Chacun ne comprend que ce qu'il trouve en soi.
Nearly two years had passed since the death of Queen Luisa of Prussia.
And she from her grave yet spake to her people--as sixty years later she
was destined to speak to another King of Prussia, who said a prayer by
her tomb before departing on a journey that was to end in Fontainebleau
with an imperial crown and the reckoning for all time of the seven years
of woe that followed Tilsit and killed a queen.
Two years earlier than that, in 1808, while Luisa yet lived, a
few scientists and professors of Konigsberg had formed a sort of
Union--vague enough and visionary--to encourage virtue and discipline
and patriotism. And now, in 1812, four years later, the memory of Luisa
still lingered in those narrow streets that run by the banks of the
Pregel beneath the great castle of Konigsberg, while the Tugendbund,
like a seed that has been crushed beneath an iron heel, had spread its
roots underground.
From Dantzig, the commercial, to Konigsberg, the kingly and the learned,
the tide of war rolled steadily onwards. It is a tide that carries
before it a certain flotsam of quick and active men, keen-eyed,
restless, rising--men who speak with a sharp authority and pay from a
bottomless purse. The arrival of Napoleon in Dantzig swept the first of
the tide on to Konigsberg.
Already every house was full. The high-gabled warehouses on the
riverside could not be used for barracks, for they too had been crammed
from floor to roof with stores and arms. So the soldiers slept where
they could. They bivouacked in the timber-yards by the riverside. The
country-women found the Neuer Markt transformed into a camp when they
brought their baskets in the early morning, but they met with eager
buyers, who haggled laughingly in half a dozen different tongues. There
was no lack of money, however.
Cartloads of it were on the road.
The Neuer Markt in Konigsberg is a square, of which the lower side is a
quay on the Pregel. The river is narrow here. Across it the country is
open. The houses surrounding the quadrangle are all alike--two-storied
buildings with dormer windows in the roof. There are trees in front. In
front of that which is now Number Thirteen, at the right-hand corner,
facing west, sideways to the river, the trees grow quite close to the
windows, so that an active man or a boy might without great risk leap
from the eaves below the dormer window into the topmost branches of the
linden, which here grows strong and tough, as it surely should do in the
fatherland.
A young soldier, seeking lodgings, who happened to knock at the door of
Number Thirteen less than thirty hours after the arrival of Napoleon at
Dantzig, looked upward through the shady boughs, and noted their growth
with the light of interest in his eye. It would almost seem that the
house had been described to him as that one in the Neuer Markt against
which the lindens grew. For he had walked all round the square between
the trees and houses before knocking at this door, which bore no number
then, as it does to-day.
His tired horse had followed him meditatively, and now stood with
drooping head in the shade. The man himself wore a dark uniform, white
with dust. His hair was dusty and rather lank. He was not a very tidy
soldier.
He stood looking at the sign which swung from the doorpost, a relic
of the Polish days. It bore the painted semblance of a boot. For in
Poland--a frontier country, as in frontier cities where many tongues are
heard--it is the custom to paint a picture rather than write a word. So
that every house bears the sign of its inmate's craft, legible alike to
Lithuanian or Ruthenian, Swede or Cossack of the Don.
He knocked again, and at last the door was opened by a thickly-built
man, who looked, not at his face, but at his boots. As these wanted no
repair he half closed the door again and looked at the newcomer's face.
“What do you want?” he asked.
“A lodging.”
The door was almost closed, when the soldier made an odd and, as it
would seem, tentative gesture with his left hand. All the fingers were
clenched, and with his extended thumb he scratched his chin slowly from
side to side.
“I have no lodging to let,” said the bootmaker. But he did not shut the
door.
“I can pay,” said the other, with his thumb still at his chin. He had
quick, blue eyes beneath the shaggy hair that wanted cutting. “I am very
tired--it is only for one night.”
“Who are you?” asked the bootmaker.
The soldier was a dull and slow man. He leant against the doorpost with
tired gestures before replying.
“Sergeant in a Schleswig regiment, in charge of spare horses.”
“And you have come far?”
“From Dantzig without a halt.”
