as to the quality of her secret. Marietta found herself
involved in a net of cross-questions and answers, and took refuge at
last in absolute silence. She rose and told the marquis she would
return in eight days, to know whom the king had selected to receive her
communication.
The eight clays had now passed, and Marietta had, during this time,
many struggles with her own heart--her ever newly awakening love pleaded
eloquently for forgiveness--for the relinquishment of all her plans of
vengeance. [Footnote: The marquis, in one of his letters to the king,
described his interview with Madame Taliazuchi, with great vivacity and
minuteness, and expressed his own suspicions and conjectures; which,
indeed, came very near the truth, and proved that, where he was warmly
interested, he was a good inquisitor. He entreated Frederick not to look
upon the matter carelessly, as in all probability there was treason on
foot, which extended to Vienna. Madame Taliazuchi had much intercourse
in Berlin with the captive Italian officers, and it might be that one of
these officers was carrying on a dangerous correspondence with Vienna.
In closing his letter, the marquis said: “Enfin, sire, quand il serait
vrai que tout ceci ne fut qu’une bete italienne qui so serait echauffee,
et qui aurait pris des chimeres pour des verites, ce qui pourrait encore
bien etre, cette femme ne parait rien moins que prudente et tranquille.
Je crois, cependant, que la peine qu’on aurait prise de savoir ce
qu’elle veut declarer serait si legere, qu’on ne la regretterait
pas, quand meme on decouvrirait que cette femme n’est qu’une
folle.”--“Oeuvres de Frederic le Grand,” vol. xix. p. 91.] She had
almost resolved not to seek the marquis again, or if she did so, to say
that she had been deceived--that the secret was nothing--that she had
only been bantered and mystified. But now, all these softer, milder
feelings seemed burnt out in the wild fire of revenge and scorn which
blazed through her whole being. “He is a traitor--a shameless liar!” she
said, pressing her small teeth firmly and passionately together; “he
is a coward, and has not the courage to look a woman in the face and
confess the truth when she demands it; he is a perjurer, for he took the
oath which I exacted from him--he swore to love me alone and no other
woman; he had the impudent courage to call down the vengeance of God
upon himself if he should break this oath. Why do I hesitate longer?”
cried she, springing from her seat; “the perjured traitor deserves that
my betrayed and crushed heart should avenge itself. He called down the
vengeance of God upon himself. Let it crush him to atoms!”
Now all was decision, courage, energy, and circumspection. She took
the two letters she had received from Ranuzi and concealed them in her
bosom, then dressed herself and left her dwelling.
With a firm step she passed through the streets which led to the castle.
As she drew near the house of Madame du Trouffle, she hesitated, stood
still, and looked up at the windows.
“If only this once he did not deceive me! If he is not here; if he told
me the truth!” His countenance had been so open, so calm, so smiling
when he said to her that he had a rendezvous with some friends at the
Catholic priest’s; and in a graceful, roguish mockery, asked her if she
was jealous of that meeting. No, no! this time he was true. He could not
have played the hypocrite with such smiling composure. Scarcely knowing
what she did, Marietta entered the house, and asked if Camilla was at
home--then hastened on to the door of Camilla’s room.
The young girl advanced to meet her with a joyous greeting. “I am glad
you have come, Marietta. Without you I should have been condemned to
pass the whole evening shut up in my room, wearying myself with books.
But I am resolved what I will do in future. If mamma insists upon
my being a child still, and banishes me from the parlor when she has
company, I will either run away, or I will invite company to amuse me.
My cousin, Lieutenant Kienhause, is again in Berlin; his right arm is
wounded, and the king has given him a furlough, and sent him home.
When mamma is in the saloon, I will invite my cousin here.” She laughed
merrily, and drew Marietta dancing forward. “Now I have company, we will
laugh and be happy.”
“Who is in the saloon?” said Marietta, “and why are you banished
to-day?”
“Well, because of this Italian count--this insufferable Ranuzi. He has
been here for an hour, and mamma commanded no one to be admitted, as she
had important business with the count.”
“And you believe that he will remain the whole evening?” said Marietta.
“I know it; he remains every evening.”
Marietta felt a cold shudder pass over her, but she was outwardly calm.
“Poor child!” said she, “you are indeed to be pitied, and, if you really
desire it, you shall have my society; but first, I have a commission to
execute, and then I will bring some notes, and we will sing together.”
She kissed Camilla upon the brow, and withdrew.
The last moment of respite had expired for Ranuzi; there was no longer a
ray of mercy in Marietta’s heart. Rushing forward, she soon reached the
castle, and announced herself to the marquis. She was introduced into
his study, and the marquis advanced to meet her, smiling, and with an
open letter in his hand.
“You come at the right time, madame,” said he; “an hour since I received
this letter from his majesty.”
“Has the king named the person to whom I am to confide my secret?” she
said, hastily.
“Yes, madame, his majesty has been pleased to appoint me for that
purpose.”
“Let me see the letter,” said Marietta, extending her hand.
The marquis drew back. “Pardon me,” said he, “I never allow the king’s
letters to pass out of my own hands, and no one but myself can see them.
But I will read you what the king says in relation to this affair, and
you will surely believe my word of honor. Listen, then: ‘Soyez, marquis,
le depositaire de mes secrets, le confidant des mysteres de Madame
Taliazuchi, l’oreille du trone, et le sanctuaire ou s’annonceront les
complots de mes ennemis.’ [Footnote: “I will give the conclusion of this
letter which the polite marquis did not read aloud: ‘Pour quitter le
style oriental, je vous avertis que vous aurez l’oreille rebattue
de miseres et de petites intrigues de prisonniers obscurs et qui ne
vaudront pas genre de Madame Taliazuchi--elles envisagent les petites
choses comme tres-importantes; elles sont charmees de figurer en
politique, de jouer un role, de faire les capables d’etaler avec faste
le zele de leur fidelite. J’ai vu souvent que ces beaux secrets reveles
n’ont ete que des intrigues pour auirs au tiers ou an quart a des gens
auxquelles ces sortes de personnes veulet du mal. Ainsi, quoique cette
femme vous puisse dire, gardez-vous bien d’y ajouter foi, et que
votre cervelle provencal ne s’echauffe pas an premier bruit de ces
recits’”--CEuvres, vol xix., p.92.] Madame, you see that I am fully
empowered by the king to receive your confidence, and I am ready to hear
what you will have the goodness to relate.” He led her to a divan, and
seated himself opposite to her.
“Tell the king to be on his guard!” said Marietta, solemnly. “A great
and wide-spread conspiracy threatens him. I have been made a tool by
false pretences; by lies and treachery my confidence was surreptitiously
obtained. Oh, my God!” cried she, suddenly springing up; “now all is
clear. I was nothing but an instrument of his intrigues; only the weak
means made use of to attain his object. He stole my love, and made of it
a comfortable, convenient robe with which to conceal his politics. Alas!
alas! I have been his postillion de politique.” With a loud, wild cry,
she sank back upon the divan, and a torrent of tears gushed from her
eyes.
The marquis sprang up in terror, and drew near the door; he was now
fully convinced that the woman was mad.
“Madame,” said he, “allow me to call for assistance. You appear to be
truly suffering, and in a state of great excitement. It will be best for
you, without doubt, to forget all these political interests, and attend
to your physical condition.”
Marietta, however, had again recovered her presence of mind; she glanced
with a wan smile into the anxious countenance of the marquis.
“Fear nothing, sir, I am not mad; return to your seat. I have no
weapons, and will injure no one. The dagger which I carry is piercing my
own heart, and from time to time the wound pains; that is all. I promise
you to make no sound, to be gentle and calm--come, then.”
The marquis returned, but seated himself somewhat farther from the
signora.
“I tell you,” said Marietta, panting for breath, “that he made use of
my credulity--made me a tool of his political intrigues--these intrigues
which threaten the lands if not the life of the king. The treason I
will disclose would place an important fortress in the hands of the
Austrians.”
“And you are convinced that this is no chimera?” said the marquis, with
an incredulous smile.
“I am convinced of it, and I have the incontestable proof with me.” She
took the two letters which she had received from Ranuzi, and gave
them to the marquis. “Take them, and send them to the king, but, not
to-morrow, not when it is convenient, but to-day; even this hour. If
you are not prompt, in eight days King Frederick will be a fortress the
poorer. Besides this, say to his majesty to be ever on his guard against
the captive officers in Berlin, especially on his guard against my
countryman, Count Ranuzi. He is the soul of this enterprise; he has
originated this daring undertaking, and, if this falls to pieces, he
will commence anew. He is a dangerous enemy--a serpent, whose sting is
most deadly, most to be feared when he seems most gentle, most quiet.
Say to King Frederick he will do well to protect himself from the
traitor, the Austrian spy, Ranuzi.” Marietta stood up, and bowing to the
marquis, she advanced to the door. D’Argens held her back.
“Madame,” said he, “if these things are really so, Count Ranuzi is a man
to be feared, and we should make sure of him.”
“He is indeed a dangerous man,” said Marietta, with a peculiar smile.
“Ask the beautiful Madame du Trouffle; she will confirm my words.”
The black, flashing eyes of the marquis fixed themselves searchingly
upon the face of the signora. He remembered that the king had warned him
to be upon his guard as to the communication of Madame Taliazuchi, that
such mysteries were often nothing more than feigned intrigues, by which
the discoverer sought to bring sorrow and downfall to an enemy.
“Ah, signora! I understand now,” said the marquis; “you did not come
here for patriotism or love for Prussia or her king, but from frantic
jealousy; not to serve King Frederick, but to overthrow Ranuzi.”
Marietta shrugged her shoulders with a contemptuous expression.
“I am an Italian,” said she, laconically.
“And the Italians love revenge,” said the marquis.
“When one dares to injure them--yes.”
“This Count Ranuzi has dared to injure you?”
A flash of scorn flamed for a moment in her eyes, then disappeared.
“Would I otherwise have betrayed him?” said she. “I am an Italian, and
you cannot ask that I shall feel patriotism for King Frederick or for
Prussia. Count Ranuzi is my countryman, judge, then, how deeply I have
been injured when I betray him, and give him over to death.”
