ííurílitoíátfra
Resroration ofrhis Bookprovided l^the ^
^^jAAar^arC'f CCoveti.Symon(fs
Northwesrem Universi^-1926
^ CPreservaríon ^^i^ownicnt' |
Feodor's Visit to the Garden.
p. 21.
THE MERCHANT OF BERLIN.
( "" KVAHSTON. ILL,
AN Hisro^^w^ NOVEL.
BV
LOUISA MÜHLB ACH,^SeM.À
AÜTHOB OF " THE EMPRESS JOSEPHINE," " MARIE ANTOINETTE," " JOSEPH II. AND HIS COURT,"
" FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY," " BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI,"
ETC., ETC., ETC.
TRANSLATED PROM THE SBRUAN, BY
AMORT COFFIN, M. D.
COMPLETE IN ONE VOLUME
Mitb Illu$ít¡ation$.
NEW TOEK:
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY,
549 & 651 BROADWAY.
1876.
833.-
£iiTEitED, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1308, by
D. APPLETON & CO.,
In the Clerk's OlBce of the District Conrt of the United States for the Southern District of
New York.
//£3¿
X
OOKTEIÍÍTS.
BOOK 1.
PAW
Chap. I.—The Festival, ... 5
H.—The Workman's Holiday, . 12
HL—Brother and Sister, . . 16
IV.—Feodor von Brenda, . . !
v.—Mr. Kretschmer, of the "Vos-
sian Gazette," . . 21
VL—The Cowards' Race, . . 28
VIL—The Intermpled Festival, . 81
VUL—The Leader of the People, . !
IX.—The Rnssian is at the Gates,. 37
X.—Be Prudent, . . .1
XI.—The Night of Horrors, . 43
Xn.—Rnssians and Austrians,. . 47
Xm.—A Maiden's Heart, . . 61
XIV.—A Faithful Friend, . . 67
XV.—An Unexpected Meeting, . 60
XVI.—The Fugitive, . . .64
XVH.—The Eavesdropper, . . 67
XV 111.—The Two Cannoneers, . . (
XIX.—Father Gotzkowsky, . . 74
, BOOK n.
Chap. L—The Two Editors, . . 79
n.—The Chief Magistrate of Ber-
lin, .... .
in.—The Russian, the Saxon, and the
\ - ^ Austrian, in Berlin, . . 88
TV.—The Cadets, . . .91
v.—The Explosion,... 95
VI.—John Gotzkowsky, . . 102
PAGl
Chap. VU.—The Horrors of War, . . 105
V 111.—By Chance, . . . 110
. IX.—Mistress or Maid? . . . 114
X—An Unexpected Ally, . 120
XI.—The Jew Ephraim, . . 124
xn.—The Russian General and
the German Man, . . 128
Xin.—The Execution, . . .138
XIV.—Bride and Daughter, . 143
XV.—The Rivals, . . .149
XVI.—The Punishment, . . 152
XVn.—The Banquet of Gratitude, . 156
XVIU.—A Royai Letter, . . 160
BOOK in.
Chap. L—Frederick the Great at Meis¬
sen, . . . .164
n.—The Winter-quarters in Leip-
sic, . . . .174
in.—^The Friend in Need, . . 176
IV.—Gratitude and Recompense, 181
v.—Four Tears Later, . . 183
VI.—Days of Misfortune, . . 185
Vn.—Confessions, . . .189
V in.—The Russian Prince, . . 192
IX.—Old Love—New Sorrow, . 197
X.—The Magistracy of Berlin, . 204
XL—The Jews of the Mint, . 208
xn.—The Leipsic Merchants, . . 211
xm.—Ephraim the Tempter, . - 214
XrV.—Elise, . . . .220
4
CONTENTS.
Chap. XV.—The Beecae, .
XVL—Eetrlbntion,
XVn.—Tardy Gratitude,
XVHL—The Auction, ,
PA6B
836
888
831
•835
MARIA THERESA AND HER FIREMAN.
I.—The Engraved Cup, . . 846
n.—The Princees and the Diplomat, 868
m.—Maria Theresa, . , .867
FAOB
rV.—Dubois and his Clients, . . 861
v.—Elizabeth, . . . 866'
YI.—The Empress and Dubois, . 871
Vn.—The,Morning Conversation of
Maria Theresa, . . 873
•Vni.—Continuation of the Interview, 876
IX.—The Petition of Maria Theresa
to Frederick the Great, . 879
X.—Brother and Sister, . . 881
XI.—The Brave Man, . . .387
xn.—The Reward, ... 890
THE MERCHANT OF BERLIN.
BOOK I.
CHAPTER 1.
the festival.
The sufferings of the long war stiU
continued; still stood Frederick the
Great with his army in the field ; the
tremendous struggle between Prussia
and Austria was yet undecided, and
Silesia was stiU the apple of discord for
which Maria Theresa and Frederick H.
had been striving for years, and for
which, in so many battles, the blood of
German brothers had been spilt.
Everywhere joy seemed extinguished;
the light jest was hushed; each one
looked silently into the future, and
none could tell in whose favor this
great contest would finally be decided,
whether Austria or Prussia would be
victorious.
The year 1760, the fifth of the war,
was particularly sad for Prussia; it
was marked in the history of Germany
with tears and blood. Even Berlin,
which, up to that time, had suffered
but little from the unhappy calamities
of war, assumed now an earnest, mourn¬
ful aspect, and it seemed as if the bright
humor and sarcastic wit which had al¬
ways characterized the inhabitants of
this good city had now entirely desert¬
ed them. Going through the wide and
almost empty streets there were to be
met only sad countenances, women
clothed in black, who mourned their
husbands or sons fallen in one of the
many battles of this war, or mothers
who were looking with anxiety into the
future and thinking of their distant sons
who had gone to the army.
Here and there was seen some
wounded soldier wearily dragging him¬
self along the street, but hearty, healthy
men were seldom to be met, and still
more seldom was seen the fresh counte¬
nance of youth.
Berlin had been obliged to send no
only her men and youths, but also her
boys of fourteen years to the army,
6
THE MERCHANT OF BERLIN.
wMch, according to the confession of
Frederick the Great, consisted, in the
campaign of the year 1760, only of rene¬
gades, marauders, and beardless boys.
For these reasons it seemed the more
strange to hear at this time issuing from
one of the largest and handsomest
houses on the Leipsic Street the un¬
wonted soimds of merry dance-music,
cheerful singing and shouting, which
reached the street.
The passers-by stopped and looked
with curiosity up to the windows, at
which could he seen occasionally a
flushed joyous man's face or pretty wo¬
man's head. But the men who were
visible through the panes evidently did
not belong to the genteeler classes of
society ; their faces were sunburnt,
their hair hung down carelessly and un-
powdered upon the coarse and unfash¬
ionable cloth coat, and the attire of the
maidens had little in common with the
elegance and fashion of the day.
" The rich Gotzkowsky gives a great
feast to his workmen to-day," remarked
the people in the street to one another ;
and as they passed on they envied with
a sigh those who were able at the same
time to enjoy a merry day in the rich
and brilliant halls of the great manu¬
facturer, and admire the splendor of
the rich man's house.
The mansion of Gotzkowsky was
indeed one of the handsomest and
most magnificent in all Berlin, and its
owner was one of the richest men of
this city, then, despite the war, so
wealthy and thriving. But it was not
the splendor of the furniture, of the
costly silver ware, of the Gobelin tapes¬
try and Turkish carpets which distin¬
guished this house front aU others. In
these respects others could equal the
rich merchant, or even surpass him.
But Gotzkowsky possessed noble
treasures of art, costly paintings, which
princes and even kings might have en¬
vied. Several times had he travelled
to Italy by commission from the king
to purchase paintings, and the hand¬
somest pieces in the Eoyal Gallery had
been brought from the land of art by
Gotzkowsky. But the last time he re¬
turned from Italy the war of 1756 had
broken out, and the king could then
spare no money for the purchase of
paintings : he needed it all for his army.
Therefore Gotzkowsky was obliged to
keep for himself the splendid originals
of Raphael, Rubens, and other great
masters which he had purchased at
enormous prices, and the wealthy manu¬
facturer was just the one able to afford
himself the luxury of a picture-gallery.
The homely artisans and workmen
who this day had dined in Gotzkow-
sky's halls felt somewhat constrained
and uncomfortable, and their counte¬
nances did not wear a free, joyous ex¬
pression until they had risen from table,
and the announcement was made that
the festival would continue in the large
garden immediately adjacent to the
house, to which they at once repaired
to enjoy cheerful games and steaming
coffee.
Bertram, Gotzkowsky's head book¬
keeper, had been commissioned by bim
to lead the company, consisting of more
than two hundred persons, into the
garden, where Gotzkowsky would fol¬
low them, having first gone in search
of his daughter.
THE Fi
•
With lively conversation and hearty
laugh the people retired, the halls vrere
emptied, and now the deep silence of
these state-apartments was only inter¬
rupted by the gentle ticking of the
large clock which stood over the sofa
on its richly-ornamented stand.
When Gotzkowsky found himself at
last alone, he breathed as if relieved.
The quiet seemed to do him good. He
sank down into one of the large chairs
covered with gold-embroidered velvet,
and gazed earnestly and thoughtfully
before him. The expression of_ his
countenance was anxious, and his large
dark eyes were not as clear and brilliant
as usual.
John Gotzkowsky was stiU a hand¬
some man, despite his fifty years; his
noble intellectual countenance, his tall
proud figure, his fuU black hair, which,
contrary to the custom of that period,
he wore unpowdered, made an impos¬
ing and at the same time pleasing im¬
pression.
And certainly it was not because of
his personal appearance that Gotzkow¬
sky, notwithstanding the early death of
Iiis wife, had never contracted a second
marriage, but had preferred to remain
a solitary widower. Nor did this oc¬
cur from indiSerence or coldness of
heart, but solely from love, love for
that little, helpless, love-needing being,
whose birth cost his young wife her
life, to whom he had vowed at the bed¬
side of her dead mother to stand in
stead of that mother, and never to make
her bend imder the harsh rule of a step¬
mother. Gotzkowsky had faithfully
fulfilled this vow ; he had concentrated
all his love on his daughter, who under
ÎTIVAL. 7
his careful supervision had increased in
strength and beauty, so that, with the
pride and joy of a father, he now styled
her the handsomest jewel of his house.
Where then was this daughter whom
he loved so dearly ? Why was she not
near him to smile away the wrinkles
from his brow, to drive, with light chat,
serious and gloomy thoughts from his
mind? She it was, doubtless, whom
his wandering glance sought in these
vast, silent rooms ; and finding her not,
and yearning in vain for her sweet
smiles, her rosy cheeks, he sighed.
Where was she then ?
Like her father, Gotzkowsky's daugh¬
ter sat alone in her room—^her gaze, as
his, fixed upon empty space. The sad,
melancholy expression of her face,
scarcely tinged with a delicate blush,
iontrasted strangely with her splen¬
did dress, her mournful look with the
fuU wreath of roses which adorned her
hair.
EUse was the daughter of the wealthi¬
est man in Berlin, the world proclaimed
her the handsomest maiden, and yet
there she sat solitary in her beautiful
chamber, her eyes clouded with tears.
Of a sudden she drew a golden case
from her bosom and pressed it with
deep feeling to her lips. Looking tim¬
idly at the door, she seemed to listen ;
convinced that no one approached, she
pressed a hidden spring of the medal¬
lion ; the golden cover fiew open and
disclosed the portrait of a handsome
man in Russian uniform.
The young girl contemplated this
portrait with a strange mixture of de-
Ught and melancholy, and then, com¬
pletely overpowered by its aspect, sha
8 THE MERCHA:
approached it to her lips. " Feodor I "
murmured she, so softly that it sounded
almost like a sigh, and stretching out
the hand which held the medallion, in
order to he able better to contemplate
the picture, she continued—
" Feodor, why did we meet, to be sep¬
arated foreyer again? Why did not
Fate allow me to be born as a poor serf
upon one of thy estates, giving to thee
the right to possess me, to me the sweet
duty of loving thee ? O Heaven, why
art thou an enemy of my country, or
why am I a German ? Men call me
happy ; they envy me my father's
wealth ; they know not how wretched
and forsaken I am."
She bowed her head upon her breast
and wept bitterly. Suddenly steps were
heard quite close to her door. She
started, and concealed the medallion
quickly in her breast. "My father,"
murmured she, and drying her tears
she arose to open the door. She was
right, it was her father. He held out
his hand to her. She took it and
pressed it to her lips respectfully, but
she did not see the look of almost pas¬
sionate tenderness with whieh he re¬
garded her, for she had cast down her
eyes and did not dare to look at him.
" I have come, Elise, to lead you to
our garden festival. Tou will go with
me, my child ? "
"I am ready," said she, taking her
hat and shawl.
" But why in such a hurry ? " asked
her father. " Let us leave these good
people yet a little while to themselves.
We wül stUl be in- time to witness their
games. I would like to stay a quarter
of an hour with you, Elise."
r OF BERLIN.
Without answering, she rolled an
arm-chair to the window, and laid aside
her hat and shawl.
" It is very seldom, father, that you
make me such a present," said she.
" What present, my child ? "
" A quarter of an hour of your life,
father."
" Tou are right," said he, thoughtful¬
ly. "I have little time for pleasure,
but I think so mueh the more of you."
She shook her head gently.
" No," said she, " you have no time
to think of me. Tou are too busy.
Hundreds of men claim your attention.
How could you have time, father, to
think of your daughter ? "
Gotzkowsky drew a dark-red case
from his breast pocket and handed it to
her.
" Look, Elise ! see if I have not
thought of you. To-day is your birth¬
day, and I have celebrated it as I have
done every year by giving my workmen
a festival, and endowing a poor bridal
pair who on this day become betrothed.
Their prayers and tears constitute the
most beautiful thank-offering to you,
and being happy they bless you, the
authoress of their happiness. But how
is this ? Tou have not yet opened the
case. Are you so httle Uke other girls
that diamonds cause you no pleasure ? "
She opened the case, and contem¬
plated the jewels with weary looks and
scarcely concealed indifference.
"How wonderfully they shine and
sparkle, and what tempting promises
their brilliant colors hold forth 1 But
this is a princely present, father ; your
poor Elise is not worthy to wear this
diadem and collar."
THE FESTIVAL.
9
"Oh, you are worthy to wear a
crown ! " cried her father, with tender
pride. "And let me teU you, Elise,
you have only to choose whether you
will place on this beautiful hair an
earl's coronet or a prince's diadem.
And this, my chUd, is the reason of my
visit to-day."
" On business," murmured she, al¬
most inaudibly, with a bitter smile.
Gotzkowsky continued—
"Young Count Saldem applied to
me yesterday for your hand."
" Count Saldem ? " asked Elise. " I
hardly know him. I have only spoken
to him twice in the saloon of Countess
Herzberg."
" That does not prevent him from
loving you ardently," said Gotzkowsky,
with scarcely perceptible irony. " Yes,
Elise, he loves you so ardently that he
would overcome all obstacles of rank
and make you a genuine countess, if I
will only promise to endow you wdth
half a million."
The habitually pale countenance of
Elise suddenly assumed life and color.
She drew herself up and threw her
head proudly back.
" Do you wish to sell me, father ?
Do you wish to give some value to this
noble nonentity by the present of half a
million, and wiU his lordship be kind
enough in return to take the trifling bur¬
den of my person into the bargain ? "
Her father gazed at her glowing
countenance with eyes beaming with
joy; but he quickly suppressed this
emotion, and reassumed a serious air.
" Yes," he said, " the good count, in
consideration of half a million, wiU
consent to raise the manufacturer's
daughter to the rank of a countess.
But for a whole million we can obtain
still more ; we can rise yet higher in
the scale. If I will advance his uncle,
Prince Saldem, half a million to redeem
his mortgaged estates, the prince prom¬
ises to adopt the nephew, your suitor,
as his son. You would then be a prin¬
cess, Elise, and I would have the proud
satisfaction of calling a prince my son."
" As if the king would consent to a
nobleman thus demeaning himself 1 "
cried Elise ; " as if he would graciously
allow the count so far to degrade him¬
self!"
" Oh, the king will consent," con¬
tinued her father, in a light tone.
"You know that he is fond of me.
Only say whether you consent to be¬
come Countess Saldem."
" Never I " cried she proudly. " I
am no chattel to be bartered, and this
miserable title of princess has no charms
for me. You can command me, father,
to renounce the man I love, but you
can never compel me to give my hand
to a man I do not love, were he even a
king ! "
Her father clasped her vehemently
m his arms.
" That is blood of my blood, and
spirit of my spirit," cried he. "You
are right, my child, to despise honors
and titles ; they are empty tinsel, and
no one believes in them any longer.
We stand at the portal of a new era,
and this era will erect new palaces and
create new princes ; but you, my child,
wiU be one of the flrst princesses of
this new era. Manufactories will be
the new palaces, and manufacturers the
new princes. Instead of the sword,
10
THE MERCHANT OF BERLIN.
money wiU rule the world, and men
will bow down before manufacturers
and merchants as they are wont to do
before generals. TTierefore I say you
are right in refusing Prince Saldem's
offer, for I promise you, you shall be a
princess, even without the title, and
the great and noble shall bow as low
before your riches as if they were a
ducal diadem."
Elise shook her head with a melan¬
choly smile : " I have no desire for
such homage, and I despise the base
metal vrith which one can buy every
thing."
" Despise it not ! " cried her father,
" prize it rather ! Gold is a holy
power ; it is the magic wand of Moses
which caused springs to gush forth
from the sterile rock. See, my child—
I, who despise all the rank and honors
which the world can offer me, I tell
you gold is the only thing for which I
have any respect. But a man must
perceive and imderstand the secret of
this magic power. He who strives for
wealth only to possess it is a heartless
fool, and his fate wiH be that of Midas
—^he will starve in the midst of his
treasures. But he who strives for
wealth for the purpose of giving, he
wiU discover that money is the foun¬
tain of happiness; and in his hands
the dead metal is transformed into a
living blessing. Ton may believe your
father, who knows the world, and who
has drunk the bitter cup of poverty."
" You were once poor ? " asked Elise,
looking at her father with astonish¬
ment.
Gotzkowsky smiled, and sank back
in his chair, musing and silent. After
a pause he resumed : " Yes, I was poor.
I have endured all the horrors of pov¬
erty. I have hungered and thirsted,
suffered misery and privation, even a"
a little boy. Thus lay I once, wretchec
and forsaken, in a ditch by the high
way, and raised my hands to God on
high, praying but for a drop of water
but for a morsel of bread. Ah I s(
strong was the belief of the goodnesf
of God in my heart, that I was con
vinced He would open the heavens,
and reach to me with His own hand
the food for which I prayed. I waited
and waited, in despairing anxiety, but
the heavens were not opened, and not
even a drop of rain came to cool my
parched lips. But the cloud, which I
had looked for in vain in the sky, was
seen at last on the highway, and, as I
saw this whirling cloud of dust, in the
midst of which a splendid equipage
came rolling on, I said to myself ;
' Here comes God ! ' and then I found
strength enough to raise myself from
my knees, to hurry toward the rapidly
passing vehicle, and to cry with a voice
which was almost overpowered by the
noise of the wheels, ' Pity ! pity ! give
me a morsel of bread, a drop of water !