The shoemaker looked him up and down with a doubting eye, as if there
were something about him that was not quite clear and above-board. The
dust and fatigue were, however, unmistakable.
“Who sent you to me, anyway?” he grumbled.
“Oh, I do not know,” was the half-impatient answer; “the man I lodged
with in Dantzig or another, I forget. It was Koch the locksmith in the
Schmiedegasse. See, I have money. I tell you it is for one night. Say
yes or no. I want to get to bed and to sleep.”
“How much do you pay?”
“A thaler--if you like. Among friends, one is willing to pay.”
After a short minute of hesitation the shoemaker opened the door wider
and came out.
“And there will be another thaler for the horse, which I shall have
to take to the stable of the wood-merchant at the corner. Go into the
workshop and sit down till I come.”
He stood in the doorway and watched the soldier seat himself wearily on
a bench in the workshop among the ancient boots, past repair, one would
think, and lean his head against the wall.
He was half asleep already, and the bootmaker, who was lame, shrugged
his shoulders as he led away the tired horse, with a gesture half of
pity, half of doubting suspicion. Had it suggested itself to his mind,
and had it been within the power of one so halt and heavy-footed to turn
back noiselessly, he would have found his visitor wide-awake enough,
hurriedly opening every drawer and peering under the twine and needles,
lifting every bale of leather, shaking out the very boots awaiting
repair.
When the dweller in Number Thirteen returned, the soldier was asleep,
and had to be shaken before he would open his eyes.
“Will you eat before you go to bed?” asked the bootmaker not unkindly.
“I ate as I came along the street,” was the reply. “No, I will go to
bed. What time is it?”
“It is only seven o'clock--but no matter.”
“No, it is no matter. To-morrow I must be astir by five.”
“Good,” said the shoemaker. “But you will get your money's worth. The
bed is a good one. It is my son's. He is away, and I am alone in the
house.”
He led the way upstairs as he spoke, going heavily one step at a time,
so that the whole house seemed to shake beneath his tread. The room was
that attic in the roof which has a dormer window overhanging the linden
tree. It was small and not too clean; for Konigsberg was once a Polish
city, and is not far from the Russian frontier.
The soldier hardly noticed his surroundings, but sat down instantly,
with the abandonment of a shepherd's dog at the day's end.
“I will put a stitch in your boots for you while you sleep,” said the
host casually. “The thread is rotten, I can see. Look here--and here!”
He stooped, and with a quick turn of the awl which he carried in his
belt he snapped the sewing at the join of the leg and the upper leather,
bringing the frayed ends of the thread out to view.
Without answering, the soldier looked round for the boot-jack, lacking
which, no German or Polish bedroom is complete.
When the bootmaker had gone, carrying the boots under his arm, the
soldier, left to himself, made a grimace at the closed door. Without
boots he was a prisoner in the house. He could hear his host at work
already, downstairs in the shop, of which the door opened to the stairs
and allowed passage to that smell of leather which breeds Radical
convictions.
The regular “tap-tap” of the cobbler's hammer continued for an hour
until dusk, and all the while the soldier lay dressed on his bed. Soon
after, a creaking of the stairs told of the surreptitious approach of
the unwilling host. He listened outside, and even tried the door, but
found it bolted. The soldier, open-eyed on the bed, snored aloud. At the
sound of the key on the outside of the door he made a grimace again. His
features were very mobile, for Schleswig.
He heard the bootmaker descend the stairs again almost noiselessly,
and, rising from the bed, he took his station at the window. All the
Langgasse would seem to be eating-houses. The basement, which has a
separate door, gives forth odours of simple Pomeranian meats, and every
other house bears to this day the curt but comforting inscription, “Here
one eats.” It was only to be supposed that the bootmaker at the end of
his day would repair for supper to some special haunt near by.
But the smell of cooking mingling with that of leather told that he was
preparing his own evening meal. He was, it seemed, an unsociable man,
who had but a son beneath his roof, and mostly lived alone.
Seated near the window, where the sunset light yet lingered, the
Schleswiger opened his haversack, which was well supplied, and finding
paper, pens and ink, fell to writing with one eye watchful of the window
and both ears listening for any movement in the room below.