“To death? it is also then a crime worthy of death which these letters
will disclose to the king? You do not deceive yourself? Your thirst for
revenge does not make these things appear blacker, more important than
they really are?”
“No, I do not deceive myself. I speak but the simple truth.”
“Then,” said the marquis, with horror, “it is dangerous to leave Ranuzi
at liberty. I must apply to the commandant of Berlin, and ask that he be
arrested upon my responsibility.”
Marietta was already at the door, but these words of the marquis
arrested her. With her hand resting upon the bolt, she stood and turned
her pale face back to D’Argens. “Certainly, it would be best and surest
to arrest him instantly,” said she; and her heart bounded with delight
when she said to herself, with cruel pleasure: “When once arrested, he
can go no more to Madame du Trouffle.”
The marquis did not reply, but he stepped thoughtfully through the room.
Marietta’s eyes followed every movement with a fiery glance. At length
the marquis stood before her.
“I cannot take upon myself the responsibility of arresting this man.
I do not know that these letters, which I shall send to the king, are
really as dangerous as you say. The king must decide; I will send them
off by a courier to-day. But, in every event, Ranuzi must be watched,
and you shall be his guard. You must see that he does not escape. I make
you answerable. Ranuzi must not leave Berlin, and when the king’s answer
is received, he must be found here.”
“You shall find him with me,” said she; “and if not, I shall at least
be able to tell you where he is. Fear nothing; he shall not escape! I am
his guard! When you receive the reply of the king, have the goodness to
inform me. This is the only reward I demand.” [Footnote: D’Argens wrote
to the king: “Si votre majeste ne m’avait point ecrit en propres termes.
Quoique cette femme puisse vous dire, gardez-vous bien d’y ajouter foi.
J’anrai prie le commandant de faire arreter le nomme Ranuzi jusqu’a
ce qu’elle eut mande ce qu’elle veut qu’on en fasse; cet homme me
paraissant un espion de plus aeres. Mais je me suis contente de dire a
Madame Taliszuchi que si cet homme sortait de Berlin, avant la response
de votre majeste elle en repondrait, et elle m’a assure qu’elle le
retiendrait.”--CEuvres, vol. xix., p. 93.]
“I will inform you, madame,” said the marquis, opening the door; “and,
as to the Count Ranuzi, I read in your features that you hate him with a
bitter hatred, and will not allow him to escape.”
CHAPTER VIII. REVENGE.
Five days had passed since Marietta’s interview with the marquis. They
had wrought no change in her heart; not for a single instant had her
thirst for revenge been allayed. Her hatred of Ranuzi seemed to
have become more intense, more passionate, since she understood his
plans--since she had learned that he had never loved her, and that she
was merely the instrument of his intrigues. Since that time she had
watched his every thought and deed.
One day while apparently embracing him, and whispering words of
endearment in his ear, she had secretly drawn a folded paper from his
pocket, which had just been brought to him by a strange servant who,
having vainly sought him at his own house, had followed him to that of
Marietta. Having thus obtained the paper, she made an excuse for leaving
the room in order to inspect it. She carefully closed the door of the
room in which Ranuzi sat, and then examined the paper. After reading it,
she drew her note-book from her pocket, and hastily tearing out a leaf,
she wrote upon it with a pencil. “Lose no time, if you do not wish
him to escape. He has received to-day, through the agency of Madame du
Trouffle, the necessary passport and permission to go to Magdeburg.
I have no longer the power to detain him. What is done must be done
quickly.”
She folded the paper and passed cautiously through the hall and into the
kitchen where her maid was. “Listen, Sophie,” she said; “take this
note and go as quickly as you can to the castle and ask for the Marquis
d’Argens. You must give the note into his own hands, and if you bring
me an answer within the hour, I will reward you as if I were a queen. Do
not speak, only go.”
The maid hurried down the steps, and Marietta returned, smilingly, to
Ranuzi, who received her with reproaches for her long absence.
“I have arranged a little supper for us, and have sent my maid to obtain
some necessary articles. You will not leave me to-day, as you always do,
to go to your conference with the Catholic priest.”
“I would not, Marietta, but I must,” said Ranuzi. “Believe me, my dear
child, if I followed the dictates of my heart, I would never leave this
room, which in my thoughts I always call my paradise, and in which I
enjoy my only bright and happy moments. But what would you have, my
angel? It is not ordained that men should have undisturbed possession
of the joys of paradise. Mother Eve sinned, and we must expiate her
misdeeds. I must leave you again to-day to join that conference which
you so heartily detest.”
“But not yet,” she said, tenderly, putting her arms about his neck. “You
will not leave me yet?”
Thus besought, he promised to remain. Never was he more amiable, more
brilliant, more attentive, or more tender. Never was Marietta gayer,
more excited, or more enchanting. Both had their reasons for this--both
had their intentions. Love smiled upon their lips, but it was not in
their hearts--each wished to deceive the other. Ranuzi wished to quiet
every suspicion by his tenderness--she must not dream that this was
their last meeting, and that he intended leaving Berlin this night,
perhaps forever. Marietta wished to chain him to her side and prevent
his departure.
Time flew by amid gay laughter and tender jests, and at length Marietta
heard the house-door open and hurried steps mounting the stairway. It
was the maid who had returned. Marietta’s heart beat so violently that
she could scarcely conceal her emotion.
“The maid has returned with her purchases,” she said, hastily; “I will
go out and tell her that you cannot remain with me to-day.” She left the
room and met Sophie in the hall, who was quite out of breath with her
hurried walk, and who handed her a note. Marietta broke the seal with
trembling hands. It contained only these words: “Keep him but a few
moments longer, and one will arrive who will release you from your
watch, and relieve you forever from your enemy by bearing him to
prison. The answer of the one to whom I sent your paper has come; he is
condemned.”
“Very well, Sophie,” said Marietta, concealing the paper in her bosom.
“When the count leaves, you shall receive your reward. Now listen; the
soldiers are coming. As soon as you hear them on the steps, you must tap
at my door, that I may know they have arrived.”
She hastened back to Ranuzi, but she no longer smiled--she no longer
approached him with open arms--but she advanced toward him with
flashing eyes, with her arms folded haughtily across her breast, and her
countenance pale with passion.
“Ranuzi, the hour of revenge has come! You have most shamefully betrayed
and deceived me--you have mocked my love--you have trodden my heart
under foot. Lies were upon your lips--lies were in your heart. And
whilst you swore to me that you loved no other, you had already betrayed
me to a woman. I am acquainted with Madame du Trouffle, and I know that
you visit her every evening. This was the conference with the Catholic
fathers, for whose sake you left me. Oh, I know all--all! I will not
reproach you; I will not tell you of the martyrdom I suffered--of the
wretched days and nights through which I wept and sighed, until at
length I overcame the love I had borne you. That suffering is passed.
But you have not forgotten that I once said to you: ‘Should you forsake
me, or turn faithlessly from me, I will be revenged.’”
“I have not forgotten,” said Ranuzi, “and I know that you will fulfil
your promise, but before you do so--before you point me out to the
government as a dangerous spy--you will listen to my defence, and
only then if you are not satisfied, will you condemn me, and revenge
yourself.”
“I have all-sufficient proof,” she said. “Day by day, hour by hour, have
these proofs been forced upon me, as the contents of the poisoned cup
are forced upon the condemned man. My love and happiness are dead, but
you also shall die--you also shall suffer as I have done. My love was
insufficient to keep for me a place in your memory; perhaps my revenge
will do so. When you are wretched and miserable, think of me and
repent.”
“Repent of what?” he asked, proudly. “I have done nothing of which I am
ashamed--nothing of which I repent. I have offered up my entire life,
my every thought and desire, to a holy, a noble cause. To it I have
subjected all my feelings, wishes, and hopes, and had it been necessary,
I would without tears have sacrificed all that was dearest to me on
earth. It became necessary for the good of this cause that I should
appear to betray your love. A plan had been formed in which this woman
you have just named could alone aid me. I dared not ask my heart what it
suffered, for my head told me that this woman was necessary to me, and
it became my duty to obtain her assistance by any means. So I became the
daily companion of Madame du Trouffle, so--”
A light tap at the door interrupted the count, and startled him
inexplicably.
“What does that mean?” he asked, turning pale.
Marietta laughed aloud. “That means,” she said, slowly and scornfully,
“that you will not go to Magdeburg to-morrow--that you cannot make use
of the passport which your beloved Madame du Trouffle obtained for you.
Ah, you wished to leave me secretly--you did not wish me to suspect
your intended departure. You were mistaken, Ranuzi. You will remain in
Berlin, but you will never go to her again. I will prevent that.”
At this moment loud knocking was heard at the door, and two policemen
entered the room without waiting for an invitation, and through the open
door armed soldiers might be seen in the hall guarding the entrance.
When Ranuzi first beheld these servants of justice, he shuddered and
became deathly pale, but as they approached him, he recovered his wonted
composure, and advanced proudly and coldly to meet them.
“Are you Count Ranuzi?” asked one of the policemen.
“I am,” he said, calmly.
“I arrest you in the name of the king; you are our prisoner.”
“With what offence am I charged?” asked he, as he slowly placed his hand
in his bosom.
“The court-martial will inform you.”
“Ah, I am to be tried by a court-martial. Spies and conspirators are
always thus tried. I am charged then with spying and conspiring,” cried
Ranuzi, and then slowly turning to Marietta, he asked:
“And this is your work?”
“Yes; this is my work,” she said, triumphantly.
“You must come now,” said the policeman, roughly, as he stepped nearer
to Ranuzi, at the same time giving his companion a sign to do the same.
“Come immediately and quietly. Do not compel us to use force.”
“Force,” cried Ranuzi, shrugging his shoulders, as he drew his hand from
his bosom and pointed a pistol toward the policemen, from which they
shrunk back terrified. “You see that I need not fear force,” he said.
“If you dare to approach nearer or lay your hand on me I will fire on
both of you, for happily my pistol has more than one ball, and it never
fails. You see that we are playing a dangerous game, upon whose issue
may depend your lives as well as mine. I can shoot you if I desire
it, or I can direct this weapon against my own brow if I wish to avoid
investigation or imprisonment. But I promise you to do neither the one
nor the other, if you will give me the time to say a few words to this
lady.”