Have pity on me 1 ' A hand was
stretched toward me out of the cloud
of dust, and I saw a small, brightly
shining object drop. The carriage
rolled on, and disappeared in its cloud.
But I sank on my knees and searched
the dust for the piece of money, for in
this coin lay for me life, health, and
strength. I was obliged to hunt in the
dust for a long time with hands tremu¬
lous with anxiety, and finally, when I
found it, I rejoiced aloud and thanked
THE FESTIVAL.
11
Grod. Thenlhurriedwitlifleetstepsto-w-
ard tile neighboring town, to the same
baker's shop near the gate, where,
shortly before, they had refused to my
entreaties a bit of bread. Now, will¬
ingly and with smiles, they handed me
a loaf, for I had money to pay for it.
In that hour I said to myself : ' I must
seek money, even if I have to grovel in
the dust for it; for money is life, and
poverty is death ! ' The hand which,
from the cloud of dust threw me that
piece of money, decided my whole fu¬
ture, for it taught me that even dust
was not to be despised, as therein
money might be found ; but it taught
me something more — it taught me
compassion and charity. Then, as I
crouched down with bleeding feet at
the street-comer and devoured my loaf,
I vowed to myself that I would become
rich, and when I had grown rich, to
be to each poor and needy one the
helping hand stretched forth out of the
cloud of dust."
Elise had listened to her father with
deep emotion, and in the depth of her
heart she at this moment absolved him
from many a silent reproach, and many
a suspicion, which her soul had har¬
bored against him.
"You have kept your word, my far
ther ! " cried she. " How did you con¬
trive to become a rich man from a beg¬
gar?"
Gotzkowsky laughed. " How did I
contrive that ? " said he. "I worked,
'hat is the whole secret—worked from
sunrise until late in the night, and by
work alone have I become what I am.
But no, I had one friendr who often
helped me with his sympathy and val¬
uable counsel. This friend was the
king. He protected me against my
malicious enemies, who envied me every
little piece of fortune. He cheered me
on. Frederick's eye rested on me with
pleasure, and he was delighted to see
my manufactories thrive and increase.
The king's satisfaction was for many
years the only spur to my exertions,
and when he looked on me with smi¬
ling benevolence, it seemed to me as if
a sunbeam of fortune shone from his
large blue eyes into my hear^. I have
learned to love the king as a man, and
because I love mankind I love the king.
It is said that he likes the French bet¬
ter than he does us, and prefers every
thing that comes from them; but, in¬
deed, he was the first to supply his
wants from my manufactories, and in
that way to encourage me to new un¬
dertakings.* Mankind, in general, do
not like to see others favored by for¬
tune in their enterprises, and they hate
him who succeeds where they have
failed. I have experienced that often
in life. I knew that men hated me be¬
cause I was more fortunate than they
were, and yet I saw how they cringed
before me, and fiattered me. Oh, my
child, how many bitter and painful ex¬
periences do I not owe to my wealth !
In wealth lies wisdom, if one would
only listen to her. It has humbled and
subdued me, for I said to myself, ' How
quickly would all these men, who now
surround me with attention and fiat-
* "Gotzkowsky founded the first large velvet
and silk manufactories in Berlin. He was also the
first to attend the Leipsio fair with domestic
goods, and thus open the commerce with Poland
and Kussia."—ifisiory of a Patriotic Merchant
of Berlin. 1T6S ; pages 10-12.
12
THE MERCHANT OF BERLIN.
tery, disappear if I became suddenly
poor 1 ' These princes and counts, who
now invdte me as a guest to their ta¬
bles, would no longer know me if
I appeared before them as a poor man.
Wealth is rank and worth; and no
prince's title, no star of honor, shines
so brightly as golden coin. But we
must leam how to use it, and not con¬
vert the means of fortune into the end.
We must also leam to despise men, and
yet to love mankind. My philosophy
may be condensed into a few sentences.
Strive for gold; not to take, but to
give. Be kind and faithful to all men ;
most faithful, however, to thyself, thy
honor, and thy country."
Elise looked at him with a strange
expression: "You love all mankind!
Do you then include our country's ene¬
mies ? "
" The enemies of our country are the
only men whom I hate," cried Gotz-
kowsky, quickly.
" Even were they noble and good ? "
asked Elise, with reproachful tone.
Gotzkowsky looked at her with as¬
tonishment and curiosity, and a cloud
flitted across his brow. Then, as if
shocked at his own thoughts, he shook
his head, and murmured in a low tone,
" No, that were too terrible ! " He,
rose and paced the room in thought¬
ful mood. Suddenly a burst of lively
music and gleeful shouts were heard
from the gai-den. Gotzkowsky's brow
brightened immediately, and he ex¬
tended his hand with a tender look.
"Come, my child," exclaimed he,
"come, and see how happy you have
made men ! Come, and see the power
of wealth I "
CHAPTER n.
the workmah's holidat.
The garden, which stretched from
behind Gotzkowsky's house to the lim¬
its of the city, was really of artistic
beauty, and he had spent thousands in
creating a park out of this dead level
of sand. Now, his work was com¬
pleted, and all Berlin spoke with praise
and admiration of this garden, which
ranked among the lions to be visited
by every traveller. The most splendid
groups of trees were seen • here and
there, interspersed among green plats
of grass, ornamented by marble statues
or graceful fountains ; in other places,
trimmed hedges stretched along, and
from the conservatories exotic plants
filled the air with perfume.
On this day, however, the garden
presented a peculiarly lively spectacle.
On the lawn, the young girls and lads
were dancing to the music of a fiddle
and bass-viol, while the older workmen
and their wives had seated themselves
around tables, on which all kinds of
refr:eshments were spread.
At the largest of these tables, orna¬
mented with fiowers, was seated the
betrothed couple, the workman Bal¬
thazar and Gretchen his young bride,
who bashfully and affectionately clung
to his side. They had loved each other
long and faithfully in silence, but with¬
out hope, for they were both poor, and
had to support themselves and their
parents by the work of their hands.
But Gotzkowsky had come to them as
a helping -benefactor; he had given
Balthazar a considerable sum of money,
THE WORKMAN'S HOLIDAY
13
and his daughter Elise had bestowed a
dower upon the bride. On this day,
Elise's eighteenth birthday, was to be
celebrated the marriage of the happy
couple. No wonder, then, that they
regarded Gotzkowsky with feelings al¬
most of adoration, and that this young
girl appeared to them as a benevolent
angel.
Elise had just come into the garden
with her father, and had taken her seat
at the table of the bridal pair. Next
to her sat a young man, whose mild
and noble countenance seemed to be
lighted up with happiness and adora¬
tion whenever he looked upon her. He
followed every one of her motions
with watchful eyes, and the most tri¬
fling shade, the slightest change in the
expression of her countenance, did not
escape him. At times he sighed, read¬
ing perhaps in her features the secret
thoughts of her soul, and these thoughts
saddened him, and clouded his bright
clear eye.
This young man, who sat at Elise's
side, was Bertram, Gotzkowsky's head
book-keeper. From his earliest youth
he had been in the house of the rich
manufacturer, who had adopted the
poor orphan, and treated him as a ten¬
der father would have done, and Ber¬
tram loved him with aU the affection
of a son. And never by the lips of a
true son was the name of father pro¬
nounced with more warmth and ten¬
derness than by this son, adopted and
won by deeds of generosity.
But Bertram, who called Gotzkowsky
father, had never ventured to call Gotz¬
kowsky's daughter sister. Brought up
together, they had in their childhood
shared their games, their childish joys
m
and sorrows with one another ; he had
been a protecting brother to her, she
an affectionate sister to him. But ever
since Bertram had returned from a
journey of three years, on which Gotz¬
kowsky had sent him, all this tad
changed. Elise, whom he had left al¬
most a child, he found on his return a
blooming young woman, and a feeUng
of joyous emotion flashed through him
as he stood blushing before her ; while
she, perfectly collected, with a quiet
look bade him welcome.
Under the charm of this look he had
lived several weeks of rapture and yet
of anxiety. He soon felt that he loved
this yoimg girl passionately, but he
also felt that she returned his passion
with the lukewarm affection of a friend
or a sister, and that she had no sus¬
picion of the tumult and pain, the joy
and ecstasy which filled his breast.
And yet he had a right to strive for the
prize of her love ; and if he raised his
eyes to the daughter of his benefactor,
it was not presumption, it was Gotz¬
kowsky himself who emboldened him
to do so. He had said to him, " Seek
to win the love of my daughter, and I
will cheerfully bid you welcome as my
son, for I know that in your hands
Elise's happiness is safe."
Thus he had the consent of the fa¬
ther, but Elise's love was wanting, and
how could he ever deserve this love,
how win this hçart which shone as
bright and clear, as hard and cold as
rock crystal? Of what avail was it
that he worked indefatigably in the
service of his benefactor ? how did it
help him that the money, which Götz-
14
THE MERCHANT OF BERLIN.
kowsky had given to him as a boy, had
home rich interest and made him a
man of means, and even, if he chose, of
independence ? What did it profit
him that all men loved him, if this one
being, by whom he so ardently longed
to be loved, always remained the same,
nnchanged toward him, always affec¬
tionate and friendly, always open and
candid, never abashed, never blushing,
never casting her eyes do^vn before
him ?
" It must at last be decided," thought
Bertram, as he sat next to Elise ; " I
must at last know whether she returns
my love, or whether that be true which
I have heard whispered since my re¬
turn. I must at least have certainty,
even if it annihilates all my wishes."
At this moment there sounded near
Tu'tti merry shouts and laughter. Gotz-
kowsky had accosted the bridal pair
with a jest, and the grateful audience
had taken up this jest with delight.
" Long life to the bridal pair 1 " cried
he, raising his glass on high.
"Health, wealth, and happiness to
them I " A perfect uproar followed
this appeal, and brought tears of de¬
light into the eyes of the blushing little
bride, who stood up with the bride¬
groom and bowed her thanks.
Balthazar laughed, and, as soon as
every thing had become quiet, replied :
" There, that will do ! you have hur¬
rahed enough. I don't wish for wealth ;
health, happiness, and content are
enough for me with my little Gretchen ;
but for these blessings I have to thank,
we all have to thank our lord and mas¬
ter, our father Gotzkowsky. Therefore,
you boys up there, stop your clatter
and dancing, and listen to what 1 have
to say to you."
Balthazar's loud voice overpowered
the music, which now ceased, and the
lads and maidens crowded aroimd
him.
"Balthazar is going to make a
speech ! " cried one with hearty laugh¬
ter, in which the others joined lustily.
" Silence, silence ! Balthazar is going to
make a speech. Come, Balthazar, out
with it 1 It's a failing he has."
" Well, why shouldn't I ? " said Bal¬
thazar, laughing ; " many a great lord
does nothing else aU his life but make
pretty speeches. Why shouldn't I play
the great lord on this my wedding-
day ? " He drew himself up, cleared
his throat, and continued :. " I want to
talk to you about our master, who
turned us from good-for-nothing drones
into industrious workmen, who gave
us bread when nobody else had bread
for us. Nobody, I say, not even our
mayor, who is a very good mayor, but
who cannot help the poor, feed the hun¬
gry, and give bread and work to hands
willing to work. Who is able to do
that, and who does it ? Who in Berlin
is the rich, the good man, who gives
work to aU, and in his large and cele¬
brated mUls procures us food and
wages ? Who is it ? "
" Gotzkowsky, our father Gotzkow¬
sky I " cried the crowd unanimously.
Balthazar waved his hat joyfully in
the air. " Therefore, say I, long live
Gotzkowsky our father I " cried he,
with stentorian voice. And loud
shouts and cheers followed this appeal.
Men and women surrounded Gotz¬
kowsky and offered him their hand,
THE WORKMAN'S HOLIDAY.
15
and thanked him with those simple
and plain words which neyer fail to
reach the heart, because they come
fromi the heart. AH hailed him as
friend and father, benefactor and mas¬
ter. Gotzkowsky stood in their midst,
proud and erect. A deep emotion
was evident in his noble features, and
he raised his beaming, radiant face to
heaven, thanking God in the humble¬
ness of his heart for the proud joy of
this hour.
" Long live Gotzkowsky, om fa¬
ther I " reiterated the happy multitude.
He lowered his eyes, and glanced
with friendly looks at the cheerful as¬
semblage.
" Thank you, my chHdren," said he,
"but I beg you not to overrate my
merits. Ton are of as much service to
me as I am to you. He who gives
work is nothing without the worker ;
the one has need of the other, to in¬
crease and thrive. Of what avail
would my looms and my money be if I
had not your industrious hands and
your good-wHl to serve me? Money
alone will not do it, but the good-wiU
aud love of the workmen carry the
day. I thank you all for your good¬
will .and your love ; but above all,"
continued he, turning to Bertram,
" above all things I must thank you,
my friend. You have stood by me and
helped me bravely, and it is fuU time
that I should try to reward you. Chil¬
dren, one more surprise have I in re¬
serve for you to-day. I appoint Mr.
Bertram my partner and sole director
of the silk-factory."
" That's right, that's noble ! " cried
the workmen.
Bertram said nothing. He only
turned his eyes, clouded with tears,
toward Gotzkowsky, and the latter
read in his looks his deep emotion and
affectionate gratitude.
" My son," said he, opening his arms.
"My father, oh my dear, noble fa¬
ther," cried the young man, throwing
himself, wdth streaming eyes, on Gotz-
kowsky's breast. The workmen stood
around, deeply moved, and in silence ;
and in their hearts they sent up quiet
prayers to God on high for their em¬
ployer. At last Gotzkowsky raised
himself from Bertram's arms and sought
his daughter with his eyes. She was
still sitting, silent and pensive, at the
table, and did not appear to have ob¬
served what was going on around her.
A light cloud crossed his brow as he
took Bertram's hand and approached
Elise.
" "Well, EUse, have you no word of
congratulation for him ? "
She shuddered, as if awaking from
a dream. " Oh," said she, " my good
brother Bertram knows that I rejoice
in his fortune."
" Brother ! still brother ? " murmured
Gotzkowsky, impatiently.
" And why should she not give me
that sweet name ? " asked Bertram,
quickly. " Have you not often called
me son, and allowed me to call you fa¬
ther ? "
" Oh, I would like indeed to be your
father, my son, without Elise's having
to call you brother. But we wUl speak
of this another time," said he, inter
rupting himself; and turning to his
workmen, continued : " Come, let tis
be merry, and of good cheer. Who
16
THE MERCHANT OF BERLIN.
knows how long Heaven will grant ub
sunshine ? Come, you young folks, I
have caused a target to be set up in
the court. Let us go there. He who
makes the best shot shall get a new
coat. Come, bride Greta, take my
arm ; I will be your groomsman to¬
day. Bertram, you and Elise follow
us. Now, music, strike up a song for
the bride."
Gotzkowsky offered his arm to the
bride and led her out. Cheerfully the
motley crowd followed him, and soon
there were heard in the distance their
happy laughter and the merry sound
of the music.
CHAPTER HI.
BROTHEE AlîD SISTER.
Elise did not follow the joyous
multitude. She still sat musing, un¬
aware that Bertram was standing op¬
posite to her, considering her attentive¬
ly. At last he ventured to pronounce
her name softly. She looked up at
him with perfect composure.
" You do not go with them, Elise ? "
asked he. " Do you not take any part
In the general rejoicing ? "
She tried to smile. " Oh yes," said
she, " I am glad to see how much these
good people love my father. And he
deserves it too. The welfare of his
workmen is his only thought, and the
only fame for which he strives."
" You are too modest in your esti¬
mate of your father, Elise," cried Ber¬
tram. " Gotzkowsky's fame extends
far beyond the walls of this town. All
Germany, yes, even Holland and Eng¬
land, are familiar with his name, and
the Prussian merchant is as much a
hero on ' Change ' as the Prussian king
is on the battle-field."
" Only my father's victories are less
bloody," said Elise, smiling.
A pause ensued. Both felt anxious
and embarrassed, and neither dared to
break the silence. It was the first
time, since Bertram's return from his
grand tour, that she had found herself
in his presence without witnesses, for
she had carefully avoided being alone
with him. This had not escaped Ber¬
tram's notice, and he had therefore de¬
termined to take advantage of the pres¬
ent opportunity to have his fate de¬
cided. But yet he did not venture to
speak, and the words died away on his
Ups as he remarked her silent, indiffer¬
ent composure. As he contemplated
her, memories of former days rose up
before him. He saw her as, half chüd,
half maiden, she clung trustingly and
affectionately to his side, and with
charming blushes listened to the teas¬
ing jokes of her father. Then her
whole soul lay open and clear before
him ; then she disclosed to him the
entire treasure of her pure full heart,
and all the fanciful and dreamy thoughts
of her young virgin soul were percepti¬
ble ; then he had participated in her
joys, her little sorrows, every feeling
which agitated her breast.
And now, why was it all so differ¬
ent ?
A deep, painful melancholy took pos¬
session of him, and made him over¬
come his fear of her decision. He sat
BROTHEB AND SISTER.
17
down resolutely at her side, and took
her hand.
"Elise," said he, "do you still re¬
member .what you said to me three
7ears ago, as I took leave of you Î "
She shook her head and turned her
eyes toward him. These eyes were full
of tears, and her countenance was agi¬
tated with painful emotion.
Bertram continued : "You then
said to me, ' Farewell, and however far
you may travel, my heart goes with
you, and when you return I will be to
you the same loving, faithful sister that
I now am.' These were your words,
Elise; you see that I have preserved
them in my memory more faithfully
than you, my sister."
Elise shuddered slightly. Then she
said, with a painfully subdued voice,
"You were so long absent, Bertram,
and I was only a child when you left."
" The young woman wishes, then, to
recall the words spoken by the chñd ? "
" No, Bertram, I wiU always love you
as a sister."
Bertram sighed. " I imderstand you,"
said he, sadly ; " you wish to erect this
sisterly love into an impassable barrier
separating me from you, and to pour
this cool and unsubstantial affection
like a soothing balm upon my suffer¬
ings. How little do you know of love,
Elise; of that passion which desires
every thing, which is satisfied with
nothing less than extreme happiness, or,
failing that, extreme wretchedness, and
wUl accept no pitiful compromise, no
miserable substitute 1 "
Elise looked at him firmly, with
beaming eyes. She too felt that the de¬
cisive hour had come, and that she
»
owed the friend of her youth an open
and unreserved explanation.
"You are mistaken, Bertram," said
she. " I know this love of which you
speak, and for that very reason, because
I know it, I teU you I wUl always love
you as a sister. As a true sister I bid
you welcome."
