UNDER THE LINDENS.
Linden Street, of Berlin, which is now the most brilliant and most
beautiful thoroughfare of that great city, was, in the year 1740, a
wild and desolate region.
Frederick the First loved pomp and splendor. His wife, when told upon
her death-bed how much the king would mourn for her, said, smiling: "He
will occupy himself in arranging a superb funeral procession; and if
this ceremony is very brilliant, he will be comforted."
Frederick the First planted the trees from which this street takes its
name, to render the drive to the palace of Charlottenburg more
agreeable to the queen, and to conceal as much as possible the desolate
appearance of the surroundings; for all this suburb lying between the
arsenal and the zoological garden was at that time a desolate and
barren waste. The entire region, extending from the new gate to the
far-distant Behren Street, was an immense mass of sand, whose drear
appearance had often offended Frederick while he was still the prince
royal. Nothing was to be seen, where now appear majestic palaces and
monuments, the opera house and the catholic church, but sand and heaps
of rubbish. Frederick William the First had done much to beautify this
poor deserted quarter, and to render it more fitting its near
neighborhood to the palaces, which were on the other side of the
fortifications; but the people of Berlin had aided the king very little
in this effort. None were willing to banish themselves to this desolate
and remote portion of the city, and the few stately and palatial
buildings which were erected there were built by the special order of
the king, and at his expense. Some wealthy men of rank had also put up
a few large buildings, to please the king, but they did not reside in
them, and the houses themselves seemed almost out of place. One of
these large and stately houses had not been built by a Count Dohna, or
a Baron von Pleffen, or any other nobleman, but by the most honorable
and renowned court tailor Pricker; and for the last few days this house
had rejoiced in a new and glittering sign, on which appeared in large
gilt letters, "Court Tailor to her majesty the dowager queen, and to
her majesty the reigning queen." But this house, with its imposing
inscription, was also surrounded by dirty, miserable cabins. In its
immediate neighborhood was the small house which has already been
described as the dwelling of poor Anna Schommer.
A deep and unbroken silence reigned in this part of Berlin, and the
equipages of the royal family and nobility were rarely seen there,
except when the king gave an entertainment at Charlottenburg.
But to-day a royal carriage was driven rapidly from the palace through
this desolate region, and toward the Linden Avenue. Here it stopped,
and four gentlemen alighted. They were the king; the royal architect,
Major Knobelsdorf; the grand chamberlain, Von Pollnitz; and Jordan, the
head of police and guardian of the poor.
The king stood at the beginning of the Linden Avenue, and looked
earnestly and thoughtfully at the large desolate surface spread out
before him; his clear bright glance flew like lightning here and there.
"You must transform this place for me, Knobelsdorf; you must show
yourself a very Hercules. You have the ability, and I will furnish the
money. Here we will erect a monument to ourselves, and make a glorious
something of the nothing of this desert. We will build palaces and
temples of art and of religion. Berlin is at present without every
thing which would make it a tempting resort for the Muses. It is your
affair, Knobelsdorf, to prepare a suitable reception for them."
"But the Muses are willing to come without that," said Pollnitz, with
his most, graceful bow, "for they would discover here the young god
Apollo, who, without doubt, found it too tiresome in heaven, and has
condescended to become an earthly king."
The king shrugged his shoulders. "Pollnitz," he said, "you are just
fitted to write a book of instructions for chamberlains and court
circles; a book which would teach them the most honied phrases and the
most graceful flatteries. Why do you not compose such a work?"
"It is absolutely necessary, your majesty, in order to write a book to
have a quiet study in your own house, Where you can arrange every thing
according to your own ideas of comfort and convenience. As I do not at
present possess a house, I cannot write this book."
The king laughed and said: "Well, perhaps Knobelsdorf can spare a small
spot here, on which to erect your Tusculum. But we must first build the
palace of the queen-mother, and a few other temples and halls. Do you
not think, Jordan, that this is a most suitable place on which to
realize all those beautiful ideals of which we used to dream at
Rheinsberg? Could we not erect our Acropolis here, and our temples to
Jupiter and Minerva?"
"In order to convince the world that it is correct in its supposition,"
said Jordan, smiling, "that your majesty is not a Christian, but a
heathen, who places more faith in the religion of the old Greeks than
in that of the new Church fathers."
"Do they say that? Well, they are not entirely wrong if they believe
that I have no great admiration for popery and the Church. This Church
was not built by Christ, but by a crafty priesthood. Knobelsdorf, on
this spot must stand the temple of which I have so often dreamed. There
is space to accomplish all that fancy could suggest or talent execute."
"Then the palace of the dowager queen must not be placed here?" asked
Knobelsdorf.
"No, not here; this place has another destination, of which I will
speak further to you this evening, and learn if my plan has your
approval. I dare say my most quarrelsome Jordan will make some
objections. Eh bien, nous verrons. We will proceed and seek a situation
for the palace of the queen."
"If your majesty will permit me," said Pollnitz, while the king with
his three companions passed slowly down the Linden Avenue, "I will take
the liberty of pointing out to you a spot, which appears most suitable
to me for this palace. It is at the end of the avenue, and at the
entrance to the park; it is a most beautiful site, and there would be
sufficient room to extend the buildings at will."