“Be quick, then,” said the policeman, “or I will call in the soldiers,
and they can shoot you as easily as you could shoot us.”
Ranuzi shrugged his shoulders. “You will be very careful not to shoot
me. The dead do not speak, and it is very important for my judges that I
should speak. Go to that door; I give my word that I will follow you.”
As if to strengthen his words, he raised the hand which held the pistol,
and the two men withdrew with threatening glances, to the door.
Ranuzi then turned again to Marietta, who turned her great flashing eyes
upon him with an expression of anger and astonishment, mixed with hatred
and admiration.
“Marietta,” he said, gently. She trembled at the sound of his voice. He
perceived this, and smiled. “Marietta,” he repeated, “you have betrayed
me; you have revenged your love! I do not reproach you, my anaconda, but
I pray you to tell me one thing; did you send the last letters which I
gave you to the post?”
“No,” she replied, compelling her eyes, with a mighty effort, to meet
his.
“Wretch! What did you do with them.”
“I sent them to the King of Prussia.”
Ranuzi uttered a shriek, and fell back a step. “Then I am indeed lost,”
he murmured, “as well as that unhappy creature, who pines for light and
freedom. Poor Trenck! Poor Amelia! All is lost; all through the jealousy
of this wretched woman. I tell you, Marietta,” he continued aloud, as
he placed his hand heavily on her shoulder, “it is not necessary that
I should curse you, you will do that yourself. This hour will act as
deadly poison on your heart, of which you will die. It is true, you have
revenged yourself. Today you rejoice in this, for you believe that you
hate me, but tomorrow you will repent; to-morrow grief will overtake
you, and it will grow with every day--you will feel that you must love
me for ever and ever; you must love me, because you have wrought my
ruin. Yes, you are right--you have discovered the means to keep yourself
in my remembrance. In my dungeon I will think of you. I will do so,
and curse you; but you also will think of me; and when you do, you will
wring your hands and curse yourself, for revenge will not kill the love
in your heart. Be that your punishment. Farewell!”
He passed before her, and quietly approached the policemen. “Come,
gentlemen, I am quite ready to follow you; and that you may be entirely
at ease I will leave my pistol here. It is my legacy to that lady--my
last souvenir. Perhaps she may use it in the future.”
He placed the pistol upon her writing-table and hastily approached the
door. “Come, gentlemen; I am your prisoner!”
He signed to them to follow him, and walked proudly through the hall.
Marietta stood there trembling and deadly pale--her eyes dilated, her
lips opened, as if to utter a shriek. Thus she watched him, breathless,
and as if enchained with horror.
Now she saw him open the door of the hall, and throwing back at her
one cold, flashing glance, he went out, followed by the police and the
soldiers.
“He is gone! he is gone!” she shrieked, as if in a frenzy. “They are
leading him to imprisonment--perhaps to death. Oh, to death! It is I who
have murdered him. He is right. I am indeed cursed. I have murdered him,
and I love him.” And with a wild shriek she sank fainting to the ground.
CHAPTER IX. TRENCK.
Trenck still lived; neither chains nor years of loneliness had broken
his strength or bowed his spirit. His tall, gigantic form had shrunk to
a skeleton; his hair had whitened and hung around his hollow face like
an ashen veil. Heavy chains clasped his feet and his throat, a broad
iron band encircled his waist, which was attached to the wall by a short
chain--a thick bar held his hands apart; but still he lived. For years
he had paced, with short, restless steps, this little space that covered
his grave; but he smiled derisively at the coarse stone which bore his
name.
Trenck still lived. He lived because he had a fixed desire, a grand aim
in view--he thirsted for freedom, and believed it attainable. Trenck
could not die, for without was liberty, the sun, life, and honor. He
would not die; for to be willing to die, he must first have lived.
His life had been so short--a few fleeting years of youth, of careless
enjoyment--a joyous dream of love and ambition! This had been his fate.
Then came long, weary years of imprisonment--a something which he knew
not, but it was not life--had crept to him in his prison, and with a
cruel hand marked years upon his brow--years through which he had not
lived, but suffered. And still he remained young in spite of gray hairs
and wrinkles. He glowed with hope and defiance, his sluggish blood
was warmed from time to time with new hopes, new expectations. His
imagination painted wonderful pictures of future happiness. This
hope always remained smiling and vigorous; notwithstanding his many
disappointments--his many useless attempts to escape, Trenck still hoped
for freedom. As often as the subterranean passages which he dug
were discovered, he recommenced his work, and dug new ones; when
the sentinels whom he had won by gold and flattery were detected and
punished, he found means to obtain other friends.
Truly, friends did not fail; the buried but still living prisoner had
friends who never forgot him; bold, loving friends, risking their lives
for him. The mighty power of his great misfortunes won him friends. The
soldiers who guarded him were seized with shuddering horror and pity
at the sight of this sunken form, reminding them of the picture of the
skeleton and the hour-glass which hung in the village church. Trenck
knew how to profit by this. The officers, who came every day to inspect
his prison, were charmed and amazed by the freshness of his spirit, his
bright conversation, and gay remarks. These interviews were the only
interruption to the dulness of their garrison life. They came to him to
be cheered. Not being willing to sit with him in the dark, they brought
their lights with them; they opened the door of his cell that they might
not be obliged to remain with him in the damp, putrid air. They wondered
at his firmness and courage; they sympathized with his youth and
loneliness, and this sympathy made for him, earnest, useful friends, who
revelled in the thought that Trenck’s renewed attempts at escape would
at last be crowned with happy results, that he would obtain his freedom.
He was on the eve of a great day. To-morrow he would live again,
to-morrow he would be free; this time it was no chimera, no dream--he
must succeed.
“Yes, my plan cannot fail,” murmured Trenck, as he sat upon his stone
seat and gazed at the iron door, which had just closed behind the
Commandant Bruckhausen. “My cruel jailer has discovered nothing,
carefully as he searched my cell; this time I have dug no mines, broken
no walls; this time I shall pass through that door, my comrades will
greet me joyfully, and the poor prisoner shall be the mighty commander
of the fortress. Only one night more, one single night of patience, and
life, and love, and the world shall again belong to me. Oh, I feel as if
I would go mad with joy. I have had strength to endure misfortunes, but
perhaps the rapture of freedom may be fatal. My God! my God! if I should
lose my senses! if the light of the sun should scorch my brain! if the
hum of the busy world should crush my spirit!”
He lifted his hands in terror to his brow; he felt as if wrapped in
flames, as if fire were rising from his brain; the chains rattled around
him with unearthly sounds. “The slightest error, the least forgetfulness
would endanger my plan. I will be quiet--I will repeat once more all
that we have agreed upon. But first away with these slavish chains,
to-morrow I shall be a free man; I will commence my role to-day.”
He removed the handcuffs, and with his free right hand loosened the
girdle from his waist, at the point where the blacksmith, who fastened
it upon him, told him it might be opened by a pressure light as a
feather. Now he was free; he stretched with delight his thin, meagre
form, and let his arms swing in the air as if to prove their muscle.
This was a sweet, a wonderful prelude to freedom; many weeks and months
he had worked upon these chains to prepare for the moment of freedom.
Now these chains had fallen. He was already a free man; he cared not
for these dark, damp walls. He did not see them; he was already without,
where the sun was shining, the birds were singing; where the blue arch
of heaven looked down upon the blooming earth. What did he care for the
death-like stillness which surrounded him? he heard the noise in the
streets; he saw men running here and there in busy haste; he listened
to their bright conversation, their merry laughter; he mixed among them
with lively greeting, and shared their joys and cares.
Suddenly he again pressed his brow fearfully, and cried; “I shall go
mad! A thousand dancing pictures and happy faces are swarming around
me; I shall go mad! But no, I will control myself; I will be calm.” He
raised his head with his accustomed bold defiance. “I will look freedom
in the face; my eyelids shall not quiver and my heart shall beat calmly.
I will be quiet and thoughtful. I will think it all over once more.
Listen to me, oh friend! you, who have heard all my sighs and my
despair; you, who know my misery; listen to me, oh gloomy cell. You have
always been faithful; you have never wished to forsake or leave me; and
when I struggled to escape, you called me always back. But this is our
last day together; you shall hear my confession, I will tell you all my
plans, by what means I shall escape from you, my true friend, my dark,
dreary cell. Know first that this garrison is composed of nine hundred
men, who are much dissatisfied. It will not be difficult to win them,
particularly if they are well bribed. Besides this, there are two majors
and two lieutenants conspiring with me; they will tell their soldiers
what to do. The guard at the star-port, is composed of but fifteen
men, and if they do not obey me willingly, we will know how to compel
obedience. At the end of the star-port lies the city gate. At this
only twelve men and one officer are stationed; these we shall easily
overpower. On the other side, close to the gate, the Austrian Captain
von Kimsky is awaiting me with the remainder of the prisoners of war.
All the officers, who have pledged themselves to assist my undertaking,
are concealed in a safe house rented for this purpose. At my first call
they will rush forward and fall upon the guard; we will overpower them
and enter the city. There other friends await us; one of them, under
some pretext, holds in his quarters arms for his company, and at my
call he will join me with his armed band. Oh my God! my God! I see every
thing so plainly and clearly before me. I see myself rushing joyfully
through the streets, dashing into the casemates, which contain nine
thousand prisoners. I call to them: ‘Up, comrades, up; I am Frederick
von Trenck, your captain and your leader; arm yourselves and follow me.’
I hear them greet me joyfully and cry, ‘Long live Trenck!’ They take
their arms and we rush to the other casemates, where seven thousand
Austrian and Russian prisoners are confined. We free them, and I head
a little army of sixteen thousand men. Magdeburg is mine; the fortress,
the magazine of the army, the treasury, the arsenal, all is in our
power. I shall conquer all for Maria Theresa. Oh, King Frederick! King
Frederick! I shall avenge myself on you for these long years of misery,
for the martyrdom of this fearful imprisonment. Trenck will not be
obliged to leave Magdeburg; he will drive away the Prussians, and make
himself master.”
He laughed so loudly that the old walls echoed the sound, and a wailing
sigh seemed to glide along the building. Trenck started and looked
timidly around him.