She offered him her hand ; but as she
read in his pale face the agony which
tormented his soul, she turned her eyes
away and drew her hand back.
" You are angry with me, Bertram,"
said she, sobbing.
He pressed his hand convulsively to
his heart, as if he would suppress a cry
of agony, then held it firmly to his
eyes, which were scalded by his hot
tears. He wrestled with his sufferings,
but he wrestled like a hero and a man
who will not be subjugated, but is de¬
termined to conquer. As his hand
glided from his face his eyes were tear¬
less, and nothing was visible in his
countenance but an expression of deep
earnestness.
"Well, then," said he, recovering
himself, " I accept this sisterly love as a
sick man accepts the bitter medicine
which he will not cast away lest he
commit suicide. I accept you as my
sister, but a sister must at least have
confidence in her brother ; she must not
stand before him like a sealed book
whose contents he is ignorant of. If I
am to be your brother, I demand also
the rights of a brother. I demand
truth and trust."
" And who says that I will deny you
either ? " asked she, quickly.
"You, yourself, Elise; your whole
conduct, your shyness and reserve, the
18
THE MERCHANT OF BERLIN.
manner in wMch you avoid me, the in¬
tentional coldness with which you meet
me. Oh ! even at this moment you
would withdraw from me, hut I will
not let you, Elise ; I will compel your
heart to reveal itself to me. I will
move you with my devotion, my tender
anxiety, so that the hard crust will fall
from your gentle and pure heart, and
you will become again my candid and
confiding sister. Oh, Elise, have com¬
passion on me! tell me what secret,
mysterious charm has suddenly seized
you ; what wicked, hurtful demon has
suddenly converted this bright, ingenu¬
ous girl into a pale, sad, serious woman.
Have courage and trust me, and let me
read your heart as in those happier
days."
Elise looked at his noble counte¬
nance with a deep and painful emotion,
and met his inquiring look with una¬
bashed eye.
" "Well, then," said she, " I will trust
you, Bertram. I will tell you what I
have confided to no human ear. Know,
then, that my heart also has felt the
pains which affect yours. Know that
an ardent, hopeless love bums my
soul."
" A hopeless love ? " asked Bertram.
"Tes, hopeless," said she, firmly;
" for never can I hope for my father's
blessing on this love, and never, with¬
out it, will I leave my father's house to
follow the man I love."
" The man you love ! " cried Ber¬
tram, painfully. " Does he also then
love you, and does he know that you
love him ? "
She looked at him with astonishment.
"• Can one then love without being be¬
loved?" asked she, with the uncon¬
scious pride of a young girl.
"You are right," said Bertram; "I
was a fool to ask this question of you.
But why do you doubt your father's
consent ? "Why do you not go confi¬
dingly to bim and confess your love Î
But how! Is this love such that it
dare not face the light, and must conceal
itself from the eyes of your father ? "
" Yes, Bertram, it is such a love ; but
yet you must not doubt me, you must
not think that this love which conceals
itself from the eyes of my father need
therefore fear the light of the world.
My father would, perhaps, if he knew
my secret, declare me unworthy of him ;
but never, be assured, never would I
commit any act unworthy of myself^
and for which T would have to blush.
It is possible that not only my father
but the whole world would pronounce
me guilty if it knew my love ; but, be¬
lieve me, that in the consciousness of
my rectitude I would have the courage
to brave the verdict of the whole
world, provided that my own heart ac¬
quitted me, and that I am guilty of no
other crime than this accidental one,
which fate, and not my own wül and
trespass, imposes on me. Love allows
itself neither to be given nor taken,
and when it cannot command fortune,
it can at least lighten misfortune.
More I cannot teU you, my brother,
and what is the use of words ? Only
depend on what I assure you, I will
never be faithless to my honor nor my
love. You may think," continued she,
proudly and passionately, " that my
love is a crime, but never that I could
love imworthily, or that I could bow
BROTHER AND SISTER.
19
my head imder the disgrace of a dia-
honorable love."
She looked beautiful in her proud,
flashing maidenhood ; and Bertram felt,
as he looked on her handsome, glowing
countenance, that he had never loved
her so sincerely, and at the same time
so painfully, as at this moment.
" Elise," said he, grasping her hand,
"Will you not have entire confidence
in your brother ? Will you not teU me
the name of your lover ? "
She shook her head earnestly. " Only
God and my heart dare know it."
" Elise," continued he more urgently,
" shall I tell you what has been whis¬
pered in my ear as I returned from a
long absence? Shall I tell you what
your enemies—for your youth and beau¬
ty and your father's wealth have made
you enemies—shall I tell you what your
enemies whisper to each other with
malicious joy ? "
"No, no 1 " said she anxiously, "how
would it help me to know it ? "
Bertram continued inexorably, " They
say that the captive Russian, General
Sievers, was welcomed by your father
into Ms house as a friend, and that he
overwhelmed the noble prisoner with
kind attention."
Elise breathed more freely. " It was
with the consent and by the wish of the
king that my father was kind to the
captive Russian general."
" And was it also by the wish of the
king that Gotzkowsky's daughter ac¬
cepted the homage of the Russian gen¬
eral's adjutant ? "
A slight shudder ran through Elise's
whole frame, and her cheeks became
crimson.
"Ah," cried Bertram sadly, "I see
you understand me. You will not tell
me the name of your lover—let me
tell it to you. It is Feodor von Bren-
da."
" No, no ! " cried Elise, looking
around in alarm, and fearful lest some
treacherous ear had heard the danger¬
ous secret.
"Yes," said Bertram, "his name is
Feodor von Brenda ; he serves as colo¬
nel in the Russian army ; he fights
against our brothers and our king ; he
is the enemy of our country."
"You have no pity on me," cried
Elise, wringing her hands, her eyes
streaming with tears. "You wish to
kill me with your cruel words."
" I wish to show to the daughter of
the noblest and truest patriot, I wish to
point out to the young, inexperienced,
credulous maiden, to my sister, that she
stands at the edge of an abyss. I wish
to open her eyes that sbe may be aware
of the danger wHch threatens her. I
wish to draw her back from this abyss
which threatens to engulf her."
"It is too late," said Elise, rising
proudly and drying her tears. "I
know it all, Bertram; I stand at the
edge of this abyss with open eyes, con¬
scious of the danger; but I wiU not,
cannot draw back, for my heart holds
me fast."
Elise took leave of Mm with a sad
smile, and hurried rapidly down the
dark walk wMch led to the retired and
unfrequented parts of the garden.
Bertram looked after her until her
pink dress disappeared behind the dark
foliage of the hedge.
" She loves him," murmured he, let-
20
THE MERCHANT OF BERLIN.
ting his head drop upon his breast, " it
¡8 certain she loves him."
CHAPTER rV.
feodok von bkenda.
Elise directed her hasty steps toward
the more retired parts of the garden.
She longed tó be alone. Her soul, agi¬
tated by painful emotions, required si¬
lence and solitude, in order to settle
down again gently to rest and peace.
Slowly, and with bowed head, she tra¬
versed the dark, silent garden-walks.
Her thoughts wandered afar off, and
she sought some little comfort, some
relief from the privations of the pres¬
ent, in the sweet and blissful recoUec-
tions of bygone days.
"What can keep him?" asked she
of herself ; and as she thought of him,
her countenance assumed a cheerful,
almost happy expression. " He swore
to brave every danger, every difficulty,
in order to let me hear from him ; and
now, alas I ten weeks have passed, and
no news, no token, from him. My
God ! is it possible that in all this long
time he could have found no opportu¬
nity to write to me?—or perhaps his
love has not survived the test of sepa¬
ration and silence."
At this thought she stopped, as if
stunned, and pressed her hand to her
breast. A sharp pain shot through
her, and her heart seemed to cease to
pulsate. But, in a moment, her coun¬
tenance brightened up, and she mur¬
mured, with a gentle smile, " Oh, to
doubt his love were a greater treason
than to love my coimtry's enemy. Oh,
no 1 Feodor, my heart does not doubt
you ; and notwithstanding your silence,
I know that your heart answers mine,
and that we are forever and inseparably
united."
With rapid step and cheerful mind
she continued her wandering. She had
now arrived at the darkest and most
secluded part of the garden. Nothing
stirred around her, and there was only
heard the rustling of the dark fir-tree
moved by the wind, or the melodious
note of some bird hidden in the foliage.
The garden, elsewhere so carefully
and artistically tended, stretching from
the Leipsic Street to the Palisades,
which surrounded the town in lieu of a
wall at that time, was here overgrown
with underwood, protecting the more
beautiful parts like a quickset hedge.
But this bush was, besides, surrounded
by a high wall, running immediately
next to the Palisades, and bounding
the whole back part of the garden. It
was seldom that any one wandered in
this neighborhood, and Elise was cer¬
tain, therefore, that no inquisitive eye
could watch her, no treacherous ear
listen to her half-whispered words.
She seated herself on a bench imder
a tree, not far from the wall, and looked
up dreamingly and thoughtfully at the
patches of blue sky visible through the
tree-tops. Her whole soul was sunk in
reminiscence. Ah, how often had she
sat here, but not alone—^not with this
painful longing in her heart, but in the
fullest contentment of happiness, listen¬
ing with delighted ear to words spoken
by him who sat next to her, holding
her hand in his, and gazing on her
FEODOR VON BRENDA.
21
mtb looks which made her heart trem¬
ble with happiness 1 Here, on this
spot, he had taken leave of her, and
since then it had become, as it were,
the temple of her recollections, to which
she daily made her pilgrimage to offer
up her devout, sincere, and ardent
prayer of love.
She sat and looked up to heaven,
and her ear, dwelling on words which
had died away long ago, did not hear
sounds which were perceptible on the
other side of the wall. It aj)peared as
if some one was striving to climb it,
and indeed there could be now seen a
hand feeling about, and then a man's
figure rising above the wall.
Cautiously spying around, large hash¬
ing eyes looked into the garden. One
moment the figure rested upon the
waU, as if exhausted by the exertion, or
listening for some sound. It was a
young man, in the garb of a peasant,
who sat upon the waU ; but the heavy,
black mustache little suited this peace¬
ful dress, and his bold air, verging on
insolence, seemed to challenge the dan¬
gers which surrounded him.
He rested for a moment on the wall,
and listened attentively. Then he
drew a pistol from his breast, and ex¬
amined carefully its lock and barrel.
He then cocked it, and holding it in
one hand, began carefully and noise¬
lessly to descend. "With one leap he
sprang to the ground ; the leaves rus¬
tled under his feet, and again he stood
motionless in a listening attitude. His
glance was as keen and bright as that
of an eagle, and it seemed to penetrate
the dark foliage. Suddenly a light
flashed across his countenance, and a
smile of delight played about his lips.
He had seen the young girl, who was
seated on the bench lost in deep
thought, and that he had recognized her
was betrayed by his animated expres¬
sion. Quietly, carefully, he drew nearer,
ever and again standing stUl and listen¬
ing. Then he stood close behind her
at the tree. Again he listens, but every
thing is silent- and hushed. Now he
calls her softly by name, and whispers
almost inaudibly, " Elise 1 "
She started and looked up, but saw
no one, and as she recovered herself,
she sighed gently, and said: "I was
mistaken, it was only the wind."
But again he whispered : " Start not,
Elise ; do not utter a word or cry ! "
" O God ! " murmured she in a low
tone, trembling in all her limbs. An
ardent embrace, a glowing kiss upon
her brow, and a well-beloved voice
whispered her name.
" Teodor 1 " uttered she faintly.
Overcome by the sudden violence of
her feelings, her head drooped languid¬
ly on his breast. Then, drawing her¬
self up, she gazed at liim, and her ea¬
ger, loving look encountered his flash¬
ing eye. She was, as it were, fascinated
—^happy as in a dream, and yet con¬
scious of the most delicious waking.
" Do you know me, Elise ? Do you
recognize your Teodor in spite of his
disguise ? "
" Oh, speak again," said she as he
ceased. "It is so long since I have
heard your voice 1 "
" Ten weeks have passed," said he,
pressing her stUl closer to his heart,
" -without my being able to see you or
convey to you any information. I
22
THE MERCHANT OF BERLIN.
could endure it no longer. I said to
myself, ' God is the friend of lovers,' and
so I disguise myself as you see me, and
ventured here."
Elise started up and gazed at him
anxiously. Awaking from her ecstasy
of delight, she just began to be conscious
of the present.
" Good heavens ! " she cried, " danger
threatens you."
" Death, if I am found here ! " said
he solemnly—" death, if it is known in
the Eussian camp why I came here ! "
She uttered a cry, and clung anxious¬
ly to him. "You should not have
come here," said she, trembling. " My
God, if my father should find you here I
It was cruel of you to come."
"It would have been more cruel,"
said he, smiling, " if being so near you,
I had not come at all. I have watched
and yearned so long for this meeting ; I
have longed so to read in your eyes
that you have not forgotten me 1 Why
do you cast them down, Elise ? "
" Because, Feodor, you have already
read too much in them, more than my
father would ever forgive."
"Your father was always kind and
friendly toward me, but at that
time I was his prisoner, now he regards
me only as the enemy of his country ;
and yet, Elise, my object here is any
thing but that of an enemy. It is not
only the desire but also the anxiety of
love which brings me here. Listen to
me—my time is limited, and I am lost
if I linger too long; but I had to see
you to warn you, to avert the danger
which threatens you, and all of you.
Listen, therefore. Your father is the most
powerful and influential man in Berlin.
His influence will go far with the coun¬
cil and the citizens. Entreat him,
Elise, to use all his influence to avert a
terrible bloodshed from this city."
Elise shook her head seriously and
sadly. Her sweet dream was dissi¬
pated; she was now no longer the
dreaming, loving girl, but a conscious,
reasoning, collected woman.
" How can my father do that ? " said
she, doubtingly.
"He must persuade the citizens to
yield without fighting."
" That my father will never do," said
she, warmly.
"Yes he will do it," .replied her
lover, " when he learns that all fighting
is useless. Let him have compassion'
on his native town, on himself You
are aU lost if you fight. Already
twelve thousand of our men, under
General Tottleben, stand before the
gates. At this moment, while I am
speaking, Tschemitscheff, with twenty
thousand regulars, is approaching from
the other side. Count Lacy, too, with
his Austrians, is drawing near. All
this tell your father. Tell him, also,
that General Tottleben has promised
our Empress Elizabeth to take Berlin,
if he has to lay it in ruins and ashes.
Use all your influence, implore him to
do all in his power to persuade the cit¬
izens to a peaceful surrender."
"I have no influence over my fa¬
ther," said she, sadly, " and if I had
I would not abuse it. Such a surren¬
der, without a fight, would be coward¬
ice."
" But a fight, with the assured cer
tainty of defeat, would be madness
Your father does not know the number
FEODOR VON BRENDA.
23
of troops massed aroimd Berlin. Do
you tell him."
She looked at him mournfully.
" And shall I tell him, too, from whom
I receiyed this information ? "
After a little reflection, he replied:
" Yes, if it cannot be otherwise, teU him.
Your father will not betray me."
" No, hut he will curse his daughter,"
cried Elise, painfully—"curse her for
having had intercourse with our
country's enemy, while the Russian can¬
non threaten our town. No, no, Feo-
dor, it were no use to warn him. My
father would not listen to me."
" So Berlin will run toward its ruin,
and I cannot prevent it," said the colo¬
nel, sadly. "I have done all in my
power. I wished to requite your father
for all the kindness he has shown me,
and for that reason I risked my life in
order to warn him."
"Believe me, Feodor, I will never
forget you for it," said she, offering him
both her hands. "However angry
my father may be, my heart still re¬
mains yours. Love does not recog¬
nize any national hatred. It yields it¬
self without reserve to him who has
won it."
She leaned her head upon his breast,
and he imprinted a kiss upon her fore¬
head.
"Thank you for these words," said
he ; " wherever I go, they shall be my
talisman."
" Are you going already ? " asked she,
anxiously.
" I must go, EUse," replied he.
"Oh, Feodor, I dare not bid you
stay. I tremble at the thought of my
father seeing you," sighed she; "but
when, my beloved, when shall we see
each other again ? "
He looked at her a long time with a
steady, piercing glance. He then ex¬
claimed almost rudely : " You have
sworn me love and constancy till death.
Do you remember it ? "
" I remember it and never will I be
faithless to my vow," whispered she,
smiling through her tears.
" You swore to me never to belong
to any one but me. Have you forgotten
that?"
" No, I have not."
""Well, then," said he rising, "we
shall soon see each other again."
" "When, Feodor, when ? "
" "When Berlin is in our hands," said
he, smiling proudly ; " when we enter
your gates as conquerors."
She shuddered painfully. He saw
it, and a hateful, mocking expression
passed across his features; but this
lasted only a moment, and his change¬
able countenance appeared again bright
and loving. He took Elise's hand and
pressed it to his lips.
" WiU you, even at such a time, allow
me to see you ? Will you, faithful to
your vow, remember that my EUse has
sworn by God and her love never to
turn a deaf ear to my call ? WiU you
expect me ? " asked he, coaxingly.
"I wiU," answered she, in a low
voice.
" And I will come," cried he passion¬
ately, "if the way to you leads over
mountains of dead bodies 1 "
She threw herself into his open arms,
and nestled like a timid dove on his
breast.
"Oh!" cried she, "when danger
24
THE MERCHANT OF BERLIN.
threatens you, then I think I would like
to be a man, to share it with you."
He covered her Hps and eyes with
kisses. " Farewell, farewell, Elise ; and
if it is God's will we will meet again."
One last kiss, one last embrace, and
he tore himself from her arms and hur¬
ried toward the wall. Now he climbs
it, and throws his last greetings to her,
then descends on the other side.
" He is gone, he is gone ! " she
shrieked, and falling on her knees,
raised her hands to heaven. " 0 God,
have mercy on me, have pity on my
love ! "
It seemed as if God did grant her
prayer, for a thick veil sank over her
eyes, and a swoon robbed her of con¬
sciousness.
CHAPTER v.
mb. keetschmbb, op the vossiab
gazette.
The editor of the Vbssian Gazette,
Mr. Kretschmer, sat at his desk, busily
writing. That he was a learned man
was seen by his earnest, care-worn fore¬
head, his large, well-powdered wig, and
above all by the disorder and confusion
which reigned in the whole room. Be¬
sides which, Mr. Kretschmer wore a
dressing-gown, thickly sprinkled with
ink-spots, the official robe of his liter¬
ary dignity. And whosoever beheld
him in this robe, his long pipe in his
mouth, filling the room with a thick
blue smoke, seated on his high tripod
before his desk, could not but believe
that Mr. Kretschmer was a learned man.
But more than this, he was a great
politician. Thereto testified the numer¬
ous journals which lay scattered about
on the floor, but more especially the
nineteen quarto volumes, which stood
above on the book-shelf, lettered in
gold on the back, " Vobsian Gazette,"
and under that the numbers of tbe
year, from 1740 to 1759. The Vbssian
Oasette was then a young, blooming
rose, of scarcely nineteen summers. It
could stiU pass for a vigorous, hand¬
some, and perhaps even innocent young
maiden ; and Mr. Kretschmer was the
editor of the Vossian Gazette. Had he
not, then, a right to be regarded as a
great politician ?