"Show us the place," said the king, walking forward.
"This is it," said Pollnitz, as they reached the end of the avenue.
"It is true," said the king, "here is space enough to erect a palace.
What do you think, Knobelsdorf, will this place answer?"
"We must begin by removing all those small houses, your majesty; that
would, of course, necessitate their purchase, for which we must obtain
the consent of the possessors, who would, many of them, be left
shelterless by this sudden sale."
"Shelterless!" said the king; "since Jordan has become the father of
the poor, none are shelterless," as he glanced toward his much-beloved
friend. "This spot seems most suitable to me. The palace might stand on
this side; on that a handsome public building, perhaps the library, and
uniting the two a lofty arch in the Grecian style. We will convert that
wood into a beautiful park, with shady avenues, tasteful parterres,
marble statues, glittering lakes, and murmuring streams."
"Only a Frederick could dream it possible to convert this desolate spot
into such a fairy land," said Jordan, smiling. "For my part, I see
nothing here but sand, and there a wood of miserable stunted trees."
The king smiled. "Blessed are they who believe without having seen," he
said. "Well, Knobelsdorf, is there room here to carry out our extensive
plans?"
"Certainly; and if your majesty will furnish me with the requisite
funds, the work can be begun without delay."
"What amount will be required?"
"If it is all executed as your majesty proposes, at least a million."
"Very well, a million is not too much to prepare a pleasure for the
queen-mother."
"But," said Pollnitz, "will not your majesty make those poor people
acquainted with their fate, and console them by a gracious word for
being compelled to leave their homes? It has only been a short time
since I was driven by the rain to take shelter in one of those houses,
and it made me most melancholy, for I have never seen such want and
misery. There were starving children, a woman dying of grief, and a
drunken man. Truly as I saw this scene I longed to be a king for a few
moments, that I might send a ray of happiness to brighten this gloomy
house, and dry the tears of these wretched people."
"It must have been a most terrible sight if even Pollnitz was
distressed by it," cried the king, whose noble countenance was
overshadowed with sorrow. "Come, Jordan, we will visit this house, and
you shall assist in alleviating the misery of its inhabitants. You,
Knobelsdorf, can occupy yourself in making a drawing of this place.
Lead the way, Pollnitz."
"My desire at last attained," thought Pollnitz, as he led the king
across the common. "It has been most difficult to bring the king here,
but I am confident my plan will succeed. Dorris Ritter doubtless
expects us; she will have considered my words, and yielding to her
natural womanly coquetry, she will have followed my counsel, and have
made use of the clothing I sent her yesterday."
They now stood before the wretched house which Pollnitz had indicated.
"This house has truly a most gloomy appearance," said the king.
"Many sad tears have been shed here," said Pollnitz, with the
appearance of deep sympathy.
The door of the shop was merely closed; the king pushed it open, and
entered with his two companions. No one came forward to meet them;
silence reigned in the deserted room.
"Permit me, your majesty, to go into that room and call the woman; she
probably did not hear us enter."
"No, I will go myself," said the king; "it is well that I should
occasionally seek out poverty in its most wretched hiding-place, that I
may learn to understand its miseries and temptations."
"Ah! my king," said Jordan, deeply touched, "from to-day your people
will no longer call you their king, but their father."
The king stepped quickly to the door which Pollnitz had pointed out;
the two gentlemen followed, and remained standing behind him, glancing
curiously over his shoulder.
The king crossed the threshold, and then stood motionless, gazing into
the room. "Is it possible to live in such a den?" he murmured.
"Yes, it is possible," replied a low, scornful voice; "I live here,
with misery for my companion."
The king was startled by this voice, and turned toward that side of the
room from which it proceeded; only then seeing the woman who sat in the
farthest corner. She remained motionless, her hands folded on her lap;
her face was deadly pail, but of a singularly beautiful oval; the hair
encircling her head in heavy braids, was of a light, shining blond, and
had almost the appearance of a halo surrounding her clear, pale face,
which seemed illumined by her wonderful eyes.
"She has not made use of the things which I sent," thought Pollnitz;
"but I see she understands her own advantages. She is really beautiful;
she looks like a marble statue of the Virgin Mary in some poor village
church."
The king still stood gazing, with an earnest and thoughtful expression,
at this woman, who looked fixedly at him, as if she sought to read his
thoughts. But he remained quiet, and apparently unmoved. Did the king
recognize this woman? did he hear again the dying melodies of his early
youth? was he listening to their sweet, but melancholy tones? Neither
Pollnitz nor Dorris Ritter could discover this in his cold, proud face.
Jordan broke this silence by saying gently, "Stand up, my good woman,
it is the king who is before you."
She rose slowly from her seat, but her countenance did not betray the
least astonishment or pleasure.
"The king!" she said; "what does the king desire in this den of poverty
and misery?"
"To alleviate both poverty and misery if they are undeserved," said the
king softly.