“I am still alone,” he murmured, “no one has heard my words; no, no one
but you,” he continued cheerfully, “my old silent friend, my faithful
prison. To-morrow morning the officer on guard will enter and order the
sentinels to remove the bed; as soon as they enter I shall rush out and
lock the door. The sentinels being locked up, I put on the clothes which
are lying in readiness for me in the passage, and then forward to my
soldiers. I shall distribute gold freely among them--a friend will meet
me with the money at the house of Captain von Kleist, and if he has not
sufficient, Amelia has richly supplied me. Arise, arise from your grave,
my secret treasures.”
He crouched close to the wall and removed the mortar and chalk
carefully; he then drew out a stone and took from under it a purse full
of gold.
His eye, accustomed to the darkness, saw the gold through the silk net;
he nodded to it and laughed with delight as he poured it out and played
madly with it. His countenance suddenly assumed an earnest expression.
“Poor Amelia,” he murmured softly, “you have sacrificed your life, your
beauty, and your youth for me. With never-failing zeal you have moved
around me like my guardian angel, and how am I repaying you? By taking
from your brother, King Frederick, his finest fortress, his money, his
provisions; by compelling you and yours to fly from a city which no
longer belongs to you, but to the Empress of Austria, your enemy. With
your money I have taken this city; Amelia, you are ignorant of this now,
and when you learn it, perhaps you will curse me and execrate the love
which has poisoned your whole life. Oh, Amelia! Amelia, forgive me for
betraying you also. My unfortunate duty is forcing me onward, and I must
obey. Yes,” he said, springing from his seat, “I must yield to my fate,
I must be free again--I must be a man once more; I can sit no longer
like a wild animal in his cage, and tell my grief and my despair to the
cold walls. I must reconquer life--I must again see the sun, the world,
and mankind--I must live, suffer, and act.”
He walked violently to and fro, his whole being was in feverish
expectation and excitement, and he felt alarmed. Suddenly he remained
standing; pressing his two hands against his beating temples, he
murmured:
“I shall indeed go mad. Joy at my approaching deliverance confuses my
poor head; I will try to sleep, to be calm--collect my strength for
to-morrow.”
He lay down upon his miserable couch, and forced himself to be quiet
and silent--not to speak aloud to himself in his lonely cell, as he
was accustomed to do. Gradually the mad tension of his nerves relaxed,
gradually his eyes closed, and a soft, beneficial slumber came over him.
All was still in the dark cell; nothing was to be heard but the loud
breathing of the sleeper; but even in sleep, visions of life and liberty
rejoiced his heart--his face beamed with heavenly joy; he murmured
softly, “I am free!--free at last!”
The hours passed away, but Trenck still slumbered--profound stillness
surrounded him. The outer world had long since been awake--the sun
was up, and had sent a clear beam of its glory through the small,
thickly-barred window, even into the comfortless, desolate cell, and
changed the gloom of darkness into a faint twilight.
CHAPTER X. “TRENCK, ARE YOU THERE?”
Trenck slept. Sleep on, sleep on, unfortunate prisoner, for while asleep
you are free and joyous; when you awake, your happy dreams will vanish;
agony and despair will be your only companions.
Listen! there are steps in the passage; Trenck does not hear them--he
still sleeps. But, now a key is turned, the door is opened, and Trenck
springs from his pallet.
“Are you there, my friends? Is all ready?”
But he totters back with a fearful shriek, his eyes fixed despairingly
upon the door. There stood Von Bruckhausen, the prison commandant,
beside him several officers, behind them a crowd of soldiers.
This vision explained all to Trenck. It told him that his plan had
miscarried--that again all had been in vain. It told him that he must
remain what he was, a poor, wretched prisoner--more wretched than
before, for they would now find out that when alone he could release
himself from his chains. They would find his gold, which he had taken
from its hiding-place, and was now lying loosely upon the floor.
“I am lost!” said he, covering his face with his hands, and throwing
himself upon his bed.
A malignant smile brightened up Von Bruckhausen’s disagreeable
countenance, as his eye took in the broken chains, the glittering gold,
and the despairing prisoner. He then ordered the soldiers to raise the
chains and fasten them on him.
Trenck made no resistance. He suffered them quietly to adjust his iron
belt, to fasten the chain around his neck. He seemed insensible to all
that was passing. This fearful blow had annihilated him; and the giant
who, but a short time before, had thought to conquer the world, was now
a weak, trembling, defenceless child. When he was ordered to rise to
have the chains annexed to his iron girdle, and fastened to the wall,
he rose at once, and stretched out his hand for the manacles. Now the
commandant dared approach Trenck; he had no fear of the chained lion,
he could jeer at and mock without danger. He did it with the wrath of a
soul hard and pitiless; with the deep, unutterable hate of an implacable
enemy; for Trenck was his enemy, his much-feared enemy; he drove sleep
from his eyes--he followed him in his dreams. Often at midnight Von
Bruckhausen rose in terror from his couch, because he dreamed that
Trenck had escaped, and that he must now take his place in that dark,
fearful tomb. Surrounded by gay companions, he would turn pale and
shudder at the thought of Trenck’s escaping--Trenck, whose fearful cell
was then destined to be his. This constant fear and anxiety caused
the commandant to see in Trenck not the king’s prisoner, but his own
personal enemy, with whom he must do battle to his utmost strength, with
all the wrath and fear of a timid soul. With a cold, malicious smile he
informed him that his plot had been discovered, that his mad plan was
known; he had wished to take the fortress of Magdeburg and place upon
it the Austrian flag. With a jeering smile he held up to him the letter
Trenck had sent to his friend in Vienna, in which, without mentioning
names, he had made a slight sketch of his plan.
“Will you deny that you wrote this letter?” cried the commandant, in a
threatening voice.
Trenck did not answer. His head was bowed upon his breast; he was gazing
down in silence.
“You will be forced to name your accomplices,” cried the enraged
commandant; “there is no palliation for a traitor, and if you do not
name them at once, I shall subject you to the lash.”
An unearthly yell issued from Trenck’s pale lips, and as he raised his
head, his countenance was expressive of such wild, such terrible rage,
that Bruckhausen drew away from him in affright. Trenck had awakened
from his lethargy; he had found again his strength and energy, he was
Trenck once more--the Trenck feared by Von Bruckhausen, though lying in
chains, the Trenck whom nothing could bend, nothing discourage.
“He who dares to whip me shall die,” said he, gazing wildly at the
commandant. “With my nails, with my teeth, will I kill him.”
“Name your accomplices!” cried Bruckhausen, stamping upon the ground in
his rage.
It was Trenck who now laughed. “Ah, you think to intimidate me with
your angry voice,” said he. “You think your word has power to make me
disclose that which I wish to keep secret. You think I will betray my
friends, do you? Learn what a poor, weak, incapable human being you are,
for not one of the things you wish shall occur. No, I shall not be so
contemptible as to betray my friends. Were I to do so, then were I a
traitor deserving of this wretched cell, of these fearful chains, for
I would then be a stranger to the first, the holiest virtue, gratitude.
But no, I will not. I was innocent when these chains were put on
me--innocent I will remain.”
“Innocent!” cried the commandant; “you who wished to deliver to the
enemy a fortress of your sovereign! You call yourself innocent?”
Trenck raised himself from his bed, and threw back his head proudly.
“I am no longer a subject of the King of Prussia,” said he; “he is no
longer my sovereign. Many years ago I was thrown into prison at Glatz
without court-martial or trial. When I escaped, all my property was
confiscated. If I had not sought my bread elsewhere, I would have
starved to death, or gone to ruin. Maria Theresa made me a captain in
her army--to her I gave my allegiance. She alone is my sovereign. I owe
no duty to the King of Prussia--he condemned me unheard--by one act he
deprived me of bread, honor, country, and freedom. He had me thrown into
prison, and fettered like some fearful criminal. He has degraded me to
an animal that lies grovelling in his cage, and who only lives to eat,
who only eats to live. I do not speak to you, sir commandant,” continued
he--“I speak, soldiers, to you, who were once my comrades in arms. I
would not have you call Trenck a traitor. Look at me; see what the king
has made of me; and then tell me, was I not justified in fleeing from
these tortures? Even if Magdeburg had been stormed, and thousands of
lives lost, would you have called me a traitor? Am I a traitor because I
strive to conquer for myself what you, what every man, receives from
God as his holy right--my freedom?” While he spoke, his pale, wan
countenance beamed with inspiration.
The soldiers were struck and touched with it--their low murmurs of
applause taught the commandant that he had committed a mistake in having
so many witnesses to his conversation with the universally pitied and
admired prisoner.
“You will not name your accomplices?” said he.
“No,” said Trenck, “I will not betray my friends. And what good would it
do you to know their names? You would punish them, and would thereby sow
dragons’ teeth from which new friends would rise for me. For undeserved
misfortune, and unmerited reproach, make for us friends in heaven and
on earth. Look there, sir commandant--look there at your soldiers. They
came here indifferent to me--they leave as my friends; and if they can
do no more, they will pray for me.”
“Enough! enough of this,” cried the commandant. “Be silent! And you,”
speaking to the soldiers, “get out of here! Send the blacksmith to
solder these chains at once. Go into the second passage--I want no one
but the blacksmith.”
The soldiers withdrew, and the smith entered with his hot coals, his
glowing iron, and his panful of boiling lead. The commandant leaned
against the prison-door gazing at the smith; Trenck was looking eagerly
at the ceiling of his cell watching the shadows thrown there by the
glowing coals.
“It is the ignus fatuus of my freedom,” said he, with a weary smile. “It
is the fourth time they have danced on this ceiling--it is the fourth
time my chains have been forged. But I tell you, commandant, I will
break them again, and the shadows flickering on these walls will be
changed to a glorious sun of freedom--it will illuminate my path so that
I can escape from this dungeon, in which I will leave nothing but my
curse for you my cruel keeper.”
“You have not, then, despaired?” said the commandant, with a cold smile.
“You will still attempt to escape?”