Mr. Kretschmer was at this moment
occupied in writing an article for the
next morning's paper, and as he had
just received news "by special courier"
of another battle, subsequent to that of
Liegnitz, which had resulted favorably
for the Prussians, he was composing,
with the coinage of a lion, an extra,
which fairly glowed with ardent har
tred against the oppressors and caimi-
bals, namely, the Russians and the
Austrians ; and declared that the sal¬
vation of all Germany depended on the
supreme dominion of Prussia.
The bold editor of the Vossian Ga¬
zette in this article called upon the
people to fly to arms against the
" incendiary oppressors of Freedom and
the people's rights," as he called the
Russians; he exhorted even the women
and girls to fight, and called upon
them to grasp the sword in their tender
hands instead of the needle. Finally,
he entreated all Berlin, if ever the in¬
cendiary enemy should approach the
gates, rather to let the whole city be
MB. KBETSCHMEB, OF THE VOSSIAN GAZETTE.
25
destroyed by fire, and bury themselves in
the ruins before they submitted to the
foe. Mr. Kretschmer then laid his pen
down, and revised with a satisfied look
what he had written.
" That will have an effect," said he»
rubbing his hands together, delighted.
" When his majesty, our heroic king,
returns victorious to Berlin, I will send
him this sheet of the Voiúan Gazette,
and I know that he will be satisfied
with my heroism."
He looked again at the paper.
" Beautiful, beautiful I " exclaimed he,
with a self-satisfied smile. " My pen has
shot nothing less than bomb-shells and
grape, and my ink has turned into whole
streams of the enemy's blood. And
why should I not be bold, it being per¬
fectly safe, since the king must certainly
be victorious, and the enemy has no
idea of visiting Berlin Î Tschemitscheff
and Tottleben are quietly encamped on
the other side of the Oder ; Soltikoff
with his army is near Frankfort ; and
Count Lacy with his Austrians is await¬
ing an opportunity to give battle to
our king. Thus, as I said, I can safely
exhort the good citizens of Berlin to
defend themselves heroically against
the infamous spoiler. How beautifully
this peroration sounds : ' People of Ber¬
lin 1 rather let yourselves be buried
imder the ruins of your burnmg city
than submit to an incendiary enemy 1 '
—Incendiary,^'' replied he, thoughtfully,
" that is rather a strong expression, and
if the Russians do come, they will re¬
venge themselves for it ; but pshaw I
the Russians are not coming, and I can
safely send this article to the press.
And, furthermore, did not the king
himself stigmatize the Russians as such ? j
Yes, I remember last year, after the un¬
fortunate invasion of the Russians, he
looked down from the steeple in Frank
fort upon the devastation of the
country, and cried out with angry in¬
dignation, ' Incendiaries ! incendiaries 1 '
The expression is at least official, and
can therefore remain."
Mr. Kretschmer seized the bell-rope,
and began to ring violently. Immedi¬
ately the door opened, and a small boy
entered, with a portfolio under his
arm.
"Devil," said Mr. Kretschmer, ma¬
jestically, " here is my article ; run as
fast as you can to the printing-office
with it, and impress upon the composi¬
tor the necessity of haste, and, above
all things, not to make such mistakes
as he did lately, when, in speaking of
the Russians, he put ' Mends ' instead
of ' fiends,' which was an unpardonable
and most treasonable error of expres¬
sion."
The little boy took the paper and
laid it in his portfolio.
" The printer told me to ask you,"
said he, " if you had written nothing
yét for the 'Miscellaneous.' Spener'»
Journal had yesterday such a beautiful
'Miscellaneous,' and told about a wo¬
man who had four children at a birth,
and a stork which had arrived and
built its nest, although it was the
month of October."
Mr. Kretschmer frowned. " Spener''»
Journal always has some wonderful
news, and amuses the Berlin people
with all kinds of stupid gossip," grum¬
bled he. "The rivalry of such a
paper is unbearable."
£6
THE MERCHANT OF BERLIN.
"Well, how about the miscellaneous
intelligence ? " asked the printer's boy.
Mr. Kretschmer stamped his foot an¬
grily. " Go to the devil 1 " said he.
Ât this moment there was heard a
loud crying and shouting ; and while
the printer's boy pitched out of the
door, Mr. Kretschmer hurried to the
window to find out the cause of the
uproar.
A heaving, noisy crowd filled the
street below, and had halted right
under the editor's window. In the
midst thereof was seen the tall, lank
figure of a man, whose extraordinary
appearance enchained the attention of
the multitude, and excited afiresh their
shouts and derisive laughter. And, in
fact, nothing could be more striking or
iantasti c than this man. Notwithstand-
ing the cool October weather, his gi¬
gantic figure was clothed fi-om head to
foot in gray linen, harmonizing strangely
with the gray color of his skin and
hair, which latter feU in long locks
&om his uncovered head down on his
shoulders, and gave to the apparition
the semblance of a pyramidical ash-
heap, out of which his eyes shone like
two burning coals. Around his shoul¬
ders hung a long cloak of gray Hnen,
which, in addressing the multitude, he
sometimes threw around him in pic¬
turesque folds, sometimes spread out
wide, enveloping his long arms in it, so
that he looked like an expanded bat.
" Ah 1 it is Pfannenstiel, our prophet¬
ic linen-weaver," said Mr. Kretschmer,
smiling, as he opened his window, and
exchanged a look of recognition with
the man who was gazing up at him.
The linen-weaver and prophet had
rapidly acquired some renown in Ber¬
lin by his propnecies and predictions.
The people believed in nis mystic
words and soothsayings and mistaken
fanaticism. He related to them his
visions and apparitions ; he told about
the angels and the Lord Jesus, who
often visited him; about the Virgin
Mary, who appeared in his room every
night, and inspired him with what he
was to say to the people, and gave him
pictures whose mystic signification he
was to interpret to them. The prophet
possessed more than a hundred of these
pictures, given him by celestial appari¬
tions. He had them carefuUy pasted
together, and rolled up always with
him. These pictorial sheets, roughly
painted on coarse paper, served the
linen-weaver in lieu of cards or coffee-
grounds, for the purpose of prophesy¬
ing to the people, and announcing the
future to them ; and the good folks of
Berlin believed in these prophecies with
firm faith, and listened with devout
confidence to the words of their prophet.
Pfannenstiel was in the act of unroll¬
ing his pictures, and the multitude,
which, just before, had been shouting
and screaming, became suddenly silent,
and gazed up at the weaver with in¬
tense expectation. A breathless silence
ensued, and, far down the street,
sounded the prophet's loud and sono¬
rous voice. He pointed to the last of
his pictures, which, in coarse, clumsy
drawing, represented a town, from the
houses of which flames arose in the
most variegated colors.
" Behold I behold ! " cried the proph¬
et, " and fall on your knees and pray 1
Yes, pray 1 for I tell you that the Holy
MR. KRETSCHMER, OF THE VOSSIAN GAZETTE.
27
Ghost appeared to me, His wings drip¬
ping with blood, and in His burning
and flaming beak He held this picture
which I now show you."
. " Well, then, how is it that the pic¬
ture is not burnt too, if the Holy Ghost
held it in His burning beak ? " asked
an impudent shoemaker's boy.
A low laugh ran through the crowd,
but this was soon suppressed by angry,
threatening voices, commanding silence
and quiet.
The prophet turned with an air of
majestic composure toward the ques¬
tioner: "Why was not this picture
burnt? Because God wished to per¬
form a miracle, to manifest Himself to
me in His glory, and to prove to me
that this vision was from Him, and not
from the deviL Yes, indeed, God gave
me this picture that we might be
warned—not to terrify us. Listen,
therefore, to my voice, and learn what
God announces to you from my mouth."
" I would indeed like to hear what
the stupid rascal is going to annormce
to these poor foolish devils," muttered
Mr. Kretschmer, leaning out of the win¬
dow and listening attentively.
Pfannenstiel continued : " Behold
these columns of fire rising from the
houses of this town. This town is
Berlin, and the fire wiU burst out of the
roofs of your houses. Woe ! woe ! will
sound in your streets, and weeping and
lamentation will fill the air. I say unto
you, watch and pray ! Strew ashes on
your heads, and fall down on your
knees and pray to God for mercy, for
the enemy is before your gates, and ere
the sun sets the Kussians will enter
your town ! I say imto you, verily I
say unto you, God spoke to me in a
voice of thunder, and said, ' The Eus-
sians are coming T Fall down and
pray, for the Russians are coming 1 "
"The Russians are coming!" cried
the terrified multitude, and some among
them turned pale. The weeping wo¬
men folded their hands in prayer ; the
men looked around timidly, and the
frightened children clung to their mo¬
thers in dread of the Russians, whose
name was synonymous with that of sav¬
ages and cannibals. Even Kretschmer
could not help feeling somewhat terri¬
fied. He drew back thoughtfully from
the window, muttering with a shudder,
" The Russians are coming 1 "
The people crowded around the
prophet in stiU narrower circles, and in
more piercing tones wept and cried
out : " What shall we do ? What shall
we do to be saved ? Have mercy, O
God ! Have mercy on Berlin, for the
Russians are coming I "
" Yes, they are coming ! " cried
Pfannenstiel. " God told me so in the
roU of His thunder and the lightning
of BQs eyes ; and He said to me : ' Go
and say to the people of Berlin, " The
Russians are coming 1 " and thou shalt
see in the same hour how their hearts
will shrink, and how cast down they
wiU be ; how their eyes wiU run tears,
and their lips utter prayers, for the
Russian is the sworn enemy of the Ber¬
lin people; and as often as the cry,
"The Russians are coming," sounds
through the streets of Berlin, there will
be wailing and lamentation in every
house and every heart ; and they will
bow down in timid contrition and ab¬
ject obedience. Speak, therefore, to
28
THE MERCHANT OF BERLIN.
tbem, and say, " The Eusskns are com¬
ing I" that they may become bumble
and quiet; that the proud word may
be silenced on their lips, and that they
may submit in peace.' "
" What shall we do ? " asked the
people. " Help us, advise us, for thou
art our prophet."
Pfannenstiel drew himself up to bis
utmost height, and an expression of tri¬
umphant cunning sparkled in his eyes.
" Do you not imderstand the voice of
God ? God commands you to with¬
draw in silence and peace to your own
dwellings, to weep and pray. Go,
thai 1 Let the word of your mouth
and the rebeUiousness of your hearts
be silent. Go home to your huts, shut
the doors and windows, and do not
venture out, for without, death and the
Russians await you I "
Obedient to the voice of their proph¬
et, the crowd separated in different di¬
rections, and dispersed quietly.
Pfannenstiel looked after them with
a smile of scorn ; then silently rolled
up his pictures, threw his gray cloak
over his shoulders, and, casting a se¬
rious and significant look up at Mr.
Kretschmer's window, strode down the
street slowly and with an air of majes¬
tic dignity.
CHAPTER VI.
THE cowards' BACE.
The warning sounded loud and
threatening in Mr. Kretschmer's ears—
•• The Russians are coming I " A cold
chill ran through him, and he could
not prevent an involuntary shudder.
But he tried to rouse himself fi-om this
despondency, and laughed at himself
for this credulous fear.
" This Pfannenstiel is a fool, and I
would be a greater one if I believed his
nonsense," said he. "No, no, my in¬
formation is warranted and authentic.
The king has had a sharp skirmish
with the Russians near Reitwan, and
driven them back, and then proceeded
quietly to Meissen. Thus there is no
ground for anxiety, and I can safely let
off my bomb-shells against the Rus¬
sians."
Mr. Kretschmer felt his courage re¬
turn and his heart grow warm.
" Now I see the whole game," cried
he, laughing. " Pfannenstiel wishes
the Yoman Gazette to take notice of
him. He wants to be talked about, and
wishes the newspapers to spread his
reputation. For that reason he sta¬
tioned himself right under my window,
for that reason he cast such significant
looks at me, for that reason he ad¬
dressed the crowd and poured forth bis
nonsense right here. Yes, that's it!
He wishes to prove to me how great
his power is over this people which be¬
lieves in him, even when he utters the
most incredible and unheard-of things.
Well, we can help the man," continued
he, laughing, as he stepped to his desk.
" The desired article for the ' Miscella¬
neous ' is found, and I think that the
prophetic linen-weaver, Pfannenstiel, is
well worth more than the four children
at a. birth and the miserable stork's
nest of yesterday's Spener's Journal.
Let's write it off quickly."
Kretschmer began to wrUe most in-
THE COWARDS' RACE.
29
dusti-iously, when he was suddenly in¬
terrupted by a violent knocking at the
door. It opened, and a stately old gen¬
tleman entered, with well-powdered
wig and long queue.
" Mr. Krause, my worthy colleague 1 "
exclaimed Kretschmer, jumping up and
hastening toward the old man. But
Mr. Krause had no word of greeting.
He sank sighing into a chair.
"Do you know the news?" asked
he, in a whining tone, folding his trem¬
bling hands, and looking at Kretsch¬
mer timidly as he stood before him.
" Know what ? " demanded the latter
in reply, feeling his heart sink.
" The Russians are coming I " sighed
Mr. Krause.
" That is a silly tale," cried Kretsch¬
mer peevishly, with an impatient ges¬
ture.
" Would to God it were 1 " groaned
Krause ; " but the news is, alas, but too
true, and it can no longer be doubt¬
ed I"
" Man of misfortune," cried Mr.
Kretschmer, " who told you so ? "
" Pfannenstiel."
"Pfannenstiel?" repeated Kretsch¬
mer, laughing heartily ; " oh, yes !
Pfannenstiel prophesied it just now in
the streets, under my window. Now
don't distress yourself, dearest friend
and colleague. That was only a clum¬
sy trick of the scoundrel to get me to
write an article about him in the Vos-
sian Gazette. I have already gratified
his wish."
"You are mistaken," said Krause,
mournfully. " I sent Pfannenstiel into
the streets, to quiet the people, and to
admonish them to behave peaceably
and soberly, even if the Russians should
come."
" Oh ! you believe in aU these dreams
of Pfannenstiel ? "
" I believe in the truth, and in what
I know 1 " exclaimed Krause, emphati¬
cally. "Pfannenstiel has for a long
time been my agent, and for a consid¬
erable stipend, paid every month, in¬
forms me of all that happens, is talked
and thought of in the town. He is a
very useful man, peculiarly suited to
this service."
"The approach of the Russians is
then town-talk, and nothing more ? "
asked Kretschmer, who was still anx¬
ious to throw doubt on the bad news.
" No, it is a fact," said Krause, se¬
riously. " Pfannensteil is, as you know,
not only a prophet, but also a quack
doctor, and his herbs and decoctions
are certainly often of astonishing effi¬
cacy. He always gathers the plants for
his mixtures himself, and roams about
in search of them in the neighborhood
of Berlin for days together. Last even¬
ing he was outside the town, on one
of these tramps, intending to pass the
night sleeping imder a tree. He was
awoke by the sound of troops march¬
ing, and as he looked carefully around,
he could plainly distinguish in the
bright moonlight the uniforms of the
Russian army. It was a long column
of many thousand men. They halted
not far from the place where Pfannen¬
stiel lay, and he crept carefully nearer.
He then ascertained from then conver¬
sation that this was only a small divis¬
ion of the army, which had advanced
by forced marches from Frankfort, and
was commanded by General Tottleben.''
so
THE MERCHANT OF BERLIN.
" By Tottleben I " cried Kretscbmer
in dismay.
Tes, by Tottleben," whimpered
Krause, and they both looked in silence
on the groimd. "Yes, his vengeance
will be terrible," said Krause, after a
long and anxious pause. " Have you
not heard," continued he iu a whisper
—" have you not heard the sad story
of what occurred last year in Erlangen ?
The editor of the Erlangen Gaeette ad¬
mitted into his columns an article abu¬
sive of our great king. A Prussian of¬
ficer came in person to Erlangen to call
the editor to account. And what do
you think he did ? He caused the un¬
fortunate and pitiable journalist to be
beaten with cudgels, and then give
him a receipt for the bastinado he had
gotten."
" Horrible I " cried Mr. Kretscbmer,
wringing his hands.
Mr. Krause continued : " When a re¬
fined Prussian oflScer can behave in this
way, what have we to expect from
these rough, imcivilized enemies, the
Russians ? Oh ! they will murder us,
for we, too, have ventured to write
boldly and energetically against them."
"Yes, you particularly," said Mr.
Kretscbmer quickly. "Do you recol¬
lect the famous article in your paper,
in which you called General Tottleben
a notorious adventurer, who had de¬
serted to the enemy after having en¬
joyed the unmerited favor of our king ?
This was, certainly, rather strong; it
might even be called indiscreet."
• " Hot as indiscreet as your ' Earnest
and Confidential Country Talk,' " cried
Krause, sharply.
"I never avowed myself the author
of that pamphlet," said Kretscbmer,
quickly.
" But every one knows that you are,
and you never denied it," replied
Krause, maliciously. "This 'Country
Talk ' is more than indiscreet, it is fool¬
hardy. In it you nicknamed Maria
Theresa, Aunt Tüla; the Elector of
Saxony, Brother Osten ; the Empress of
Russia, Cousin Lizzy; and our king.
Neighbor Flink. And don't you re¬
member what words you put into Cousin
Lizzie's mouth, and how you made
neighbor Flink ridicule her? Ah, I
am afraid you wül pay dearly for this
piece of boldness."
" It is not quite so bad as your call¬
ing Tottleben a notorious adventurer ;
for the princes are not here, but Tottle¬
ben is before the gates of Berlin, and
win revenge himself."
" I am afraid our prospects are equal¬
ly bad, and for that reason I have come
to you, that we might consult together
as to what we had best do, to
avert this threatening blow from our
heads."
"You are right," said Kretscbmer,
drawing nearer to his brother editor.
" Let us consider. Above all things, no
exciting calls, no appeals to the people
to perform deeds of heroic valor. Ber¬
lin is too weak for defence ; why, then,
should we irritate the enemy by useless
opposition ? "
" You, too, are right," said Krause,
thoughtfully ; " let us raftier advise the
citizens of Berlin to be quiet ; let us
wheel boldly round, and speak in ouj
journals with respect and deference of
our worthy enemy." «
" Besides which, it would be weU to
THE INTERRUPTED FESTIVAL.
31
tonsult with some of the principal men
who have an influence on the people.
For example, let us go to Gotzkowsky,"
said Kretschmer.
"Gotzkowsky gives a great holiday
to his workmen to-day."
" So much the better, for then he can
immediately use his influence on them.
Come, let us go at once to Gotzkowsky,
this Croesus of Berlin, who bought for
our Mng three hundred thousand dol¬
lars' worth of pictures in Italy, without
having been paid for them up to this
day, and yet is able to take a contract
for commissary stores to the amount of
eight millions. Let us go to him ; and,
hark ye ! it would be as well to take
Pfannenstiel with us to back us."