He wrote easily with a running pen, and sometimes he smiled as he wrote.
More than once he paused and looked across the Neuer Markt above the
trees and the roofs, towards the western sky, with a sudden grave
wistfulness. He was thinking of some one in the west. It was assuredly
not of war that this soldier wrote. Then, again, his attention would be
attracted to some passer in the street below. He only gave half of his
attention to his letter. He was, it seemed, a man who as yet touched
life lightly; for he was quite young. But, nevertheless, his pen, urged
by only half a mind that had all the energy of spring, flew over the
paper. Sowing is so much easier than reaping.
Suddenly he threw his pen aside and moved quickly to the window which
stood open. The shoemaker had gone out, closing the door softly behind
him.
It was to be expected that he would turn to the left, upwards towards
the town and the Langgasse, but it was in the direction of the river
that his footsteps died away. There was no outlet on that side except by
boat.
It was almost dark now, and the trees growing close to the window
obscured the view. So eager was the lodger to follow the movements of
his landlord that he crept in stocking-feet out on to the roof. By lying
on his face below the window he could just distinguish the shadowy form
of a lame man by the river edge. He was moving to and fro, unchaining a
boat moored to the steps, which are more used in winter when the Pregel
is a frozen roadway than in summer. There was no one else in the Neuer
Markt, for it was the supper hour.
Out in the middle of the river a few ships were moored: high-prowed,
square-sterned vessels of a Dutch build trading in the Frische Haaf and
in the Baltic.
The soldier saw the boat steal out towards them. There was no other boat
at the steps or in sight. He stood up on the edge of the roof, and after
carefully measuring his distance, with quick eyes aglow with excitement,
he leapt lightly across the leafy space into the topmost boughs, where
he alighted in a forked branch almost without sound.
At dawn the next morning, while the shoemaker still slept, the soldier
was astir again. He shivered as he rose, and went to the window, where
his clothes were hanging from a rafter. The water was still dripping
from them. Wrapt in a blanket he sat down by the open window to write
while the morning air should dry his clothes.
That which he wrote was a long report--sheet after sheet closely
written. And in the middle of his work he broke off to read again the
letter that he had written the night before. With a quick, impulsive
gesture he kissed the name it bore. Then he turned to his work again.
The sun was up before he folded the papers together. By way of a
postscript he wrote a brief letter.
“DEAR C.--I have been fortunate, as you will see from the enclosed
report. His Majesty cannot again say that I have been neglectful. I was
quite right. It is Sebastian and only Sebastian that we need fear. Here
they are clumsy conspirators compared to him. I have been in the river
half the night listening at the open stern-window of a Reval pink to
every word they said. His Majesty can safely come to Konigsberg. Indeed,
he is better out of Dantzig. For the whole country is riddled with that
which they call patriotism, and we treason. But I can only repeat what
his Majesty disbelieved the day before yesterday--that the heart of the
ill is Dantzig, and the venom of it Sebastian. Who he really is and
what he is about you must find out how you can. I go forward to-day to
Gumbinnen. The enclosed letter to its address, I beg of you, if only in
acknowledgment of all that I have sacrificed.”
The letter was unsigned, and bore the date, “Dawn, June 10.” This and
the report, and that other letter (carefully sealed with a wafer)
which did not deal with war or its alarms, were all placed in one large
envelope. He did not seal it, however, but sat thinking while the sun
began to shine on the opposite houses. Then he withdrew the open letter,
and added a postscript to it:
“If an attempt were made on N.'s life--I should say Sebastian. If
Prussia were to play us false suddenly, and cut us off from France--I
should say nothing else than Sebastian. He is more dangerous than a
fanatic; for he is too clever to be one.”
The writer shivered and laughed in sheer amusement at his own misery
as he drew on his wet clothes. The shoemaker was already astir, and
presently knocked at his door.
“Yes, yes,” the soldier cried, “I am astir.”
And as his host rattled the door he opened it. He had unrolled his long
cavalry cloak, and wore it over his wet clothes.
“You never told me your name,” said the shoemaker. A suspicious man is
always more suspicious at the beginning of the day.
“My name,” answered the other carelessly. “Oh! my name is Max Brunner.”