Trenck fixed his keen, sparkling eyes upon Von Bruckhausen, and
stretching out his left arm to the smith, he said: “Listen, sir
commandant, to what I have to say to you, and may my words creep like
deadly poison through your veins! Hear me; as soon as you have left my
cell--as soon as that door has closed behind you--I will commence a new
plan of escape. You have thrown me in a cell under the earth. The
floor in my other cell was of wood--I cut my way through it. This is of
stone--I shall remove it. You come daily and search my room to see if
there is not some hole or some instrument hidden by which I might effect
my escape. Nevertheless I shall escape. God created the mole, and of it
I will learn how to burrow in the ground, and thus I will escape. You
will see that I have no instruments, no weapons, but God gave me what
He gave the mole--He gave my fingers nails, and my mouth teeth; and if
there is no other way, I will make my escape by them.”
“It is certainly very kind of you to inform me of all this,” cried
the commandant. “Be assured I shall not forget your words. I shall
accommodate myself to them. You seek to escape--I seek to detain you
here. I am convinced I shall find some means of assuring myself every
quarter of an hour that your nails and teeth have not freed you. The
smith’s work I see is done, and we dare entertain the hope that for the
present you will remain with us. Or perhaps you mean to bite your chains
in two as soon as I leave?”
“God gave Samson strength to crush with his arms the temple columns,”
said Trenck, gazing at the blacksmith, who was now leaving the room.
“See, the ignis fatuus has disappeared from my cell, the sun will soon
shine.”
“Trenck, be reasonable,” said Von Bruckhausen, in an entreating tone.
“Do not increase your misery--do not force me to be more cruel to
you. Promise to make no more attempts to escape, and you shall not be
punished for your treacherous plot!”
Trenck laughed aloud. “You promise not to punish me. How could you
accomplish it? Has not your cruelty bound me in irons, in chains, whose
invention can only be attributed to the devil? Do I not live in the
deepest, most forlorn cell in the fortress? Is not my nourishment bread
and water? Do you not condemn me to pass my days in idleness, my nights
in fearful darkness? What more could you do to me?--how could you punish
any new attempt to escape? No, no, sir commandant; as soon as that door
has closed on you, the mole will commence to burrow, and some day, in
spite of all your care, he will escape.”
“That is your last word!” cried Von Bruckhausen, infuriated. “You will
not promise to abandon these idle attempts at escape? You will not name
your accomplices?”
“No! and again no!”
“Well, then, farewell. You shall remember this hour, and I promise you,
you shall regret it.”
Throwing a fearful look of malignant wrath at Trenck, who was leaning
against his pallet, laughing at his rage, the commandant left the
prison. The iron door closed slowly; the firm, even tread of the
disappearing soldiers was audible, then all was quiet.
A death-like stillness reigned in the prisoner’s cell; no sound of
life disturbed the fearful quiet. Trenck shuddered; a feeling of
inexpressible woe, of inconsolable despair came over him. He could now
yield to it, no one was present to hear his misery and wretchedness. He
need not now suppress the sighs and groans that had almost choked him;
he could give the tears, welling to his eyes like burning fire, full
vent; he could cool his feverish brow upon the stone floor, in the agony
of his soul. As a man trembles at the thought of death, Trenck trembled
at the thought of life. He knew not how long he had sighed, and wept,
and groaned. For him there was no time, no hour, no night--it was all
merged into one fearful day. But still he experienced some hours of
pleasure and joy. These were the hours of sleep, the hours of dreams.
Happier than many a king, than many powerful rulers and rich nobles upon
their silken couches, was this prisoner upon his hard pallet. He could
sleep--his spirit, busy during the day in forming plans for his escape,
needed and found the rest of sleep; his body needed the refreshment and
received it.
Yes, he could sleep. Men were hard and cruel to him, but God had not
deserted him, for at night He sent an angel to his cell who consoled and
refreshed him. It was the angel of slumber--when night came, after all
his sorrow, his agony, his despair endured during the day, the consoling
angel came and took his seat by the wretched prisoner. This night he
kissed his eyes, he laid his soft wings on the prisoner’s wounded heart,
he whispered glorious dreams of the future into his ear. A beautiful
smile, seldom seen when he was awake, now rested upon his lips.
Keep quiet, ye guards, without there--keep quiet, the prisoner sleeps;
the sleep of man is sacred, and more sacred than all else is the sleep
of the unfortunate. Do not disturb him--pass the door stealthily. Be
still, be still! the prisoner sleeps--reverence his rest.
This stillness was now broken by a loud cry.
“Trenck, Trenck!” cried a thundering voice--“Trenck, are you asleep?”
He woke from his pleasant dreams and rose in terror from his bed. He
thought he had heard the trumpets of the judgment-day, and listened
eagerly for the renewing of the sound.
And again the cry resounded through his cell. “Trenck, are you there?”
With a wild fear he raised his hand to his burning brow.
“Am I mad?” murmured he; “I hear a voice in my brain calling me; a
voice--”
The bolts were pushed back, and Commandant Von Bruckhausen, accompanied
by a soldier, with a burning torch, appeared on the threshold.
“Why did you not answer, Trenck?” said he.
“Answer--answer what?”
“The sentinel’s call. As you swore to me you would make new attempts to
escape, I was compelled to make arrangements to prevent your succeeding.
The guards at your door are commanded to call you every quarter of an
hour during the night. If you do not answer at once, they will enter
your cell to convince themselves of your presence. Accommodate yourself
to this, Trenck. We shall now see if you are able to free yourself with
your nails and teeth!”
He left the room, the door was closed. It was night once more in the
prisoner’s cell--but he did not sleep. He sat upon his pallet and asked
himself if what had passed was true, or if it was not some wild and
fearful dream.
“No, no, it cannot be true; they could not rob me of my last and only
pleasure--my sleep! soft, balmy sleep!”
But listen. There is a voice again. “Trenck, Trenck, are you there?”
He answered by a fearful yell, and sprang from his bed, trembling with
terror. It was no dream!
“It is true!--they will let me sleep no more. Cowardly thieves! may God
curse as I curse you. May He have no pity with you, who have none with
me! Ah, you cruel men, you increase my misery a thousandfold. You murder
my sleep. God’s curse upon you!”
CHAPTER XI. THE KING AND THE GERMAN SCHOLAR.
It was the winter of 1760. Germany, unhappy Germany, bleeding from a
thousand wounds, was for a few months freed from the scourge of war;
she could breathe again, and gather new strength for new contests. Stern
winter with its ice and snow had alone given peace to the people for a
short time. The rulers thought of and willed nothing but war; and the
winter’s rest was only a time of preparation for new battles. The allies
had never yet succeeded in vanquishing the little King of Prussia.
Notwithstanding the disappointments and adversities crowded upon
him--though good fortune and success seemed forever to have abandoned
him--Frederick stood firm and undaunted, and his courage and his
confidence augmented with the dangers which surrounded him.
But his condition appeared so sad, so desperate, that even the heroic
Prince Henry despaired. The king had in some degree repaired the
disasters of Kunersdorf and Mayen by his great victories at Leignitz
and Torgau; but so mournful, so menacing was his position on every side,
that even the victories which had driven his enemies from Saxony, and at
least assured him his winter quarters, brought him no other advantages,
and did not lessen the dangers which threatened him. His enemies stood
round about him--they burned with rage and thirst to destroy utterly
that king who was always ready to tear from them their newly-won
laurels. Only by his complete destruction could they hope to quench the
glowing enthusiasm which the people of all Europe expressed by shouts
and exultation.
The Russians had their winter quarters for the first time in Pomerania.
The Austrians lay in Silesia and Bohemia. The newly-supplied French
army, and the army of the States, were on the Rhine. While the enemies
of Frederick remained thus faithful to each other in their war against
him, he had just lost his only ally.
King George II. of England was dead, and the weak George III. yielded
wholly to the imperious will of his mother and to that of Lord Bute. He
broke off his league with Prussia, and refused to pay the subsidy.
Thus Prussia stood alone--without money, without soldiers, without
friends--surrounded by powerful and eager enemies--alone and seemingly
hopeless, with so many vindictive adversaries.
All this made Prince Henry not only unhappy, but dispirited--palsied
his courage, and made him wish to leave the army and take refuge in
some vast solitude where he could mourn over the misfortunes of his
distracted country. Accordingly he wrote to the king and asked for his
discharge.
The king replied:
“It is not difficult, my brother, in bright and prosperous times, to
find men willing to serve the state. Those only are good citizens who
stand undaunted at the post of danger in times of great crises and
disaster. The true calling of a man consists in this: that he should
intrepidly carry out the most difficult and dangerous enterprises. The
more difficulty, the more danger--the more bright honor and undying
fame. I cannot, therefore, believe that you are in earnest in asking
for your discharge. It is unquestionable that neither you nor I can feel
certain of a happy issue to the circumstances which now surround us.
But when we have done all which lies in our power, our consciences and
public opinion will do us justice. We contend for our fatherland and for
honor. We must make the impossible possible, in order to succeed. The
number of our enemies does not terrify me. The greater their number, the
more glorious will be our fame when we have conquered them.” [Footnote:
Preuss, “History of Frederick the Great,” vol. ii., p. 246.]
Prince Henry, ashamed of his despondency, gave to this letter of his
brother the answer of a hero. He marched against the Russians, drove
them from Silesia, and raised the siege of Breslau, around which the
Austrians under Loudon were encamped. Tauentzein, with fearless energy
and with but three thousand Prussians, had fortified himself in Breslau
against this powerful enemy. So in the very beginning of the winter the
capital of Silesia had been retaken By Torgau the king had fought and
won his twelfth battle for the possession of Silesia--yes, fought and
won from his powerful and irreconcilable enemies. And all this had been
in vain, and almost without results. The prospect of peace seemed far
distant, and the hope of happiness for Frederick even as remote.
But now winter was upon them. This stern angel of peace had sheathed the
sword, and for the time ended the war.
While the pious Maria Theresa and her court ladies made it the mode to
prepare lint in their splendid saloons during the winter for the wounded
soldiers--while the Russian General Soltikow took up his winter quarters
at Poseu, and gave sumptuous feasts and banquets--Frederick withdrew to
Leipsic, in which city philosophy and learning were at that time most
flourishing. The Leipsigers indeed boasted that they had given an asylum
to poetry and art.