" Yes," said Krause, raising himself
quickly by the arm of his younger
friend, " let us go to Gotzkowsky with
Pfannenstiel, and preach mildness and
submission to him and his workmen."
They both prepared to go. Sudden¬
ly Kretschmer stopped as if struck by
lightning, and sank down on a chair
stunned. "My article, my article!"
moaned he. " I am a lost man ! "
" What article do you mean, my dear¬
est Mend ? "
" The leading article in to-morrow's
paper," whimpered Kretschmer. " Oh,
it was a beautiful article, full of inspira¬
tion, but it is not suitable to the times
or the circumstances. I wrote it under
the erroneous impression that our
armies had gained a victory, and in it I
■ spoke with great contempt of the incen¬
diary enemy."
" My God, what rashness ! " exclaimed
Krause, clasping his hands in despair.
Kretschmer flew from his stool, and
grasped his hat. " My article ! I must
have my article back. The printer
must give it up to me. Wait for me in
the street. I come either with my
article or not at all."
Bidding Krause a hasty farewell, he
rushed out.
•CHAPTER Vn.
THE INTEBRXJPTED FESTIVAI/.
Gotzkowsky had as yet received no
intelligence of the danger which threat¬
ened the town, and was enjoying the
festival in the garden in the midst of
his people.
They were all collected on a grass-
plat for target-shooting. In the midst
of the plat arose a pole with a target.
The women and girls were standing
around, attentively and curiously
watching the men, who, collected
under a tent, were shooting with cross¬
bows at the target. Every lucky shot
was greeted with a cheer, every unlucky
one with derisive laughter; and the
prizes which were assigned to the fortu¬
nate marksmen only served to increase
the joy and merriment of the happy
crowd.
Suddenly loud cries of weeping and
lamentation were heard from a distance.
The people looked at each other with
anxiety and alarm. The dismal noise
came nearer and still nearer, and then
there appeared at the entrance-gate near
by the strange and wild figure of the lin¬
en-weaver, accompanied by the two edi¬
tors, Krause and Kretschmer.
" Pfannenstiel 1—^it is Pfannenstiel,
our prophet 1 " shouted the crowd,
32
THE MERCHANT OF BERLIN.
while they hastened with joyous laugh¬
ter and words of greeting toward their
beloved seer.
The linen-weaver strode forward
with a serious and majestic air, an¬
swering the greetings of the workmen
with patronizing nods, and from time
to time stretching out his hand as
if blessing them. The multitude
crowded around him, and seemed
to look upon the advent of the prophet
as part of the programme of the enter¬
tainment. But Gotzkowsky hastened
toward the two editors with a cheerful
smile, biddiug them a courteous wel¬
come. They responded to his friendly
greeting with a solemn earnestness, and
requested a conference with a mysterious
and important air. Gotzkowsky looked
at them with astonishment ; but as he
read in their countenances an expression
of deep and anxious concern, he motioned
to them and preceded them to a sum¬
mer-house on the other side of the
lawn.
" Here we can talk without being
observed," said he, casting a look across
at his workmen. "You see my guests
are still busy with the scarecrow
which you brought here; and what
business has this man, indeed, among
merry people ? "
" He maintains that God ordered
him to come to you, to warn you in His
name, and call upon you to protect
Berlin," said Krause.
" Yes," continued Kretschmer, " and
he entreated us to accompany him,
trusting to our influence with our dear
friend."
Gotzkowsky looked at both of the
men with astonishment. " Tell me, my
worthy friends, which of us is crazy ? "
asked he, smiling, partly in derision,
partly in pity. " I am called on to pro¬
tect Berlin, and from what ? "
" Because the Russians are coming,"
said Mr. Krause, solemnly.
Gotzkowsky shrugged his shoulders.
" That is an idle rumor," said he ; " two
days ago they were still in Frankfort.
You see, therefore, that some wag has
amused himself by teasing you and
frightening you a little for the thunder¬
bolts which you two, and particularly
the Vostian Gazette, have launched
against the Russians."
Mr. Kretschmer shuddered and
turned pale. " I beg you," cried he,
" do not speak of it 1 Good Heavens !
the Vosdan Gazette is the organ of the
popular mind, and it is its duty to take
each day the exact tone of public opin¬
ion. I abused the Russians, therefore,
because—"
" Because they were still a hundred
miles from Berlin. Oh, yes, we know
you, gentlemen of the press. You are
full of courage as long as no enemy is
in the field, but as soon as you scent
him, and see the points of his lances,
you become quite humble and mild;
and when he comes threateningly down
upon you, assure him of your respect
and swear to him that you love him,"
interrupted Gotzkowsky.
" You are pleased to jest," said Mr
Krause, casting a rapid glance of
hatred at Gotzkowsky ; " it is well, in¬
deed, that the rich and powerful Gotz¬
kowsky is so cheerful. I will notice it
in my journal. It is news for 'Change,
and the funds will rise when people
hear that Gotzkowsky has laughed."
THE INTERRUPTED FESTIVAL.
33
Gotzkowsky's countenance became
sad and serious. "You may tell the
world," said he, " that my lips laughed ;
but how my heart feels, that you gos¬
sips and newspapers know nothing
about."
" God be praised," said Kretschmer,
ironically, " you are now talking ear¬
nestly, and I can request you to listen to
our serious representations. It is no
idle rumor that I have told you. The
Russians are already at the gates of
Berlin. They have hmried hither by
forced marches. This news is no
longer a secret. All Berlin knows it,
and it is only accidental that you have
not learned it earlier."
" Oh, Heavens I " sobbed Krause,
wringing his hands, "what a terrible
fate awaits our unfortunate town ! "
Gotzkowsky looked at him with a
gloomy frown. " You are, it is true,
an old man," said he, "but even old
men should, at such a time, possess
some manhood.—But you, Mr. Kretsch¬
mer, are young and hearty ; what do
you say to this approach of the Rus¬
sians ? "
"I say," replied Kretschmer, sharp¬
ly, " I say that it would be madness to
excite the wrath of the enemy by resist¬
ance. I Say, that those citizens who
call on the people to fight are rash
fools."
" Oh ! " cried Gotzkowsky, joyfully,
" if there be any such rash fools, then
all is not lost 1 "
"Can you comprehend such mad¬
ness ? " whispered Krause, " to wish to
oppose an overwhelming force while
all our capable men and youths are
with the army in Silesia, and we have
3
no troops but the sick and maimed;
no artillery save two old rusty can¬
non ? "
"A people willing to fight for lib¬
erty," cried Gotzkowsky, " such a peo¬
ple have the strength of a giant even
without cannon and bayonets. God
has given them hands and paving-
stones. If we cannot shoot down the
enemy who threatens our liberty, we
can beat him down."
" What do you say ? " stammered
Krause, looking with amazement at
Gotzkowsky's glowing countenance.
" I say," said Gotzkowsky, " that you
have mistaken your man. I wiU not
advise the brave Berlin people to yield
witfiout having at least fought for
their freedom."
" But only reflect ! " exclaimed
Kretschmer, while Krause paced up
and down, wringing his hands and
moaning in a low tone ; " have you for¬
gotten that the Russian generals have
proclaimed that the empress has com¬
manded them to leave nothing but air
and earth to the inhabitants of every
conquered town and province of Prus
sia ? "
" Oh, pshaw ! " cried Gotzkowsky,
laughing, " they will have to conclude
to leave us something more."
"And did you hear Loudon's terri¬
ble threat 1 He has said his soldiers
should massacre every one, and not
spare even the child in its mother's
womb."
"And did you not hear the brave
Schwerin's answer to this Austrian
bravado ? " asked Gotzkowsky. " He
said, 'My soldiers are not with child,
neither am I.' Well, our men of Berlin
34
THE MERCHANT OF BERLIN.
are not with child, and therefore they
need not be afraid."
" But you must be afraid ! " whined
Krause. "It is disgraceful madness
not to be afraid. How 1 Tou can be
so unreasonable as to advise war ? But
war is the most bitter enemy of pros¬
perity, and threatens property above all
things."
"Then shame on the proprietors,"
cried Gotzkowsky, "if their property
is to make cowardly poltroons of them !
Liberty is our greatest possession, and
all else must 3deld to it."
At this moment loud cries and sounds
of wailing were heard in the garden
from the collected workmen, who sur-
rounded the prophet in a dense group,
and listened to his prophecies with anx¬
ious wonder as he uttered them from
a high bench.
Gotzkowsky frowned. "Ah, I un¬
derstand ! " said he ; " this good linen-
weaver is your accomplice, my brave
gentlemen, and as you wish to convert
me, so does he wish to convert my
honest workmen into old women. Let
us see first in what sort of gibberish he
preaches his wisdom to these good
people."
Without taking any further notice
of the two editors, Gotzkowsky left the
summer-house rapidly, and approached
the listening multitude.
CHAPTER VHL
the leader of the people.
The inspired prophet stood on a
bench, and, as he unrolled his pictures,
he endeavored to explain these mys¬
tical paintings to his devout gazers and
listeners in equally mystical language.
Gotzkowsky hastened toward this
group, and pressed in silent observa¬
tion close up to Pfannenstiel's side.
The Hnen-weaver, wholly possessed
by his prophetic god, had in the mean
while unrolled another picture, and
holding it up high with solemn counte¬
nance, exclaimed with a screaming
voice : " The day of judgment is at
hand, and destiny is at your door ! In
my dream I saw a face like unto no
other face, and I heard a voice, and the
voice was like unto no other voice I "
" And yet you heard it I What ears
you must have 1 " said Gotzkowsky,
laughing.
The prophet answered cahnly, " Yes !
for then were seen invisible things, and
then were heard inaudible sounds ! "
And showing a fresh picture to the
crowd, he continued : " Look at* this
picture, which I found this morning on
my sheet. It contains the history of
your future, and God announced it to
me as I sat at my loom weaving. I
heard a voice crying, 'Pfannenstiel,
my beloved son, dost thou hear me?
And I fell on my knees and answered,
' Yes, I hear.' ' Dost thou know what
thou art weaving Î ' asked the voice.
'Yes,' said I, 'it is linen shirting for
the almshouse.' 'No,' said the voice,
' it is a cloth of weeping for the town
of Berlin, for the daughters of yom:
fathers will shed tears, and there wiU
be moaning and weeping.' "
These last words he accompanied with
a sobbing and plaintive howl, in which
his trembling hearers joined. They
assured each other in- tmcomfortable
«
THE LEADER (
whispers that Pfannenstiel's prophecies
usually came true, and that, even be¬
fore the war, he had predicted the com¬
ing of this day of terror.
But soon Pfannenstiel raised his
voice, and its hoarse croaking sounded
above the loud conversation and anx¬
ious cries of the multitude. "Woe
unto Berlin ! " cried he, with shrieking
pathos. "Blood will flow within her
walls ! The voice said unto me : ' I
will look upon red, but it will not be a
scarlet cloak, and when the red banner
waves thrones will tremble, and there
wUl be no end to the lamentation. And
the cock will crow, and the heavens
will shine blood-red, and everywhere
and in all places men will cry, " Blood !
blood is the drink of new life ; blood
makes young what is old ; blood wipes
out sworn debts; blood makes the
proud humble. Let us drink bloo d ! " ' "
Here the prophet was interrupted by
the loud cries and wailing of the multi¬
tude. The women broke out in tears,
sank on their knees and prayed, or clung
trembling and weeping to their moody-
looking husbands.
Pfannenstiel looked with an air of
proud triumph on this evident efiect of
his speech, and then continued in a
more subdued tone : " But the voice
said to me, ' Hope, and every thing will
turn out weU, and the blood which
flows will transform itself into a purple
robe, and men will call it Freedom.
Out of death wiU arise life.' There¬
fore fall down on your knees, for the
hour of judgment has come, and
prayer alone, but not the sword, can
save you."
The multitude, carried away by the
F THE PEOPLE. 35
deception, were in the act of obeying
this order, when Gotzkowsky, who
could no longer restrain himself, step¬
ped rapidly forward, his countenance
radiant, and his eyes sparkling with
anger.
" Listen not to this hypocritical set,
this lying prophet, my people ! " cried
he, with a voice of thunder. " He will
make cowards of you all, cowards who
will submit to the yoke, howling and
whining. You would not have this ig¬
nominy put upon you. You will be
men, who will defend their liberty with
noble courage to the last drop of their
blood, against the invading hordes of
barbarians. For the barbarians are com¬
ing, and their flerce wrath threatens your
wives and children. "Will you submit
to the Russians with an humble whine ? "
" No, no ! " cried the men, and many
a clinched fist was raised, and many a
wild but muttered oath was heard.
At this moment there arose in the
street a confused sound of screams and
yells, then the hollow roll of the drum,
and the deep clang of the alarm-beU,
which summoned the citizens to the
town-hall.
The garden gates were now violently
thrown open, and a band of stout
workmen was seen hastening in wild
disorder toward Gotzkowsky.
These were the workmen from Gotz-
kowsky's factories, industrious men,
who had preferred working in the fac¬
tory, and not losing their time, to the
enjoyment of the day's festival, and to
whom Gotzkowsky had ordered double
wages to be paid, that they might not
lose their share in the celebration of
his daughter's birthday.
36
THE MERCHANT OF BERLIN.
"The Russians are at the gates!"
cried they. " AH the citizens are arm¬
ing themselves. We have no arms.
Give us arms, master ! "
The cry was taken up by those who
had just been listening to Pfannenstiel's
words. "Yes, give us arms, give us
arms! We are no cowards, we will
fight I "
Gotzkowsky's flashing eye flew across
the multitude, and he saw in the earnest
countenances of the men that they were
serious in their demand, and in their
desire to fight. "Well, then, if you
wiU fight, you shall not want for weap¬
ons," cried he, joyfully. " I have, as
you know, in my house, a collection of
costly arms. Follow me, my children ;
we will go to the armory, and each one
shall take what he Hkes best. On such
a day as this, arms do not belong to
any one in particular, but are the prop¬
erty of him who can find and make
use of them. That is the sacred right
of manhood. The country is in danger I
Come to my armory and arm your¬
selves ! "
The men shouted for joy at Gotz¬
kowsky's words, and pushed after him
with wild impetuosity into the house,
and the large hall, in which the costly
weapons were tastefully grouped and
ornamentally arranged- against the
walls. With eager haste the men pos¬
sessed themselves of these arms, and
Gotzkowsky saw with glad pride his
rare Damascus blades, his delicately-
carved silver-mounted pistols, his dag¬
gers inlaid with gold, his costly orna¬
mented sabres and guns in the hands
of his warlike workmen. He then
armed himself, and his men, always ac¬
customed to look upon him cheerfully
and willingly as their leader, feU into
line behind him in a long military pro
cession.
" Now, then, my children," cried he,
" let us go to the town-hall and offer
our services to the magistrates."
And at the head of his workmen ht
left the house. Soon deep silence
reigned in these rooms, so lately filled
with noise and tumult. The garden,
too, had become deserted and empty.
Pfannenstiel alone remained in his' ele¬
vated position, gazing pensively, as in a
dream, on his collection of pictures.
After this silence had lasted some
time. Krause and Kretschmer crept,
cautiously looking around them, out of
the summer-house in which they had
secreted themselves up to this moment.
Their countenances were pale and an¬
gry-
"Gotzkowsky is a puffed-up fool,"
exclaimed Krause, with a dark frown.
" With his swaggering phrases he has
seduced these workmen away from us,
to rush into the fight like wounded
wild boars, and to bring the Russians
down upon us."
"We must not give up all hope,"
said Kretschmer ; " the people are
timid and fickle, and whoever wiU give
them the sweetest words wins them
over to his side. Come, let us try our
luck elsewhere. Every thing depends
upon our being beforehand with this
braggart Gotzkowsky, and gettmg first
the ear of the people. You, Pfannen¬
stiel, come with us, and get up your
words strong and spirited, so that the
stupid people may believe you."
Pfannenstiel shut up his picture-
THE RUSSUN IS
AT THE GATES.
37
book, and tbrew bis cloak with majes¬
tic dignity . over his lean shoulders.
" The people are like a flock of sheep,"
said he; "they.want a leader, never
mind who. Only the leader must be
there at the right hour ; and if God has
bestowed upon him the gift of elo¬
quence, he can lead them either into
the church to contrite prayer, or to the
slaughter-field to bloody combat. The
people are a flock of sheep, nothing
more ! "
" Come, then," cried Kretschmer, pa¬
thetically; "come and be their bell¬
wether, and lead the people into the
church."
CHAPTER IX.
THE BUSSIAN IS AT THE GATES.
Is a few minutes, quiet, peaceful, in¬
dustrious Berlin was transformed into
an open encampment. From all the
streets there poured throngs of armed
men toward the town-hall, where the
wise magistrates were consulting on
the possibility of resistance, or toward
the commander of Berlin, General
Rochow, who had the streets patrolled,
aad called upon the citizens, by beat
of drum, to assemble with arms, and
assist in the defence of the town.
" The Russian is at the gates 1 "
This cry of terror seemed to cure the
sick and feeble, and give courage and
strength to the wavering. The old na¬
tional hatred of the German toward
the Russian broke out in its entire vig¬
or ; and vehemence made even the
faint-hearted fly to arms, and caused
words of imprecation to rise to the
lips of those who were in the habit of
uttering prayers and timid complaints.
The council of war was assembled
at the commander's office, and, strange
to say, it consisted of only old men and
invalids. There were present the in¬
firm veteran general and commander,
Rochow, and the eighty-year-old Field-
Marshal Lehwald, the severely-wounded
General Seidlitz, and General Knob¬
lauch, also wounded. These four com¬
posed the whole council, and fully
aware of the danger and of the small-
ness of their forces, were debating
whether they should yield to the de¬
mand of the Russian troops, and give
up the town without any defence, or,
with twelve hundred garrison troops,
two rusty cannon, a few thousand
wounded soldiers, and an inefficient
body of citizens, give battle to the
twelve thousand irregular troops of
General Tottleben, who would soon be
reenforced by the army of General
Tschemitschefif, some twenty thousand
strong, and fourteen thousand Aus-
trians under Count Lacy, who, as they
well knew, were coming on by forced
marches. But so great was the heroic
exasperation and eagerness for the
fight of these noble and war-worn vet¬
erans, that not one of them advised
submission ; but, on the contrary, they
unanimously determined to defend
Berlin as long as a drop of blood
flowed in their veins. As these brave
generals had no army to lead into the
fight, they would defend the town, not
as commanders of high rank, but as
fighting soldiers, and waiving their
military rank and dignity to their no¬
ble love of country, like other soldiers,
38
THE MERCHANT OF BERLIN.
they would each one defend his In-
trenchment or redoubt.