She approached him quickly, and made a movement as if she would offer
him her hand. "My wretchedness is undeserved," she said, "but not even
a king can alleviate it."
"Let me, at least, attempt to do so. In what can I assist you?"
She shook her head sadly. "If King Frederick, the son of Frederick
William the First, does not know, then I do not."
"You are poor, perhaps in want?"
"I do not know--it is possible," she said absently; "how can I among so
many pains and torments distinguish between despair and anguish, and
want and privation?"
"You have children?"
"Yes," she said, shuddering, "I have children, and they suffer from
hunger; that I know, for they often pray to me for bread, when I have
none to give them."
"Why does not their father take care of them; perhaps he is not living?"
"He lives, but not for us. He is wiser than I, and forgets his grief in
drink, while I nourish the gnawing viper at my heart."
"You have, then, nothing to ask of me?" said the king, becoming
indignant.
She gazed at him long and searchingly, with her great piercing eyes.
"No," she said harshly. "I have nothing to ask."
At this moment the door was thrown open, and the two children, Karl and
Anna, ran in, calling for their mother; but they became silent on
perceiving the strangers, and crept shyly to her side. Dorris Ritter
was strangely moved by the appearance of her children; her countenance,
which had borne so hard an expression, became mild and gentle. She
grasped the hands of the two children, and with them approached the
king.
"Yes, your majesty, I have a petition to make. I implore your pity for
my children. They are pure and innocent as God's angels; let not the
shame and misery of their parents fall upon their heads. King
Frederick, have pity on my children!"
And overcome by her emotions and her anguish, this unhappy woman sank
with her children at the feet of the king. The king regarded her
thoughtfully, then turned to Jordan.
"Jordan," said he, "to you I intrust the care of these children."
The wretched woman started to her feet, and pressed her children to her
arms with an expression as terrified and full of agony as that of the
noble and touching statue of the Greek Niobe.
"Ah! you would tear my children from me! No, no, I ask nothing; we need
no mercy, no assistance; we will suffer together; do not separate us.
They would cease to love me; they would learn to despise me, their
mother, who only lives in their presence; who, in the midst of all her
sorrow and grief, thanks God daily upon her bended knees that he gave
her these children, who alone have saved her from despair and death."
"You have uttered very wild and godless words," said the king. "You
should pray to God to make your heart soft and humble. To be poor, to
suffer from hunger, to have a drunken husband, are great misfortunes,
but they can be borne if you have a pure conscience. Your children
shall not be parted from you. They shall be clothed and taught, and I
will also see what can be done for you. And now farewell."
And the king, bowing slightly, turned toward the door, and in doing so
placed a few pieces of gold on the table. Dorris had watched every
movement; she started wildly forward and seized the gold, which she
handed to the king.
"Your majesty," she said, with flashing eyes, "I only implored mercy
for my children; I did not beg for myself. My sufferings cannot be
wiped out with a few pieces of gold."
The countenance of the king assumed a most severe expression, and he
threw an annihilating glance on this bold woman, who dared to oppose
him.
"I did not give the gold to you, but to your children," he said; "you
must not rob them." He then continued more gently: "If you should ever
need and desire assistance, then turn to me; I will remember your
poverty, not your pride. Tell me your name, therefore, that I may not
forget."
The poor, pale woman glanced searchingly at him. "My name," she said
thoughtfully, as if to herself, "King Frederick wishes to know my name.
I am called--I am called Anna Schommer."
And as she replied, she placed her hand upon the head of her little
daughter, as if she needed a support. Thus she stood trembling, but
still upright, with head erect, while the king and his suite turned
toward the door. Her son, who had kept his eyes upon the king, now
followed him and lightly touched his mantle.
His mother saw it, and raising her arm threateningly, while with the
other she still supported herself by leaning on her child, she cried:
"Do not touch him, my son. Kings are sacred."
Frederick, already standing on the threshold, turned once more; his
great, luminous eyes rested inquiringly on this pale, threatening
figure. An indescribably sad smile played upon his features, but he
spoke no word; and slowly turning, he passed through the door, and
hurried silently from the shop.
Dorris Ritter uttered a low cry when she no longer saw him; her hands
slid powerless from the head of her child, and hung heavily at her
side. The child, thus set at liberty, hurried out to gaze at the king
and his escort.
The poor woman was all alone--alone with her grief and painful
memories. She stood for a long time motionless and silent, as if
unconscious, then a dull, heavy groan escaped from her breast, and she
fell as if struck by lightning. "He did not even know me," she cried.
"For him I suffer pain and misery, and he passes by, and throws me the
crumbs of benevolence which fall from his bountiful table." For many
minutes she lay thus broken and trembling; then, suddenly excited by
pride and revenge, she arose, with a wild gleam in her eyes. She raised
her hand as if calling upon God to witness her words, and said
solemnly, "He did not recognize me to-day, but a day will come on which
he shall recognize me--the day on which I avenge my wretched and
tormented life! He is a royal king and I a poor woman, but the sting of
a venomous insect suffices to destroy even a king. Revenge I will have;
revenge for my poisoned existence."