The warrior-hero was now changed for a few happy months into the
philosopher, the poet, and the scholar. Frederick’s brow, contracted by
anxiety and care, was now smooth; his eye took again its wonted fire--a
smile was on his lip, and the hand which had so long brandished the
sword, gladly resumed the pen. He who had so long uttered only words of
command and calls to battle, now bowed over his flute and drew from
it the tenderest and most melting melodies. The evening concerts were
resumed. The musical friends and comrades of the king had been summoned
from Berlin; and that nothing might be wanting to make his happiness
complete, he had called his best-beloved friend, the Marquis d’Argens,
to his side.
D’Argens had much to tell of the siege of Berlin and the Russians--of
the firm defence of the burghers-of their patriotism and their courage.
Frederick’s eyes glistened with emotion, and in the fulness of his
thankful heart he promised to stand by his faithful Berliners to the
end. But when D’Argens told of the desolation which the Russians had
wrought amongst the treasures of art in Charlottenburg, the brow of the
king grew dark, and with profound indignation he said:
“Ah, the Russians are barbarians, who labor only for the downfall of
humanity. [Footnote: The king’s own words,--Archenholtz, vol. i., p.
282] If we do not succeed in conquering them, and destroying their rude,
despotic sovereignty, they will again and ever disquiet the whole of
Europe. In the mean time, however,” said Frederick, “the vandalism of
the Russians shall not destroy our beautiful winter rest. If they
have torn my paintings and crushed my statues, we must collect new
art-treasures. Gotzkowsky has told me that in Italy, that inexhaustible
mine of art, there are still many glorious pictures of the great old
masters; he shall procure them for me, and I will make haste to finish
this war in order to enjoy my new paintings, and to rest in my beautiful
Sans-Souci. Ah, marquis, let us speak no longer of it, in this room at
least, let us forget the war. It has whitened my hair, and made an old
man of me before my time. My back is bent, and my face is wrinkled as
the flounce on a woman’s dress. All this has the war brought upon me.
But my heart and my inclinations are unchanged, and I think I dare now
allow them a little satisfaction and indulgence. Come, marquis, I have
a new poem from Voltaire, sent to me a few days since. We will see if he
can find grace before your stern tribunal. I have also some new sins to
confess. That is to say, I have some poems composed in the hours of rest
during my campaigns. You are my literary father confessor, and we will
see if you can give me absolution.”
But the king did not dedicate the entire winter to music, and French
poems, and gay, cheerful conversation with his friends. A part of this
happy time was consecrated to the earnest study of the ancients. For
the first time he turned his attention to German literature, and felt an
interest in the efforts of German philosophers and poets.
Quintus Icilius, the learned companion of Frederick, had often assured
him that the scholarship, the wit, the poetry of Germany, found at this
time their best representatives in Leipsic, that he at length became
curious to see these great men, of whom Quintus Icilius asserted that
they far surpassed the French in scholarship, and in wit and intellect
might take their places unchallenged side by side with the French.
The king listened to this assurance with rather a contemptuous smile.
He directed Icilius, however, to present to him some of the Leipsic
scholars and authors.
“I will present to your majesty the most renowned scholar and
philologist of Leipsic, Professor Gottsched, and the celebrated author,
Gellert,” said Icilius, with great animation. “Which of the two will
your majesty receive first?”
“Bring me first the scholar and philologist,” said the king, laughing.
“Perhaps the man has already discovered in this barbarous Dutch tongue
a few soft notes and turns, and if so, I am curious to hear them. Go,
then, and bring me Professor Gottsched. I have often heard of him, and I
know that Voltaire dedicated an ode to him. In the mean time I will read
a little in my Lucretius and prepare my soul for the interview with this
great Dutchman.”
Icilius hastened off to summon the renowned professor to the king.
Gottsched, to whom, at that time, all Germany rendered homage, and who
possessed all the pride and arrogance of a German scholar, thought it
most natural that the king should wish to know him, and accepted the
invitation with a gracious smile. In the complete, heart-felt conviction
of his own glory, in the rigid, pedantic array of a magnificent,
long-tailed wig, the German professor appeared before the king. His
majesty received him in his short, simple, unostentatious manner, and
smiled significantly at the pompous manner of the renowned man. They
spoke at first of the progress of German philosophy, and the king
listened with grave attention to the learned deductions of the
professor, but he thought to himself that Gottsched understood but
little how to make his knowledge palatable; he was probably a learned,
but most certainly a very uninteresting man.
The conversation was carried on with more vivacity when they spoke
of poetry and history, and the king entered upon this theme with warm
interest.
“In the history of Germany, I believe there is still much concealed,”
said Frederick; “I am convinced that many important documents are yet
hidden away in the cloisters.”
Gottsched looked up at him proudly. “Pardon, sire,” said he, in
his formal, pedantic way. “I believe those can be only unimportant
documents. To my view, at least, there is no moment of German history
concealed--all is clear, and I can give information on every point!”
The king bowed his head with a mocking smile. “You are a great scholar,
sir; I dare not boast of any preeminence. I only know the history of the
German States written by Pere Barre.”
“He has written a German history as well as a foreigner could write it,”
said Gottsched. “For this purpose he made use of a Latin work, written
by Struve, in Jena. He translated this book--nothing more. Had Barre
understood German, his history would have been better; he would have had
surer sources of information at his command.”
“But Barre was of Alsace, and understood German,” said Frederick,
eagerly. “But you, who are a scholar, an author, and a grammarian, tell
me, if any thing can be made of the German language?”
“Well, I think we have already made many beautiful things of it,” said
Gottsched, in the full consciousness of his own fame. “But you have not
been able to give it any melody, or any grace,” said Frederick. “The
German language is a succession of barbarous sounds; there is no music
in it. Every tone is rough and harsh, and its many discords make it
useless for poetry or eloquence. For instance, in German you call
a rival ‘Nebenbuhler,’ what a fatal, disgusting sound--‘Buhler!’”
[Footnote: The king’s own words.--Archenholtz, vol. ii., p. 272.]
“Ah, your majesty,” said Gottsched, impatiently, “that is also a sound
in the French tongue. You should know this, for no one understands
better, more energetically than yourself, how to circumvent the
‘boules!’”
Frederick laughed; and this gay rejoinder of the learned professor
reconciled him somewhat to his puffed-up and haughty self-conceit. “It
is true,” said he, “this time you are right; but you must admit that, in
general, the French language is softer and more melodious!”
“I cannot admit it,” said Gottsched, fiercely. “I assert that German is
more musical. How harsh, how detestable sounds, for instance, the French
‘amour;’ how soft and tender--yes, I may say, how characteristic--sounds
the word ‘liebe!’”
“Aha!” said the king, “you are certainly most happily married, or you
would not be so enthusiastic about German ‘liebe,’ which I admit is a
very different thing from French ‘amour.’ I am, however, convinced that
the French language has many advantages over the German. For instance,
in the French one word may often suffice to convey many different
meanings, while for this purpose several German words must be combined.”
“That is true. There your majesty is right,” said Gottsched,
thoughtfully. “The French language has this advantage. But this shall
be no longer so--we will change it! Yes, yes--we will reform it
altogether!”
Frederick looked astonished and highly diverted. This assumption of
the learned scholar, “to change all that,” impressed him through its
immensity. [Footnote: Many years afterward the king repeated this
declaration of Gottsched to the Duchess of Gotha, “We will change all
that,” and was highly amused.] “Bring that about sir,” said the king,
gayly. “Wave your field-marshal’s staff and give to the German language
that which it has never possessed, grace, significance, and facility;
then breathe upon it the capability to express soft passion and tender
feeling, and you will do for the language what Julius Caesar did for
the people. You will be a conqueror, and will cultivate and polish
barbarians!”
Gottsched did not perceive the mockery which lay in these words of the
king, but received them smilingly as agreeable flattery. “The German
language is well fitted to express tender emotions. I pledge myself to
translate any French poem faithfully, and at the same time melodiously,”
said he.
“I will put you to the proof, at once,” said the king, opening a book
which lay upon the table. “Look! These are the Odes of Rousseau, and we
will take the first one which accident presents Listen to this:”
“‘Sous un plus heureux auspice,
La Deesse des amours,
Veut qu’un nouveau sacrifice,
Lui consacre vos beaux jours;
Deja le bucher s’allume.
L’autel brille, l’encens fume,
La victime s’embellit,
L’amour meme la consume,
Le mystere s’accomplit.’
[Footnote:
“Under a most happy omen,
The goddess of love
Wished that a new sacrifice
Should consecrate to her our bright days.
Already the fagots are lighted,
The altar glows, the incense fumes,
The victim is adorned--
By love itself it is consumed,
The mystery accomplished.”]
“Do you believe it is possible to translate this beautiful stanza into
German?” said the king.
“If your majesty allows me, I will translate it at once,” said he. “Give
me a piece of paper and a pencil.”
“Take them,” said Frederick. “We will divert ourselves by a little
rivalry in song, while you translate the verses of the French poet into
German. I will sing to the praise of the German author in French rhyme.
Let us not disturb each other.”
Frederick stepped to the window and wrote off hastily a few verses, then
waited till he saw that Gottsched had also ceased to write. “I am ready,
sir,” said the king.
“And I also,” said the scholar, solemnly. “Listen, your majesty, and be
pleased to take the book and compare as I read;” then with a loud nasal
voice he read his translation:
“‘Mit ungleich gluecklicherm Geschicke,
Gebeut die Koenigin zarter Pein,
Hin, Deine schoenen Augenblicke,
Zum Opfer noch einmal zu weihn,
Den Holzstoss liebt man aufzugeben,
Der Altar glaenzt, des Weihrauchs Duefte
Durchdringen schon die weiten Luefte,
Das Opfer wird gedoppelt schoen,
Durch Amors Glut ist es verflogen,
Und das Geheimniss wird vollzogen.’”
“Now, your majesty,” said Gottsched, “do you not find that the German
language is capable of repeating the French verses promptly and
concisely?”
“I am astonished that you have been able to translate this beautiful
poem. I am sorry I am too old to learn German. I regret that in my
youth I had neither the courage nor the instruction necessary. I would
certainly have turned many of my leisure hours to the translation of
German authors, rather than to Roman and French writers; but the past
cannot be recalled, and I must be content! If I can never hope to become
a German writer, it will at least be granted me to sing the praises of
the regenerator of the German language in French verse. I have sought to
do so now--listen!”