But while the military commanders
were adopting these heroic resolutions,
the Town Council was engaged in se¬
cret session at the town-haU. The wise
fathers were staring at each other with
terror in their countenances, and con¬
sidering, in pusillanimous faint-heart-
edness, whether they would really as¬
sume the heavy responsibility of enga¬
ging the peaceful citizens in a fight,
which, after all, would be, in all prob¬
ability, useless and without result.
" I vote for submission," stammered
out the chief burgomaster, Herr von
Kircheisen, with heavy tongue, as he
wiped off the big drops of sweat which
stood upon his brow with his silk
handkerchief. " I vote for submission.
The honorable citizens of this town are
not called on to spill their blood in
useless fighting, nor to irritate the
wrath of the enemy by resistance.
And besides, the enemy will doubtless
lay a war-tax on us, and this will cer¬
tainly be lighter if we submit at once
than if we resist. Further, it is the sa¬
cred duty of a prudent magistrate to
protect and preserve, to the best of his
ability, the property of the citizens. It
is therefore my opinion that, in order
to save the hard-earned possessions of
the poor citizens of Berlin, already suf¬
ficiently oppressed, we submit at once
to an overwhelming force."
By the brightening countenances of
l-he worthy councilmen it could be
plainly perceived that the eloquence
of the chief burgomaster had told pow¬
erfully upon them, and that the ques¬
tion of money which he had raised
would prove a powerful and decisive
argument in favor of submission at this
momentous period.
The assistant burgomaster had al¬
ready expressed his entire concurrence
in the views of Herr von Kircheisen,
and the first alderman was in the act
of opening his mouth to do the same,
when the patriotic deliberations of the
worthy gentlemen were interrupted by
shouts and cries from the street below,
which drove them in terror from their
seats. They hastened to the windows,
and, carefully concealed behind the
curtains, ventured to peep down into
the street.
Down there they beheld a much
more lively sight—men and youths,
old men and boys streamed toward the
town-hall, and, raising their eyes and
arms to the windows, demanded from
the city fathers, with genuine enthu¬
siasm, weapons and ammunition. Per¬
haps, indeed, it was only fear which
had suddenly made these peaceful citi¬
zens of Berlin so bold and lion-hearted :
one thing is certain, that is, that at this
moment they were aU animated by one
sentiment, one impulse, and that their
deadly hatred against Eussian and
Austrian rendered peaceable submis¬
sion impossible. The taUor threw away
his needle and grasped the sword, the
shoemaker exchanged his awl for a
dagger, and all these quiet, humble cit¬
izens had been transformed by hatred
and fear, anger and terror, into most
belligerent heroes.
" Give us arms ! " was the reiterated
cry.
An heroic tailor climbed up on the
shoulders of a hunchbacked shoemak-
BE PRUDENT.
39
er, and sawing the air violently with
his arms, cried out: "The people of
Berlin demand their rights; they will
fight for their liberty. Give the peo¬
ple of Berlin their due. Give them
arms—arms I "
" Arms ! " roared the crowd. " "We
■will have arms ! "
" Aud what do you want with
arms?" cried suddenly a shrill, pier¬
cing voice. All eyes were turned
toward the spot whence the voice pro¬
ceeded, and there was seen the meagre
figure of the linen-weaver, who had
leaped upon a bench, and from this
elevated position was looking down
upon the people with the confident air
of a conqueror. But Pfannenstiel ob¬
served, to his dismay, that this time his
appearance did not produce the desired
effect; on the contrary, angry looks
were cast upon him, and occasionally a
threatening fist was raised against the
divinely-inspired prophet.
"What do you want with arms?"
«■.ried he once more. "Prayer is the
only weapon becoming peaceful citi¬
zens."
A burst of scornful laughter was the
answer. " Down with the linen-weav¬
er 1 Tear him to pieces I " roared the
crowd, becoming infuriated.
"We mean to fight, and not to pray,"
cried the valorous tailor.
" We want none of your poltroonery,
you blackguard of a linen-weaver 1 "
" The tailor is right I Pfannenstiel
is a false prophet ! " cried another voice.
" Hang bim 1 "
" He wants to make cowards of us 1 "
The crowd raged still more ftuiously,
and pressed toward the spot where
Pfannenstiel stood. Threatening hands
were raised against him, and the situa¬
tion of the prophet of peace began to be
uncomfortable enough, when suddenly
two new figures rose near him, and, by
their unexpected appearance, restrained
for a moment the wrath of the people.
CHAPTER X.
be pbudent.
These two men, who so unexpect¬
edly appeared at the side of the pro¬
phetic weaver, were none else than the
two editors, Eretschmer and Krause,
who came to support him in his exhor¬
tations in favor of peace, and to use
their eloquence on the multitude as¬
sembled in front of the town-hall.
Mr. Krause opened: "Listen to me,
good citizens of Berlin; look at my
gray hairs. Age has the advantage, if
not of -wisdom, at least of experience.
Listen to my ad-vice. You who -wish
to fight for liberty, be at least prudent
and moderate."
" None of your moderation ! " cried
the tailor. " We won't be moderate 1 "
" But you wiU be reasonable and pru¬
dent, won't you ? " cried Mr. Kretsch-
mer, with his clear, penetrating voice,
raising himself on tiptoe, and casting
his large, light-blue eyes over -the
crowd. "You-will be reasonable, cer¬
tainly, and in reason you can tell me
what you wish, and we can deliberate,
and decide whether that which you
wish is reasonable."
" We want arms."
" But why do you want arms ? "
40
THE MERCHANT OF BERLIN.
"To fight the enemy," cried the
Bhoemaker, whom the crowd seemed
tacitly to recognize as their mouth¬
piece.
" You really wish, then, to fight ? "
asked Mr. Kretschmer. "You wish to
precipitate yourselyes into a fight, with
the certainty of being defeated. You
wish to put yourselves in opposition to
an enemy who outnumbers you ten
times; who, with sneering pride, will
drive your little band of warriors, with
his cannon, to destruction ! Consider
what you are about to do ! Twelve
thousand Russians are now before your
gates; their cannon pointed against
your walls, your houses, your churches,
and they are awaiting only an opportu¬
nity of springing upon you like a tiger
on his prey. And what have we to
oppose them Î Our little garrison con¬
sists of invalids and wounded men:
for our young men, able to fight, are
all with the king on the bloody fields
of Silesia, and only a small band of
worthy citizens remain here. Can
they fight against an overwhelming
enemy, ten times their number ? Can
they wish to do it ? "
No one answered this question. The
countenances became thoughtful, and
the redness of anger grew paler on their
cheeks.
" Yes," cried one of the people, " we
are very weak."
"We cannot think of gaining a vic-
tory," grumbled out another.
Mr. Kretschmer perceived, by the
darkening faces and downcast looks of
ais audience, that the prudence he was
preaching had already commenced to
press the courage of the poor people
into the background, and raising his
voice still higher he continued :
"Your fighting vrill be a species of
suicide. Your wives and children wiU
curse you for having killed their hus¬
bands and fathers. Worthy citizens !
be prudent, and remember that work
and not war is your calling. Go home,
then, and mind your business; take
care of your wives and children, and
bow your heads in humbleness, for ne¬
cessity will teach you prudence."
Mr. Kretschmer stopped, and the si
lent assembly seemed to be considering
whether they should listen to his pru¬
dent advice. Even the heroic tailor
had descended from the hump of the
shoemaker, and remained thoughtfijl
and silent.
" The man is right," cried the shoe¬
maker, in his grumbling, bass voice.
"Yes, indeed," said his gossip, the
glover ; " why should we sacrifice our
legs and arms? We can't beat them
"anyhow."
" Now, my • friends," whispered
Kretschmer to his associates, " now is
your turn to speak. My breath is ex¬
hausted. You speak now and finish
the good work I commenced. Admon¬
ish the people to be moderate."
" I wiU make them perfectly enthu¬
siastic in the cause of peace and quiet,"
said Mr. Krause, in a íow voice. "Yon
shall see how irresistible the stream of
my eloquence will be," and striding
forward with pathetic mien, and rais¬
ing both arms as if to implore the peo¬
ple, he exclaimed in a loud voice :
" You say so, and it is so ! We cannot
be victorious. Now, my opinion is.
that as we cannot beat the enemy, we
BE PR
ought not to fight him, and in that way
we can cheat him out of his victory.
For where there is no fight, there can
be no victory. Resist the armed bands
with the quiet obstacle of mental forti¬
tude. Do not act, but submit. Sub¬
mit with a defiant air. Do not use
your weapons, but do not yield them
up to the enemy. Keep your hands on
the hilts of your swords, and be quiet.
When they mock and abuse you, be si¬
lent ; but let them read your defiance
in your countenances; when they press
upon you with sword and cannon, re¬
tire with a proud smile, and do not de¬
fend yourselves, and we wül see whether
they are brutal enough to attack peace¬
ful non-combatants. Act in this way,
and the moral victory is yours, and you
will then have conquered the enemy by
your moral greatness, even if you are
physically subdued. Against cannon
and bayonets a people cannot defend
themselves except by passive resistance,
by submission, with secret and süent
hatred in their hearts. Use no other
weapons than this passive resistance,
and posterity wiU praise you, and say
of you, with admiration, that you were
no heroes of fight, but heroes of passive
resistance. Your country will be proud
of you ! "
Mr. Krause paused, and leaned, worn
out, on the shoulder of the prophetic
linen-weaver.
" You may be in the right," said the
tailor, still rebellious at heart ; " all that
sounds right and reasonable, but still
it don't suit me, and I don't see how
the country can be proud of us, if we
behave like cowards, and let ourselves
be bamboozled this way."
JDENT. 41
"Do you hush, tailor!" cried the
hunchbacked shoemaker. "The chap
thinks because he can manage a sharp
needle, he must be able to wield a
broadsword; but let me teU you, my
brave boy, that a stick with a sword
hurts worse than a prick with a needle.
It is not only written, ' Shoemaker,
stick to your last,' but also 'Tailor,
stick to your needle.' Are we soldiers,
that we must fight? No, we are re¬
spectable citizens, tailors and shoe¬
makers, and the whole concern is no
business of ours. And who is going
to pay us for our legs and arms when
they have been cut off ? "
"Nobody, nobody is going to do
it ! " cried a voice from the crowd.
" And who is going to take care of
our wives and children when we are
crippled, and can't earn bread for
them ? Perhaps they are going to put
us in the new almshouse, which has
just been built outside of the King's
Gate, and which they call the Oxen-
head."
" No, no, we won't go into the Oxen-
head ! " screamed the people. " "We
won't fight ! let us go home."
" Yes, go home, go home ! " cried
Krause and Kretschmer, delighted, and
Pfannenstiel repeated after them—
" Let us go home I "
And indeed the groups began to
separate and thin out ; and the two
editors, who had descended from their
bench, mixed with the crowd, and en¬
forced their peaceful arguments with
zealous eloquence.
But it seemed as if Fortune did not
favor them, for now down the neigh¬
boring street came Gotzkowsky with
THE MERCHANT OF BERLIN.
his band of armed workmen. He drew
them up in front of the town-hall. The
sight of this bold company of daring
men, with determined countenances
and flashing eyes, exercised a magical
influence on the people; and when
Gotzkowsky addressed them, and with
overpowering eloquence and burning
words implored them to resist, when
with noble enthusiasm he summoned
them to do their duty, and to remem¬
ber their honors as men, the versatile
crowd began again to cry out—" Arms,
arms ! give us arms 1 "
But the humpbacked shoemaker still
remained cowed and timid, and the
threatenings of the preachers of peace
still sounded in his ears. He threw up
his arms and cried out : " Children,
remember what the gentlemen told us.
Have nothing to do with flghting. Be
wise and prudent ! "
" The devil take your prudence ! "
cried Gotzkowsky. "In an hour like
this we have no need of prudence ; we
want courage 1 Won't you fight ? "
"No, we won't 1" cried the shoe¬
maker, resolutely. "Wewant to keep
our arms and legs."
" We don't want to go to the Oxen-
head ! " exclaimed another.
Gotzkowsky broke out impetuously :
' Are you men, who dare to talk in this
way? You are afraid of losing your
limbs, and you are not afraid of losing,
by your cowardice, your most valuable
possessions, your liberty and your honor.
Even if you do crawl through our
streets as cripples, your wives and
children will point to you with pride,
and men will whisper to each other :
He too was one of the heroes who
fought for liberty, one of the brave men
who, when Berlin was besieged, met
the enemy, and fought bravely for our
rights.' "
"That's fine," cried the tailor, car¬
ried away by Gotzkowsky's fiery words.
" Yes, let us be heroes, let us fight 1 "
At the windows of the town-hall
above, hid behind the curtains, the
wise members of the city Council still
stood and listened with anxious hearts
to what was going on below. The
countenance of the chief burgomaster
became ashy pale, and drops of cold
sweat stood on his brow. " This Gotz¬
kowsky will ruin us all," sighed he,
heavily. " He does not think of what
he is doing. His foolhardiness wiU
compel us all to be brave. But we will
have to pay for our liberty, not only
with our blood, but with our fortunes.
And this man, who calculates so badly,
pretends to be a merchant ! But we
must yield to this rash mob, for to op¬
pose an excited people might bring
even the honorable Council into dan¬
ger. Good Heavens I " cried he, inter¬
rupting himself, " what is this again ? "
To the sound of martial music, there
was seen coming down the street a
band of scar-covered veterans, the in¬
valids of the first years of the war.
Some limped, others carried their arms
in slings, others again had their heads
bo\md up ; but one could perceive, by
their serious, determined faces, that
they were animated by a high and
cheerful courage, which placed them
above physical suffering. In their
midst, on a litter, was borne the brave
General von Seidlitz, whose wounds,
received in the battle of Kunersdorf,
THE NIGHT
OF HORRORS.
43
had not yet healed; but the danger
■which threatened Berlin had roused
him from a bed of suffering, and, as he
could not walk, he had himself carried
to the battery at the Kottbuss Gate,
the defence of which he had under¬
taken.
As the hero turned to the people
with a friendly greeting, and exhorted
them to coinage, with short and ap¬
propriate words, there sounded from a
thousand voices an enthusiastic " Hur¬
rah ! " The people waved their hats,
and cried loudly and tumultuously up
at the windows of the Council, " Give
us arms—arms ! "
At the window above stood the chief
burgomaster, with trembling limbs and
Imd face. "It is decided," said he,
softly ; " the people are determined to
die as heroes, or purchase their liberty
with all the wealth of the to'wn," and,
with a faint cry of grief, he sank into
the arms of the head aldermam
The assistant burgomaster opened
the window and cried out : " Tou shall
have arms! We •will defend Berlin
with our last breath, and to the last
drop of our blood ! "
CHAPTER XI.
the night of hobrobs.
Thus, once more, had the impetuous
ooldness of the patriots carried the
day against braggart cowardice. The
Council, yielding to necessity, had re¬
solved to be brave. The chief burgo¬
master, who had revived, donned his
robe of office, adorned himself with
his golden chain, and followed by the
councillors, proceeded to Commander
Rochow, to ask for arms for the citi¬
zens of Berlin. This petition was read¬
ily granted; the armory was thrown
open, and there were seen, not only
men and youths, old men and boys,
but even women and girls, arming
themselves for the sacred fight for fa¬
therland and freedom. As if on a pil¬
grimage, the people proceeded to the
armory in a long, solemn procession,
silent and devout, a noble determina¬
tion, a brave and cheerful but subdued
expression observable in every face.
No loud cries, not a rude word, nor
boisterous laugh was heard from this
crowd. Each one spoke in low and
earnest tones to his neighbor; every
one was conscious of the deep signifi¬
cance of the hour, and feared to inter¬
rupt the religious service of the coun¬
try by a word spoken too loud. In si¬
lent devotion they crossed the thresh¬
old of the armory, ■with light and
measured steps the crowd circulated
through the rooms, and, with solemn
calmness and a silent prayer in their
hearts, the people received from the
hands of the veteran soldiers the
weapons for the defence of their coun¬
try. And the fiags which hung around
on the walls, as shining mementoes of
former victories, seemed to greet the
people as patriots who were arming
themselves for the holy fight against
the enemy of their country, the de¬
stroyer of liberty.
For it was no longer a fight for Sile¬
sia, a strip of territory, which was to be
fought, but a struggle between intel¬
lect and brute power, between civiliza-
44
THE MERCHANT OF BERLIN.
tion and barbarism, tbe inevitable com¬
panion of the Russian hordes. Prussia
represented Germany, and on her wav¬
ing banner she bore the civilization, re¬
finement, science, and poetry of Germa¬
ny. Her opponent was no longer the
German brother, sprung fi'om the same
stock; it was the Austrian, who had
called in the assistance of foreign bar¬
barians, and who was fighting the Ger¬
mans, the Prussians, with the help of
the Russians. For that reason, the
hatred against the Austrian was among
the Pi-ussian troops much more bitter
and bloody than the hatred and abhor¬
rence of the Russians, the sworn enemy
of the German; and when, therefore,
the Berlin citizens learned that the
Austrians, too, were approaching under
Count Lacy, this news was considered
by these -soldier-citizens as a consecrar
tion of their arms.
" Better be buried under the walls of
Berlin than yield to the Austrian ! " was
the war-cry of the people, who flocked
in constantly-renewed streams to the
armory for weapons, the watchword of
the brave militia who hastened to all the
gates to defend them against the enemy.
But all the streets did not offer so
lively or proud an appearance. Whilst
the citizens and the warriors scarcely re¬
covered from their wounds, whilst the
people were arming themselves to de¬
fend wife and child, and the sacred
liberty of fatherland ; whilst these brave
troops were hurrying toward the Dres¬
den and Kottbuss Gates to meet the
Russians, others were seen hastening
down the Linden and Frederick
Streets. But these crowds were un¬
armed, though not empty-handed;
their faces were pale, and their eyes
were gloomy and duU. These were the
faint-hearted and irresolute, who, in
fear and trembling, were now turning
their backs on a town in which was to
be fought-the fight for the noblest pos¬
sessions of mankind. This was the
crowd of boasting, versatile flatterers
and parasites, who worshipped no other
God than fortune, and possessed no
other faith than that of property and
personal safety. Berlin might be re¬
duced to ashes, barbarism and slavery
might conquer, a foreign ruler might
erect his throne in the midst of the
down-fallen city, what did they care,
provided their own lives and money
were safe?
At this time they were seen hurrying
along, pale with fright, death and ter¬
ror in their distracted countenances.
"Women of the highest nobility, whose
sUken-shod feet had never before trod
the rough pavement, fled with hasty
steps down the street ; shoulders which
had never borne the least burden of
life or sorrow, were now laden with
treasures, and gold was the parent
whom these modern .«Eneases sought
to save from the ruins of the threat¬
ened town. All ranks and conditions
were confounded; no longer servant
and master, fear had made brothers of
them all. Countesses were seen smiling
on their valets, in order to obtain the
assistance of their arm to a more
rapid flight ; high-bom gentlemen were
seen laden down, like the meanest of
their servants, with gold and silver
ware, which they were seeking to save
from- the beleaguered city.
What did these people care whether
THE NIGHT
Berlin feU, and was taken or not?
What did they care if the throne of the
house of Hohenzollem was overthrown ?
They had but one thought, one object—
safety in flight. So they hurried down
the street, moaning and wailiilg, breath¬
less and trembling in every limb,
toward the town gates. They reached
the goal; they stood before the gates
beyond which were escape and safety.
But these gates were closed, and the
soldiers who guarded them declared
that none should pass them, that the
men must stay to defend the town, the
women to nurse the wounded and dying.
All begging and pleading were in vain ;
in vain did the Jew Ephraim, who had
become a millionnaire by the farming of
the mint, offer the sentinel thousands to
open the gates ; in vain did the gentle¬
men, once so proud, entreat; in vain
did the beautiful countesses wring their
white hands before the poor despised
workman who now stood as sentinel at
the gates. In this moment this poor
man was richer than the Hebrew mint-
farmer Ephraim, for he was rich in
courage ; mightier than the proudest
countess, for to his hands were intrusted
the keys of a town ; and the town gates
were not opened to these bands of cow¬
ards. They were condemned to remain,
condemned to the torture of trembling
fear, cowardly, inactive suppjication.
Howling and whining, they fled back
again into the town, in order at least
to bury their treasures, and hold them¬
selves in readiness to meet the victor,
whoever he might be, with flags of
peace and hymns of welcome.
But before they had reached their
hiuses, bombs had commenced to fly
IF HOEROES. 45
into the town, and here and there mor¬
tar-shells were heard whizzing through
*
the air ; with the cries of the flying and
the wounded, and the screams of the
dying, was now heard the moaning toll
of the alarm-bell, telling that to the
terrors of the siege were added those of
the elements. Like gigantic torches of
a funeral procession shone the flames of
the burning houses, and colored the
heavens with crimson as deep as the
blood of those wounded unto death.
At last night set in, but brought no rest
for the sick, no refreshment for the weary.
The fire-balls and bomb-shells still flew
into the town, the alarm-bells stiU con¬
tinued their mournful toll, the burning
houses still flamed up to the sky ; but
yet the courage of the besieged did not
sink. They still held their ground in¬
trepidly, and they still bade an heroic
defiance to the attacks of the enemy.
In vain did the Russians attempt to
storm the gates, the brave defenders
drove them back again and again.
Suddenly the cannon ceased firing, and
the enemy drew back.
" What is the meaning of this ? "
asked the combatants at the gates.
" The meaning is," said Gotzkowsky,
who had just arrived from another part
of the town with a squad of his work¬
men—" the meaning is that help is ap¬
proaching. It means that God is on
our side, and succors our noble and
righteous cause. The Prince ofWur-
temburg has just arrived from Pase-
walk with his division, and General
Huelsen is hastening hither as rapidly
as possible from Koswig."
The brave warriors received this
news with a loud hurrah, and embraced
46 THE MERCHANT OF BERLIN.
each other with tears in their eyes and
thanksgiving in their hearts.
"We are saved ! " cried they to each
other ; " Berlin vdll not be smrendered,
Berlin will be victorious, for help has
arrived." And then they sank down
on the pavement, to rest for an hour on
this hard bed, after the fatigue of the
fierce combat.
But Gotzkowskj» could not rest. For
him there was no leisure, no sleep;
neither was there any fear or danger for
him. As he had left his house, his
daughter, and his riches unguarded,
with the same unconcern did he move
among the rain of balls and the burst-
' ing of sheUs. He did not think of death
nor of danger. He only thought of his
country, and one great, lofty idea—^the
idea of liberty—^burned in his heart and
animated his whole being. The Coun¬
cil, knowing his influence over the citi¬
zens, had, therefore, as soon as the
Prince of Wurtemberg had arrived with
his regiments in Berlin, communicated
this intelligence to the brave patriot,
and commissioned him to acquaint his
men with the fact. With glistening
eye and beaming countenance did he
annoimce this significant intelligence to
his brave warriors, reviving their cour¬
age, and redoubling their strength as
they drove the enemy back from the
gates and silenced his cannon.
But yet in his soul Gotzkowsky was
sad and full of care. He had seen the
regiments of the Prince of Wurtemberg
as they marched in, and he had read in
the dull countenances of the soldiers,
staggering and sinking from fatigue,
that they were not in a condition to
fight, nor even able to hold a sword.
But yet his heart did not fail him. The
elasticity of his courage seemed only to
increase with the danger. Perhaps a
short rest, strengthening food, refresh¬
ing winO) might restore to these men
their lost strength.
And now for the first time since the
attack of the enemy did Gotzkowsky
turn toward his home ; but not to visit
his daughter, not to inquire after his
property, but to open his wine-cellars,
and to let his cashier fill his pockets
with gold.
He then returned rapidly down the
street directly to the town-hall, where
the Council were in session, and had in¬
vited the most venerable citizens to
consult with them.
Appearing before this august body,
Gotzkowsky painted, with glowing elo¬
quence and impressive words, the desti¬
tute condition of the regiments which
had entered the town. He demanded
for them noturishment and support ; he
entreated the Council to give these
weary and exhausted troops shelter and
rest.
" First, let them eat and sleep," said
he, " and then they wiU fight for us and
conquer. We cannot expect courage
from a tired and starved man."
From the Council he hastened to the
rich merchants and factory lords. -The
rich man went begging for his himgry
brethren, and his pride did not feel it¬
self lowered by the petition. No one
could resist his impetuous eagerness ;
every one was carried away by his un¬
selfish and impulsive magnanimity.
For the moment, even earthly treasures
lost their value, for more valuable pos¬
sessions were at stake, namely, liberty
RUSSUNS AND AUSTRIANS.
4Í
and honor. Every one gave cheerfully
and most liberally.
And now it was a glorious sight to
see how, in a few hours, the whole city
changed its appearance. As the night
before had been fuU of horrors and
dread events, the next morning and
day were like a festival, the preparation
to a great and solemn feast. Forty of
the largest and fattest oxen were slaugh¬
tered, to afford a strengthening meal to
those so much in need of nourishment.
About mid-day, a strange procession
moved down the König's Street and
across the Palace Square. And what
was the meaning of it ? It was not a
funeral, for there were no mourning-
wreaths and no hearse ; it was not a
bridal procession, for the bridal para¬
phernalia and joyous music were want¬
ing. Nor did it wend its way toward
the church nor the churchyard, but
toward the new and handsome opera-
house, recently erected by the king,
whose gates were opened wide to re¬
ceive it. It looked like a feast of Bac¬
chus at one time, from the enormous
tuns driven along ; at another time like
a festival of Ceres, as in solemn ranks
came the bakers, bringing thousands
of loaves in large wagons. Then fol¬
lowed the white-capped cooks, bring¬
ing the smoking beef in large caldrons.
The rear was finally brought up by the
butlers, with large baskets of wine.
And the beautiful and resplendent
temple of art was thrown open to the
reception of all these things, although
they only served for material nourish¬
ment, and in the magnificent hall in
which formerly Frederick the Great,
with his generals and chosen friends.
listened to the magic strains of Gluck,
there sounded now a wild confusion of
discordant cries. The butlers stood by
the wine-casks, fiUing the bottles which
were carried out by the nimble and
active vivandières, and on the same
stage on which once Galiari and Bar-
barini, Ostroa and Sambeni enchanted
the public with their marvellous sing¬
ing, were seen no-# large caldrons of
beef, and, instead of the singers, the
performance was conducted by cooks,
who drew the meat out of the pots and
arranged it neatly on enormous dishes.
Gotzkowsky had attained his object,
and Berlin fed this day the exhausted
and hungry troops of the Prince of
Wurtemberg. The merchant of Berlin
had given his choicest and best -wines
to the banquet of patriotism.
CHAPTER Xn.
EUSSIANS AND AUSTRIANS.
After so many horrors, and so
many hours of anxiety, at last, on the
evening of the second day of the siege,
a momentary suspension of hostilities
occurred. Berlin rested after the ex¬
citement and turmoil, and even the be¬
siegers seemed to be reposing. Shells
and fire-balls no longer hissed through
the groaning air, and the thunder of
the cannon had died away. Peace—
the peace arising from disabled exhaus¬
tion on the part of the combatants,
reigned for a short while, and the bel¬
ligerents rested for a few hours to in-
-vigorate themselves for a renewal of
the fight. The streets of Berlin, lit by
48
THE MERCHANT OF BERLIN.
the dull lamplight, were forsaken and
empty, and only occasionally from the
dark houses was heard wailing and
moaning, either the death-struggle of a
wounded man or the lamentation of his
mourning friends. This death-like si¬
lence prevailed for several hours, when
it was broken by a peculiar noise,
sounding like the dull, muffled beat of
drums, followed bj; the measured tread
of marching troops. The sound ap¬
proached nearer and nearer, and by the
dim light of the street lamps one could
distinctly recognize a column of men
marching in close order from the opera-
house down the Linden Street.
It consisted of more than six thou¬
sand men, moving down the " Linden "
in deep silence, unbroken even by a
word of command. To see this dark
and silent column passing along the
gloomy and deserted street, was calcu¬
lated to produce a feeling of awe in
the spectator. Any one inclined to be
superstitious might have imagined
this warlike force, marching through
the streets at the hour of midnight,
noiseless and silent as the grave, to be,
not living soldiers, but the large and
daily increasing cohort of spirits of
those faflen in battle, taking its way
through the dying town, as birds of
prey fly with prophetic wing in circles
roimd the fields of death.
And now the head of the column
reaches the Brandenburg Gate. The
sentinel stands to arms and challenges.
The leader steps up to the officer of
the guard and whispers a few words
in his ear. This officer bows deeply
and respectfully, and gives his sentinel
a short order in an under-tone. He
then steps back to his command and
presents arms. The leaves of the gate
then turn creaking on their hinges,
and in solemn silence the column
marches out. This long, dark proces¬
sion lasts nearly an hour; the gate
then closes, and, the same quiet re¬
sumes its sway in the streets.
Berlin was dreaming or sleeping,
praying or weeping, but knew not that
in this hour fresh misfortune had fallen
upon it; knew not that the "Prince of
"Wurtemberg had just left the town,
and retired upon Spandau with his
regiments, feeling himself too weak to
resist an enemy three times his number.
And furthermore, it was not aware that
the Austrian Count Lacy, who had al¬
ready occupied Potsdam and Charlot-
tenburg, with his division of ten thou¬
sand men, would in a few hours be at
the gates of Berlin.
In serious consultation, in anxious
and wavering expectation, the city fa¬
thers were assembled in the town-hall,
which they had not quitted for two
days. But, at this moment, a pause
semed to have occurred in their deliber¬
ations, for both the chief burgomaster.
Von Kircheisen, and the aldermen were
leaning back in their high, carved
chairs, in sleepy repose, contemplating
the wax-lights in their silver candelar
bras, which shed a dim and uncertain
light into the more distant parts of the
hall. One or the other occasionally
threw an inquiring glance toward the
door, and leaned forward as if to listen.
After a while, steps were heard in the
antechamber, and the countenances of
the honorable members of the Council
lighted up.
RUSSIANS AI
" At last lie comes," said the chief
burgomaster, raising himself with an ef¬
fort in his chair, and arranging the
chain on his breast, which had got a
little out of order.
The door now opened, and the mer¬
chant Gotzkowsky entered.
He approached the assembly with a
firm and hurried step. The light of
the candles shone upon his countenance,
and in his pale, worn features you could
read the traces of the hardships, the
efforts and dangers he had undergone
during the last two unfortunate days ;
only his eye still shone with its mild
and yet fiery glance, and in his breast
there beat still a brave and cheerful
heart.
"Ye have called me, honorable gen¬
tlemen, and, as ye see, I have not
delayed in answering your caU."
" Yes, we have summoned you," an¬
swered the chief burgomaster. " The
Couucil desire your advice."
A slight, mocking smile played about
Gotzkowsky's lips, " It is not the first
time," he said, " that the Council have
done me this honor."
Herr von Kircheisen plucked un¬
easily at his golden chain, and frowned.
Gotzkowsky's answer had wounded his
pride. " Yes, you gave us your advice
yesterday, and it was only by your ur¬
gent appeal that we were induced to
feed and lodge the Prince of Wurtem-
berg's troops. "We might have spared
ourselves the trouble, and our forty
oxen remained unslaughtered."
" The Prince of Wurtemberg has left
us, I know," said Gotzkowsky, sorrow¬
fully, " and we are thrown again on our
own resources. Oh, I could weep over
4
D AÜSTRUNS. 49
«
it I Two days and nights have the
citizens of Berlin fought with the cour¬
age of a Lioness defending her young,
and all in vain. So much noble blood
shed and in vain 1 "
" We must surrender, then ? " said
Kircheisen, turning pale.
"Unless the honorable Council can»
sow dragons' teeth and reap armed men,
unless they canmouldcannon and create
gunners to serve them, we must, indeed,
surrender ! " said Gotzkowsky, in a sad
tone. " Yes, if we had a dozen cannon
like the two at the Kottbuss Gate
served by the brave artillerist, Fritze,
there might be some hope for us. Those
were beautiful shots. Likè the sickle
of death did they mow down the ranks
of the enemy, and whole rows fell at
■once. Fritze is a hero, and has built
himself a monument with the dead
bodies of the Russians—and all this for
nothing I "
" For nothing I do you say ? " sighed
the chief burgomaster. " On the con¬
trary, I rather think it wUl cost us a
mint of money. The Austrians have
sent Prince Lowenstein in with a flag
of truce, to demand the surrender of
the town. The Russians have also sent
in a flag of truce, with the same de¬
mand. Now comes the important
question. To which of these two powers
shall we surrender ? "Which will give
us the best bargain ? " and as the burgo- '
master stammered out this question, he
seized a large goblet of wine which
stood before him and emptied it at a
draught. He then ordered the servant,
who stood at the door, to replemish it
with Johannisberger.
The aldermen and senators looked
50 THE MERCHA]
•
»ignificantly at each other, and the sec¬
ond burgomaster ventured timidly to
suggest that the heavy wine might
possibly be injurious to the health of
his honor the chief burgomaster.
"Wine makes a man brave," he
drawled out, " and as long as the city
• fathers have good wine in their cellars,
the citizens of Berlin may sleep in
peace, for so long will the Council have
the courage to brave the, enemy. Let
me have wine, then, and be brave!"
and again he emptied the replenished
goblet. He then stared complacently
at the ceiling, and seemed lost in con¬
templation of the laurel-wreath painted
above.
The second burgomaster rose quietly
from his seat, and taking Gotzkowsky's
arm, led him, with the two principal
coimcillors, to one of the more remote
window-seats. With a slight motion
of the hand and a compassionate shrug
of the shoulders, he pointed across to
Herr von Kircheisen.
" Our poor oppressed chief wishes to
acquire pot-valor," said he, "and to
stimulate himself into a delirium of
firmness ; but I am afraid that the de¬
lirium tremens of fear is the only kind
that he wiU experience. The poor man
is very much to be pitied. It is just at
such a time, when presence of mind is
most requisite, that the good burgo¬
master regularly loses his head, and
his brain rushes off with him like a
mad horse to death and destruction."
"And such a man is the chief magis¬
trate of the town of Berlin ! " said
Gotzkowsky, sadly.
"The citizens chose him, and the
king confii-med their choice," said the
T OF BERLIN.
burgomaster; "so we ought to be satis¬
fied. But now let us come to the sub¬
ject which induced us to disturb your
slumbers, my friend. We need your
counsel. The Russians and Austrians
both summon us to surrender, and the
Council of Berlin wish your advice,
Gotzkowsky, as to which of these two
enemies they shall yield."
" That is, by Heavens 1 a choice that
the devil himself must envy us," cried
Gotzkowsky, with a sad smile. " To
which party shall we surrender ? To
the Austrian, who wears the imperial
German crown, and yet is the enemy
of Germany ! or to the Russian, the
northern barbarian, whose delight it is
to trample every human right in ihe
dust ! Let me consider a little while,
for it is a sad and painful choice."
And Gotzkowsky strode up and down,
absorbed in the deepest reflection.
Then turning to the gentlemen, after a
long pause, he asked, " To whom shall
we yield ? If my brother were among
my enemies, I would fear him above all
others ; for a brother's hatred is most
unnatural, and, for that very reason,
the most violent. The Austrian is the
German brother of the Prussian, and
yet they are each striving for the right
of the first-bom, instead of confederat¬
ing for the general good in unity, in
equal authority, equal power, and equal
determination. On the contrary, Aus¬
tria allies herself to Russia, the heredi¬
tary enemy of Germany, and with the
assistance of this enemy, fights against
her German brothers. Therefore, my
opinion is that, if we really must sur¬
render, and if the Prussian really must
yield, let it not be to Austria. Subjec-
A MAIDEN'S HEART.
51
Hon to an equal is doubly humiliating.
. It is less painful to suffer death at the
hand of a barbarian than to be butch-
, ered by a brother. I would, then, in
this instance, give the preference to
Russia."
" That is also my opinion," said the
burgomaster, and the councillors agreed
with him. They returned to the table,
at which the chief burgomaster still sat,
gazing stupidly at the wine-cup.
" Gotzkowsky is of our opinion,"
said the second burgomaster, turning
toward him ; " it would be best to yield
to the Russian."
" The Russian is a capital fellow I "
stammered the chief burgomaster.-
■' The Russian has a great deal of mo¬
ney, and spends it freely. I esteem the
Russian astonishingly ; and my decided
opinion is, that we surrender to the
Russian."
CHAPTER Xm.
a maiden's heaet.
Elise had passed the last two days
and nights in "her room ; nevertheless
she had felt no fear ; the thunder of the
cannon and the wail of the wounded
had inspired her with mournful resig¬
nation rather than with fear. As, at
one time, she stood at the window, a
shell burst near the house, and shat¬
tered the window-panes of the ground
floor.
"Oh, if this ball had only struck
me," cried she, while her cheeks
burned, " then aU this suffering would
have been at an end, this doubt would
have been cleared up ; aud if my father
ever again gave himself the trouble to
visit his house, and ask after his daugh¬
ter, my death would be the proper re¬
buke to his question." Her father's
long absence and apparent indifference
tormented her and converted her grief
into anger.
During these days of danger and
mortal peril he had never once entered
his house to visit his daughter. With
the unmitigated egotism of her sex, she
could not comprehend the greatness,
the noble self-denial, the manly firm¬
ness which dictated his conduct; she
could see in it nothing but indifference
and cold-heartedness.
" The most insignificant and unpol¬
ished workman is dearer to him than
his own child," said she, proudly, dry¬
ing her tears. "He is now, perhaps,
watching in the cabins of his laborers,
and does not care if his own house is
burned to the ground ; but even if he
were told that it was so, if he heard
that his daughter had perished in the
fiâmes, he would calmly say, ' My coun¬
try demands this sacrifice of me, and I
submit.' No tear would dim his eye ;
his country would not leave him time
to mourn for his daughter. Oh, this
country ! what is it ? My country is
where I am happy, and where I am be¬
loved ! " She sighed deeply, and her
thoughts wandered to her lover, her
Feodor, the enemy of her country, in
whose heart she thought she would
find her real country, her true home.