The king read aloud a few verses to the enraptured professor. The
immoderate praise enchanted him, and, in the assurance of his pride
and conceit, he did not remark the fine irony concealed in them. With a
raised voice, and a graceful, bantering smile, the king concluded:
“C’est a toi Cygne des Saxons,
D’arracher ce secret a la nature avare;
D’adoucir dans tes chants d’une langue barbare,
Les durs et detestables sons’”
[Footnote: Oeuvres Posthumes, vol. vii., p 216.
“It is thine, swan of the Saxons,
To draw the secret from the miser Nature;
To soften with thy songs the hard
And detestable sounds of a barbarous tongue.”]
“Ah! your majesty,” cried Gottsched, forgetting his indignation over the
langue barbare, in his rapture at the praise he had received, “you
are kind and cruel at the same moment. You cast reproach upon our poor
language, and, at the same time, give me right royal praise. Cygne des
Saxons--that is an epithet which does honor to the royal giver, and to
the happy receiver. For a king and a hero, there can be no higher fame
than to appreciate and reverence men of letters. The sons of Apollo and
the Muses, the scholars, the artists and authors, have no more exalted
object than to attain the acknowledgment and consideration of the king
and the hero. Sire, I make you a most profound and grateful reverence.
You have composed a masterly little poem, and when the Cygne des
Saxons shall sing his swanlike song, it will be in honor of the great
Frederick, the Csesar of his time.”
“Now, my dear Quintus,” said the king, after Gottsched had withdrawn,
“are you content with your great scholar?”
“Sire,” said he, “I must sorrowfully confess that the great Gottsched
has covered his head with a little too much of the dust of learning; he
is too much of the pedant.”
“He is a puffed-up conceited fool,” said the king, impatiently; “and
you can never convince me that he is a great genius. Great men are
modest; they have an exalted aim ever before them, and are never
satisfied with themselves; but men like this Gottsched place themselves
upon an altar, and fall down and worship. This is their only reward, and
they will never do any thing truly great.”
“But Gottsched has really great and imperishable merit,” said Quintus,
eagerly. “He has done much for the language, much for culture, and for
science. All Germany honors him, and, if the incense offered him has
turned his head, we must forgive him, because of the great service he
has rendered.”
“I can never believe that he is a great man, or a poet. He had the
audacity to speak of the golden era of literature which bloomed in
the time of my grandfather, Frederick I., in Germany, and he was so
foolhardy as to mention some German scribblers of that time, whose
barbarous names no one knows, as the equals of Racine, and Corneille,
and even of Virgil. Repeat to me, once more, the names of those departed
geniuses, that I may know the rivals of the great writers of the day!”
“He spoke of Bessen and Neukirch,” said Quintus; “I must confess it
savors of audacity to compare these men with Racine and Corneille; he
did this, perhaps, to excite the interest of your majesty, as it is
well known that the great Frederick, to whom all Germany renders homage,
attributes all that is good and honorable to the German, but has a poor
opinion of his intellect, his learning, and his wit.”
The king was about to reply, when a servant entered and gave him a
letter from the professor, Gottsched.
“I find, Quintus,” said the king, “that my brother in Apollo does me
the honor to treat me with confidence. If I was at all disposed to be
arrogant, I might finally imagine myself to be his equal. Let us see
with what sort of dedication the Cygne des Saxons has honored us.” He
opened the letter, and while reading, his countenance cleared, and he
burst out into a loud, joyous laugh. “Well, you must read this poem, and
tell me if it is pure German and true poetry.” The king, assuming the
attitude of a great tragedian, stepped forward with a nasal voice, and
exactly in the pompous manner of Gottsched, he read the poem aloud.
“Be pleased to remark,” said the king, with assumed solemnity, “that
Gottsched announces himself as the Pindar of Germany, and he will have
the goodness to commend me in his rhymes to after-centuries. And now,
tell me, Quintus, if this is German poetry? Is your innermost soul
inspired by these exalted lines?”
“Sire,” said Quintus Icilius, “I abandon my renowned scholar, and freely
confess that your majesty judged him correctly; he is an insufferable
fool and simpleton.”
“Not so; but he is a German scholar,” said the king, pathetically; “one
of the great pillars which support the weight of the great temple of
German science and poetry.”
“Sire. I offer up my German scholar; I lay him upon the altar of your
just irony. You may tear him to pieces; he is yours. But I pray you,
therefore, to be gracious, sire, and promise me to receive my poet
kindly.”
“I promise,” said the king: “I wish also to become acquainted with this
model.”
“Promise me, however, one thing. If the German poet resembles the German
scholar, you will make me no reproaches if I turn away from all such
commodities in future?”
CHAPTER XII. GELLERT.
Gellert was just returning from the university, where, in the large
hall, he had recommenced his lectures on morality. A large audience had
assembled, who had given the most undivided attention to their beloved
master. As he left the rostrum the assembly, entirely contrary to their
usual custom, burst forth in loud applause, and all pressed forward to
welcome the beloved teacher on his return to his academic duties after
his severe illness.
These proofs of love had touched the sensitive German poet so deeply in
his present nervous and suffering condition, that he reached his lodging
deathly pale and with trembling knees: utterly exhausted, he threw
himself into his arm-chair, the only article of luxury in his simple
study.
The old man, who sat near the window in this study, was busily engaged
in reading, and paid him no attention; although Gellert coughed several
times, he did not appear to remark his presence, and continued to read.
“Conrad,” said Gellert, at length, in a friendly, pleading tone.
“Professor,” answered the old man, as he looked up unwillingly from his
book.
“Conrad, it seems to me that you might stand up when I enter; not,
perhaps, so much out of respect for your master, as because he is
delicate and weak, and needs your assistance.”
“Professor,” said the old man, with composure, “I only intended
finishing the chapter which I have just commenced, and then I should
have risen. You came a little too soon. It was your own fault if I was
compelled to read after you came.”
Gellert smiled. “What book were you reading so earnestly, my old
friend?”
“The ‘Swedish Countess,’ professor. You know it is my favorite book. I
am reading it now for the twelfth time, and I still think it the most
beautiful and touching, as well as the most sensible book I ever read.
It is entirely beyond my comprehension, professor, how you made it, and
how you could have recollected all these charming histories. Who related
all that to you?”
“No one related it to me, it came from my own head and heart,” said
Gellert, pleasantly. “But no, that is a very presumptuous thought; it
did not come from myself, but from the great spirit, who occasionally
sends a ray of his Godlike genius to quicken the hearts and imaginations
of poets.”
“I do not understand you, professor,” said Conrad, impatiently. “Why do
you not talk like the book--I understand all that the ‘Swedish Countess’
says, for she speaks like other people. She is an altogether sensible
and lovely woman, and I have thought sometimes, professor--”
Old Conrad hesitated and looked embarrassed.
“Well, Conrad, what have you thought?”
“I have thought sometimes, sir, perhaps it would be best for you to
marry the ‘Swedish Countess’.”
Gellert started slightly, and a light flush mounted to his brow.
“I marry!” he exclaimed; “Heaven protect me from fastening such a yoke
upon myself, or putting my happiness in the power of any creature so
fickle, vain, capricious, haughty, obstinate, and heartless as a woman.
Conrad, where did you get this wild idea? you know that I hate women;
no, not hate, but fear them, as the lamb fears the wolf.”
“Oh, sir,” cried Conrad, angrily, “was your mother not a woman?”
“Yes,” said Gellert, softly, after a pause--“yes, she was a woman, a
whole-hearted,’ noble woman. She was the golden star of my childhood,
the saintly ideal of the youth, as she is now in heaven the guardian
angel of the man; there is no woman like her, Conrad. She was the
impersonation of love, of self-sacrifice, of goodness, and of devotion.”
“You are right,” said Conrad, softly, “she was a true woman; the entire
village loved and honored her for her benevolence and piety; when she
died, it seemed as though we had all lost a mother.”
“When she died,” said Gellert, his voice trembling with emotion, “my
happiness and youth died with her; and when the first handful of earth
fell upon her coffin I felt as if my heart-strings broke, and that
feeling has never left me.”
“You loved your mother too deeply, professor,” said Conrad; “that is the
reason you are determined not to love and marry some other woman.”
“Why, man, do not talk to me again of marrying,” cried Gellert. “What
has that fatal word to do in my study?”
“A great deal, sir; only look how miserable every thing is here; not
even neat and comfortable, as it should certainly be in the room of so
learned and celebrated a professor. Only think of the change that would
be made by a bright young wife. You must marry, professor, and the lady
must be rich. This state of things cannot continue; you must take a
wife, for you cannot live on your celebrity.”
“No, Conrad, but on my salary,” said Gellert. “I receive two hundred and
fifty thalers from my professorship; only think, two hundred and fifty
thalers! That is a great deal for a German poet, Conrad; I should
consider myself most fortunate. It is sufficient for my necessities, and
will certainly keep me from want.”
“It would be sufficient, professor, if we were not so extravagant. I
am an old man, and you may very well listen to a word from me. I served
your father for fifteen years--in fact, you inherited me from him. I
have the right to speak. If it goes so far, I will hunger and thirst
with you, but it makes me angry that we should hunger and thirst when
there is no necessity. Have you dined today?”
“No, Conrad,” said Gellert, looking embarrassed. “I had, accidentally,
no money with me as I came out of the academy, and you know that I do
not like to go to the eating-house without paying immediately.”
“Accidentally you had no money? You had probably left it at home.”
“Yes, Conrad, I had left it at home.”
“No, sir; you gave your last thaler to the student who came this morning
and told you of his necessities, and complained so bitterly that he had
eaten nothing warm for three days. You gave your money to him, and that
was not right, for now we have nothing ourselves.”
“Yes, Conrad, it was right, it was my duty; he hungered and I was
full; he was poor and in want, and I had money, and sat in my warm,
comfortable room; it was quite right for me to help him.”
“Yes, you say so always, sir, and our money all goes to the devil,”
muttered Conrad. “With what shall we satisfy ourselves to-day?”
“Well,” said Gellert, after a pause, “we will drink some coffee, and eat
some bread and butter. Coffee is an excellent beverage, and peculiarly
acceptable to poets, for it enlivens the fancy.”
“And leaves the stomach empty,” said Conrad.
“We have bread and butter to satisfy that. Ah, Conrad, I assure you we
would often have been very happy in my father’s parsonage if we had had
coffee and bread and butter for our dinner. We were thirteen children,
besides my father and mother, and my father’s salary was not more than
two hundred thalers. Conrad, he had less than I, and he had to provide
for thirteen children.”
“As if you had not provided for yourself since you were eleven years
old--as if I had not seen you copying late into the night to earn money,
at an age when other children scarcely know what money is, and know
still less of work.”
“But when I carried the money which I had earned to my mother, she
kissed me so tenderly, and called me her brave, noble son--that was
a greater reward than all the money in the world. And when the next
Christmas came, and we were all thirteen so happy, and each one received
a plate filled with nuts and apples and little presents, I received a
shining new coat. It was the first time I had ever had a coat of new
cloth. My mother had bought the material with the money I had earned.
She had kept it all, and now my writings had changed into a beautiful
coat, which I wore with pride and delight. No coat is so comfortable as
one we have earned ourselves. The self-earned coat is the royal mantle
of the poor.”
“But we need not be poor,” scolded Conrad. “It is that which makes me
angry. If we were careful, we could live comfortably and free from care
on two hundred and fifty thalers. But every thing is given away,
and every thing is done for others, until we have nothing left for
ourselves.”
“We have never gone hungry to bed, Conrad, and we need not hunger.
To-day we have coffee, and bread and butter, and to-morrow I will
receive something from my publishers from the fourth edition of my
fables. It is not much, it will be about twenty thalers, but we will be
able to live a long time on that. Be content, Conrad, and go now into
the kitchen and prepare the coffee; I am really rather hungry. Well,
Conrad, you still appear discontented. Have you another grievance in
reserve?”
“Yes, professor, I have another. The beadle tells me that the university
have offered you a still higher position than the one you now hold. Is
it true?”
“Yes, Conrad, it is true. They wished me to become a regular professor.”
“And you declined?”
“I declined. I would have been obliged to be present at all the
conferences. I would have had more trouble, and if I had had the
misfortune to become rector I would have been lost indeed, for the
rector represents the university; and if any royal personages should
arrive it is he who must receive them and welcome them in the name of
the university. No, no; protect me from such honors. I do not desire
intercourse with great men. I prefer my present position and small
salary, and the liberty of sitting quietly in my own study, to a regular
professorship and a higher salary, and being forced to dance attendance
in the antechambers of great people. Then, in addition to that, I
am delicate, and that alone would prevent me from attending as many
lectures as the government requires from a regular high-salaried
professor. You must never receive money for work that you have not done
and cannot do. Now, Conrad, those are my reasons for declining this
situation for the second time. I think you will be contented now, and
prepare me an excellent cup of coffee.”
“It is a shame, nevertheless,” said Conrad, “that they should say you
are not a regular professor. But that is because you have no wife. If
the Swedish countess were here, every thing would be changed; your study
would be nicely arranged, and you would be so neatly dressed, that no
one would dare to say you were not a regular professor.”
“But that is no offence, Conrad,” cried Gellert, laughing. “In the sense
in which you understand it, I am more now than if I had accepted this
other position, for I am now called an extraordinary professor.”
“Well, I am glad that they know that you are an extraordinary
professor,” said Conrad, somewhat appeased. “Now I will go to the
kitchen and make the coffee. That reminds me that I have a letter for
you which was left by a servant.”
He took a letter from the table, and handed it to his master. While
he was breaking the seal, Conrad approached the door slowly and
hesitatingly, evidently curious to hear the contents of the letter. He
had not reached the door, when Gellert recalled him.
“Conrad,” said Gellert, with a trembling voice, “hear what this letter
contains.”
“Well, I am really curious,” said Conrad, smiling.
Gellert took the letter and commenced reading:
“My dear and honored professor, will you allow one of your--”
Here he hesitated, and his face flushed deeply. “No,” he said, softly;
“I cannot read that; it is too great, too undeserved praise of myself.
Read it yourself.”
“Nonsense!” said Conrad, taking the letter; “the professor is as bashful
as a young girl. To read one’s praise, is no shame. Now listen: ‘My dear
and honored professor, will you allow one of your pupils to seek a favor
from you? I am rich! God has enriched you with the rarest gifts of mind
and heart, but He has not bestowed outward wealth upon you. Your salary
is not large, but your heart is so great and noble, that you give the
little you possess to the poor and suffering, and care for others while
you yourself need care. Allow me, my much-loved master, something of
that same happiness which you enjoy. Grant me the pleasure of offering
you (who divide your bread with the poor, and your last thaler with the
suffering) a small addition to your salary, and begging you to use it so
long as God leaves you upon earth, to be the delight of your scholars,
and the pride of Germany. The banker Farenthal has orders to pay to you
quarterly the sum of two hundred thalers; you will to-morrow receive the
first instalment.”
“‘YOUR GRATEFUL AND ADMIRING PUPIL.’”
“Hurrah! hurrah!” cried Conrad, waving the paper aloft. “Now we are
rich, we can live comfortably, without care. Oh, I will take care of
you, and you must drink a glass of wine every day, in order to become
strong, and I will bring your dinner from the best eating-house, that
you may enjoy your meal in peace and quiet in your own room.”
“Gently, gently, Conrad!” said Gellert, smiling. “In your delight over
the money, you forget the noble giver. Who can it be? Who among my
pupils is so rich and so delicate, as to bestow so generously, and in
such a manner?”
“It is some one who does not wish us to know his name, professor,” cried
Conrad, gayly; “and we will not break our hearts over it. But now, sir,
we will not content ourselves with bread and coffee; we are rich, and we
need not live so poorly! I will go to the eating-house and bring you a
nice broiled capon, and some preserved fruit, and a glass of wine.”
“It is true,” said Gellert, well pleased; “a capon would strengthen me,
and a glass of wine; but no, Conrad, we will have the coffee; we have no
money to pay for such a meal.”
“Well, we can borrow it! To-morrow you will receive the first quarterly
payment of your pension, and then I will pay for your dinner.”
“No, Conrad, no!” said Gellert, firmly. “You should never eat what you
cannot pay for immediately. Go to the kitchen and make the coffee.”
Conrad was on the point of going discontentedly to obey the command of
his master, when a loud and hasty ring was heard at the outer door of
the professor’s modest lodging.
“Perhaps the banker has sent the money to-day,” cried Conrad, as he
hurried off, whilst Gellert again took the letter and examined the
handwriting.
But Conrad returned, looking very important.
“The Prussian major, Quintus Icilius, wishes to speak to the professor,
in the name of the king,” he said, solemnly.
“In the name of the king!” cried Gellert; “what does the great
warrior-hero want with poor Gellert?”
“That I will tell you,” replied a voice from the door; and as Gellert
turned, he saw before him the tall figure of a Prussian officer. “Pardon
me for having entered without your permission. Your servant left the
door open, and I thought--”
“You thought, I hope, that Gellert would be happy to receive an officer
from the king, especially one who bears so celebrated a name,” said
Gellert, courteously, as he signed to Conrad to leave the room--a sign
that Conrad obeyed most unwillingly, and with the firm determination to
listen outside the door.
“In the first place, allow me to say how happy I am to make the
acquaintance of so learned and celebrated a man as Professor Gellert,”
said Quintus, bowing deeply; “then I must announce the cause of my
appearance. His majesty the King of Prussia wishes to know you, and he
has sent me to conduct you to him at once.”
“At once?” cried Gellert. “But, sir, you must see that I am weak and
ill. The king will not care to see a sick man who cannot talk.”
Quintus glanced sympathizingly at the poor professor, and said:
“It is true, you do not look well, and I cannot force you to go with
me to-day; but allow me to make one remark: if you think to escape the
interview altogether, you are mistaken. The king desires to speak with
you, and it is my duty to bring you to him. If you cannot go to-day, I
must return to-morrow; if you are then still unwell, the day after; and
so on every day, until you accompany me.”
“But this is frightful!” cried Gellert, anxiously.
Quintus shrugged his shoulders. “You must decide, sir,” he said; “I
give you an hour. At four o’clock I will return and ask if you will go
to-day, or another time.”
“Yes; do that, major,” said Gellert, breathing more freely. “In the mean
time, I will take my dinner, and then see how it is with my courage.
Conrad! Conrad!” exclaimed Gellert, as Quintus Icilius left him, and his
servant entered the room. “Conrad, did you hear the bad tidings? I must
go to the King of Prussia.”
“I heard,” said Conrad, “and I do not think it bad tidings, but a great
honor. The king sent for Professor Gottsched a few days since, and
conversed with him a long time. Since then, his entire household act
as if Gottsched were the Almighty Himself, and as if they were all, at
least, archangels. Therefore, I am glad that the king has shown you the
same honor, and that he desires to know you.”
“Honor!” murmured Gellert. “This great lord wishes to see the learned
Germans for once, as others visit a menagerie, and look at the monkeys,
and amuse themselves with their wonderful tricks. It is the merest
curiosity which leads such men to desire to behold the tricks and pranks
of a professor. They know nothing of our minds; it satisfies them to
look at us. Conrad, I will not go; I will be ill to-day and every other
day. We will see if this modern Icilius will not yield!”
And the usually gentle and yielding poet paced the room in angry
excitement, his eyes flashing, and his face deeply flushed.
“I will not--I will not go.”
“You must go, professor,” said Conrad, placing himself immediately
in front of his master, and looking at him half-imploringly,
half-threateningly--“you must go; you will give your old Conrad the
pleasure of being able to say to the impudent servants of Herr Gottsched
that my master has also been to the King of Prussia. You will not do me
the injury of making me serve a master who has not been to see the king,
while Herr Gottsched has been?”
“But, Conrad,” said Gellert, complainingly, “what good will it have done
me to have declined the position of regular professor, that I might
be in no danger of becoming rector, and being obliged to see kings and
princes?”
“It will show the world,” said Conrad, “that a poet need not be a
regular professor in order to be called into the society of kings and
princes. You must go--the king expects you; and if you do not go, you
will appear as the Austrians do, afraid of the King of Prussia.”
“That is true,” said Gellert, whose excitement had somewhat subsided;
“it will look as though I were afraid.”
“And so distinguished a man should fear nothing,” said Conrad, “not even
a king.”