The spoiled child of fortune, always
accustomed to see every wish fuMUed,
Elise had not learned the power of self-
control, nor to bend her will to any
52
THE MERCHANT OP BERLIN.
higher power. Fortune seemed anx¬
ious to spare yet awMIe this warm, lov¬
ing heart, and to allow her a little long¬
er the freedom of happy ignorance,
before it initiated her into the painful
and tearful mysteries of actual life.
Besides this, Elise had inherited from
her father a strong will and dauntless
courage, and behind her bright, dreamy
eyes dwelt a proud and spirited soul.
Like her father, her whole soul yearned
for freedom and independence ; but the
difference between them was, that while
she only imderstood freedom as apply¬
ing to heiself personally, Gotzkowsky's
more capacious mind comprehended it
in its larger and more general sense.
She wished for freedom only for her¬
self; he desired it for his country, and
he would wülingly have allowed his
own person to be cast into bonds and
fetters, if he could thereby have se¬
cured the liberties of the people. Out
of this similarity, as well as from this
difference of character, arose all the
discord which occasionally threatened
to disturb the harmony of these two
hearts.
Gotzkowsky could not understand
the heart of the young maiden, nor
Elise that of the noble patriot. To
these two strong and independent na¬
tures there had been wanting the gen¬
tle, soothing influence of a mother's
love, acting conciliatingly on both.
Elise's mother had died while she was
young, and the chUd was left to the
care of strangers. Her father could
seldom flud time to be with his daugh¬
ter; but, though seldom personally
present, yet his whole soul was faith¬
fully, unalterably devoted to her. Elise
did not suspect this, and in conse¬
quence of seldom seeing or meeting
him, and the want of mutual inter¬
course, the heart of his daughter be¬
came estranged from him, and in the
soul of this yovmg girl, just budding
into life, brought up without compan-
■ ions, in the midst of wealth and plen¬
ty, arose at flrst the doubt, and later
the conviction, of the indifference of
her father toward his only child. But
proud as she was, and full of a feeling
of independence, she never met bini
with a reproach or complaint, but
withdrew into herself, and as she be¬
lieved herself repelled, strove also, on
her part, to emancipate herself.
"Love cannot be forced, nor can it
be had for the asking," said she, as
yielding sometimes to a natural child¬
ish feeling, she felt an irresistible long¬
ing to go to her father, whom she had
not seen the livelong day ; to hunt him
up in the midst of his work, to lay her¬
self gently on his breast, and say to
him: "Love me, father, for without
love we are both so lonely!" Once
she had yielded to the impulse of her
heart, and had gone down to his work¬
room, to take refuge with all her love
and all her desire in her father's heart.
It was on the very day that Gotzkow¬
sky had returned from a most impor¬
tant journey. He had been absent for
weeks from his daughter, and yet his
first visit had not been to her, but to
the work-room, which he had not left
since his arrival. But Elise did not
know that he had travelled with relays
of horses, and that, in spite of the in¬
tensely bitter weather, he had driven
day and night, allowing himself no rest
A MAIDEN'
Í'S HEART.
53
nor refreshment, in order to reach home
as rapidly as possible, solely from de-
ske to see his daughter, whose fair and
lovely countenance was the star which
lighted his dreary, lonesome hours of
toil, and inspired him with courage
and cheerfulness. Nor could she know
that he had only undertaken this jour¬
ney because, by the failure of one of
the largest mercantile firms in the
Netherlands, his own house had been
put in danger, and he had been threat¬
ened with the loss of his hard-earned
wealth.
With palpitating heart, and tears of
love in her eyes, she entered his room.
Her whole bearing was sublime, full of
tenderness and warmth, full of the
humble love of a child. But Gotz-
kowsky scarcely raised his eyes from
his books and papers, did not advance
to meet her, did not leave the circle of
his officials and servants, did not even
break off the conversation he was en¬
gaged in with the directors of his silk-
factory. And yet Elise drew nearer
to him, her heart yearned so to bid
hhn welcome. She laid her hand on
his shoulder, and whispered an affec¬
tionate greeting in his ear. Gotzkow-
sky only looked at her hastily, and re¬
plied almost impatiently, " I pray you,
my child, do not disturb me ; we are
busy with very important matters."
It certainly was business of great im¬
portance, which monopolized Gotz-
kowsky's attention immediately on his
return. It was a question of nearly
half a million, which he would proba/-
bly lose in consequence of a royal de¬
cree just issued. The decree ordained
that the new Frederick Wore coined by
the Jewish farmer of the mint, and
which were much too light, should be
received at par over the entire king¬
dom, and even at the treasm-y offices.
It was, therefore, but natural that all
debtors would hasten to pay their cred¬
itors in this coin, which had had im¬
parted to it so sudden and unexpected
a value. Gotzkowsky had received
from his debtors upward of eight hun¬
dred thousand dollars in this light
coin, while his foreign creditors abso¬
lutely refused to take them, and de¬
manded the payment of their debts in
good money. Gotzkowsky, who, in
consequence of his large and extensive
connections abroad, had about three
hundred thousand dollars in exchange
against him, paid his creditors in gold
of full weight, and lost by these trans¬
actions three hundred thousand dollars
in one day.
Just at the moment when this heavy
loss befell him, Elise appeared, to wel¬
come him. His heart sank as he be¬
held her, for as he looked at her this
loss appeared in its full magnitude ; it
seemed as if not he, but his child, had
lost a portion of her wealth.
Elise knew and suspected nothing.
She only felt that she had been re¬
pulsed, and she withdrew, deeply
wounded and mortified, with the vow
never to run the risk again of such
another rebuff, such another humilia¬
tion.
Gotzkowsky lost in this hour, not
only the three hundred thousand dol¬
lars, but, what he valued above all
earthly treasures, the affection of his
daughter, and both without any fault
of his own. Elise forced herself to
54
THE MERCHANT OF BERLIN.
close her heart against her father, or at
.east to conçLuer her grief at the sup¬
posed indifference, or quiet, lukewarm
inclination. And yet this ardent heart
longed for love, as the plant longs for
the sunshine which is to penetrate it,
and ripen it into wonderful bloom.
Had the Mend and companion of her
youth, Bertram, been near her, she
would have confided aU her sorrows to
him, and found consolation on his
breast. But he had been absent for
about a year on his long journey ; and
Elise's heart, which had always clung
to him with a sisterly affection, became
more and more alienated fi-om the
Mend of her youth.
But fate or perhaps her evil destiny
ordained that, about this time, she
should make the acquaintance of a
young man who quickly won the love
of her vacant heart, and filled its void.
This young man was Colonel Feodor
von Brenda, whom the fortune of war
had thrown into Berlin.
Elise loved him. With joy and de¬
light, with the unbounded confidence
of innocence, she gave her whole heart
up to this new sensation.
And, indeed, this young colonel was
a very brilliant and imposing person¬
age. He was one of those Russian aris¬
tocrats who, on the Continent, in their
mtercourse with the noblest and most
exclusive society of Germany and
France, acquire that external adroit¬
ness and social refinement, that bril¬
liant graceful polish, which so well con¬
ceals the innate barbarism and cunning
of the natural character of the Rus¬
sian.
He was a bright companion, suffi¬
ciently conversant with arts and sci¬
ences to talk on every subject, without
committing himself. He knew how to
converse on all topics fluently enough,
without betraying the superficial char¬
acter of his knowledge and his studies.
Educated at the court of the Empress
Elizabeth, life had appeared to him in
all its voluptuousness and fulness, but
at the same time had soon been stripped
of all its fancies and illusions. For
bim there existed no ideals and no in¬
nocence, no faith, not even a doubt
which in itself implies a glimmer of
faith for him there was nothing but
the plain, naked, undeceivable disen¬
chantment, and pleasure was the only
thing in which he stUl believed.
This pleasure he pursued with all
the energy of his originally noble and
powerful character; and as aU his di¬
vinities had been destroyed, all holy
ideals had dissolved into myths and
hollow phantoms, he wished to secure
one divinity, at least, to whom he could
raise an altar, whom he could worship ;
this divinity was Pleasure.
Pleasure he sought everywhere, in all
countries; and the more ardently and
eagerly he sought it, the less was he
able to find it. Pleasure was the first
modest, coy woman who cruelly shunned
him, and the more he pursued her, the
more coldly did she seem to fly him.
And now he converted his whole life
into an adventure, a kind of quixotic
pursuit of the lost loved one. Pleasure
In the mean time, his heart was dead
to all the better and nobler feelings
But, at one time, it seemed as if a
higher and more serious inclination
promised permanently to enchain this
A MAIDEN'
dreadful rival of all husbands and
lovers.
Feeder ven Brenda, the most Uasê,
Vîitty, insolent cavalier at the court of
his empress, became suddenly serious
and silent. On his proud countenance
was seen, for the first time, the light of
a soft and gentle feeling, and when he
approached his beautiful bride, the
Countess Lodoiska von Sandomir there
beamed from his dark eyes a glow holier
and purer than the fire of sensuality.
Could he have fled with her into some
desert, could he have withdrawn into the
stillness of his mountain castle, he would
have been saved; but life held him
with its thousand minute, invisible
threads, and the experiences of Ids past
years appeared to mock him for his
credulity and confidence.
Beside this woman, whom he adored
as an angel, arose the demon of skepti¬
cism and mistrust, and regarded him
with mocking smiles and looks of con¬
tempt ; but still Feodor von Brenda was
a man of honor, a cavalier to whom his
pledged word was sacred, and who .Was
ready to pay the debt of honor which
he had incurred toward his betrothed ;
and this love for the Countess Lodois¬
ka, although cankered by doubt and
gnawed by the experiences of his own
life, stUl had sufficient power over him
to cause the future to appear not
gloomy, but full of promise, and to al¬
low him to hope, if not for happiness,
at least for rest and enjoyment.
The war-cry roused him from these
dreams and doubts of love. Elizabeth
had united with Maria Theresa against
Frederick of Prussia, and the Empress
of Russia was about to send an army to
:'S HEART. 55
the support of her ally. Feodor awoke
from the sweet rest into which his
heart had sunk, and, like Rmaldo, had
torn asunder the rosy chains by which
his Armida had sought to fetter him.
He followed the Russian colors, and
accompanied General Sievers as his ad¬
jutant to Germany.
As to him all life was only an adven¬
ture, he wished also to enjoy the excit¬
ing pastime of war. This, at least, was
something new—a species of pleasure
and amusement he had not yet tried,
and therefore the young colonel gave
himself up to it with his whole sold,
and an ardent desire to achieve deeds
of valor.
It was his fate, however, to be car¬
ried early from the theatre of war as a
prisoner, and in this character he ar¬
rived with General Sievers at Berlin. '
But his durance was light, his prison
the large and pleasant city of Berlin,
in which he could wander about per¬
fectly free, with the sole restriction of
not going b^ond the gates.
General Sievers became accidentally
acquainted with Gotzkowsky, and this
acquaintance soon ripened into a more
intimate friendship. He passed the
greater part of his days in Gotzkow-
sky's house. As a lover of art, he could
remain for hours contemplating the
splendid pictures which Gotzkowsky
had bought for the king in Italy, and
which had not yet been delivered at
Sans-Souci; or, by the side of the
manufacturer he traversed the large
halls of the factory in which an entire¬
ly new life, a world of which he had
had no idea, was laid open to him.
And then again Gotzkowsk;^ would
66
THE MERCHANT OF BERLIN.
impart to him the Tvide and gigantic
plans which occupied his mind ; and
this disclosed to him a view into a new
era whieh arose beyond the present
time, an era when industry would rule
and raise the now despised workman
into the important and respected citi¬
zen.
While Gotzkowsky and his friend the
general were discussing these extensive
plans, and speculating about the future
of industry, the young people, Elise
and the adjutant, were dreaming about
the future of their love.
The colonel had only commenced
this love-aflfair with the daughter of
the rich manufacturer as a new adven¬
ture. It was so piquant to go through
all the stages of a romantic, dreamy
German love, with a pure, innocent
German girl, and to let himself be led
by her through the sacred mazes of in¬
nocent romance, holy transports, and
chaste affection—^it was so pleasant a
diversion of his captiñty, why should
he not enjoy it Î »
This attachment to Elise was for
him at first only a temporary amuse¬
ment, and he toyed with his vows and
wooing, until, imperceptibly, he found
his heart entangled in his own net.
The ardent yet innocent love of the
young girl touched his feelings. It
was something new to be the object of
so chaste and devoted an affection. He
was ashamed of himself in his inmost
soul to perceive with what childish
trust, what sacred security and hum¬
ble resignation this young, rich, and
beautiful maiden gave herself up to
him.
For the first time, he experienced an
ardent desire to be worthy of so noble
an affection, and to resemble, at least
in some slight degree, the ideal picture
which Elise had formed of him—to be
something of the hero, the knight, the
noble being whom Elise worshipped in
him.
At the same time, it was so surpris¬
ing and strange to meet a girl, who,
all submission and devoted love, yet
remained firm and immovable in her
purity and chastity, so bright and
proud that even he felt respect for this
innocence which surroimded the be¬
loved one like a halo, and his lips re¬
fused to utter words at which her pure
soul might tremble.
With his fiery and mercurial temper¬
ament, he had, with a kind of passion¬
ate curiosity, adopted the role of a
Platonic lover, and the libertine in his
character had been subdued by the love
of the eecentric. He had converted this
love into a kind of adoration ; he
placed Elise upon the altar, and wor
shipped her as a saint to whom he had
turned from the turmoil and wild lust
of Ufe, and in the contemplation and
worship of whom he could obtain for¬
giveness of all his sins and errors. It
affeeted him to think that EUse was
praying for him while he, perhaps, for¬
got her- in the whirlpool of pleasure ;
that she beUeved in bim so devotedly
and truly, that she looked up to him
so lovingly and humbly—^to him who
was so far her inferior. And in the
midst of his wild life of pleasure he
felt the need of some saint to intercede
for forgiveness for him. All these new
and imaccustomed feelings only en¬
chained him the more closely, and
I
A FAITHFUL FRIEND.
made him consider the possession of
her as the most desirable and only
worthy object of his life.
She must be his ; he was determined
to wear this briUiant diamond, the
only one he had ever found genuine
and without flaw, as his most costly
possession; to become, in spite of all
difficulties and impossibilities, unmind¬
ful of his betrothed bride and his sol¬
emn vows, the husband of this beauti¬
ful German maiden, who had given
herself to him heart and soul.
In proportion to the difficulties that
opposed such a union, increased his fierce
determination to overcome them. He
was betrothed, and the Empress Eliza¬
beth herself had blessed the betrothal.
He could not, therefore, retract his
vows without exciting the anger of his
mistress, and history had more than
one example to show how violent and
annihilating this anger could be. In
like wise, Elise dared not hope ever to
obtain the consent of her father to her
union with a man who was the enemy
of her country. She was obliged to
conceal this love with anxious care
from his eyes, if she did not wish to
expose herself to the danger of being
separated from her lover forever. She
knew that her father, in every thing
else uniformly kind and yielding tow¬
ard her, was on this one subject impla¬
cable, and that no tears, no pleading,
•were capable of moving the firm and
energetic will of the ardent patriot.
Both were obliged, therefore, to pre¬
serve their love a secret, and in this
concealment lay for Peodor a new
charm which bound him to her, while
it estranged Elise's heart from her
57
father, and chained it in unbounded
devotion to her lover.
In the mean while the time arri¬
ved for Peodor to leave Berlin with'
General Sievers. He swore eternal
love and fidelity to EUse, and she
vowed to him cheerfully never to be¬
come the wife of another, but in pa¬
tience and trust to await his return,
and to hope for the end of the war and
the coming of peace, which would
solve aU difficulties, and remove the
opposition of her father.
That beside her father there could
be any obstacle, she did not suspect;
Peodor had so often sworn that she was
his first and only love, and she, young
and inexperienced as she was, believed
him.
CHAPTER XIV.
a faithful friend.
Elise's father had not yet returned.
She was still alone, but in her soul
there was neither fear nor trembling,
but only a defiant grief at this appar¬
ent indifference to the danger which
had threatened her, in common with
the rest of Berlin, for the last two
days.
She had shut herself up in her room,
not that she anticipated any danger,
but because she wished to be alone,
because she wished to avoid Bertram,
the faithful friend, who had watched
over her during this time with the
most attentive devotion. Paithfully
had he remained in the house, de¬
serted by her father, as a careful
watchman; had never left its door;
58
THE MERCHANT OF BERLIN.
but, armed with dagger and pistol, he
had stationed himself as a sentinel in
the antechamber, ready to hasten at
the slightest call of Elise, to defend
her with his life against any attack
or any danger, and Elise felt herself
bound to him in gratitude, and yet
this duty of gratitude was a burden to
her. It was distressing and painful to
her to see Bertram's quiet and mourn¬
ful countenance, to read in his dimmed
eyes the presence of a grief so coura¬
geously subdued. But she had en¬
deavored to overcome this feeling,
and she had often come to him lately
to chat with him about past times and
to reward him with her society for his
protection and faithful presence. And
yet Bertram's tender conscience was
well aware of the constraint Elisö had
put herself under, and the harmless
and cheerful chat was to him all the
more painful, as it reminded him of
past times and blasted hopes.
He had, therefore, with a melan¬
choly smile of resignation, requested
Elise not to come any more into the
haU, as it would be better, by the an¬
ticipated occupation of the enemy, to
remain in her room, in the upper story
of the house, and to lock the door in
order to socure her from any possible
surprise.
Elise had completely understood the
delicacy and nobleness of this request,
and since then had remained quiet and
midisturbed in her room.
Thus the second night had com¬
menced. She passed it like the one
preceding, wandering up and down,
not needing sleep, but kept awake by
her thoughts and cares. In the middle
of the night she was interrupted in her
anxious reveries by Bertram, who came
to her door, and in a low and timid
voice requested permission to enter,
Elise knew very well that she could
trust Bertram like a brother, as an un¬
selfish, disinterested friend. Therefore,
fearlessly she opened the door, and
bade bim come in, Bertram entered
timidly and confused, almost overpow¬
ered by happiness, for this room into
which he came was Elise's bedroom,
the sanctuary of maidenhood and beau¬
ty, and he felt disposed to kneel down
and pray, so evidently did it seem to
him a temple of innocence.
It appeared to him as if his unholy
foot was not worthy to tread this
ground, nor to approach the bed
which, with its white ciu^ains, seemed
to wave before his dazzled eyes like a
white swan.
In soft and gentle words he brought
to Elise greeting from her father. He
related to her how Gotzkowsky had
visited his house, not to take rest, but
to see Elise; how, scarcely arrived
there, a messenger from the Council
had caUed him back to the town-hall.
There he had commissioned Bertram
to request his daughter to withdraw
from the front rooms of the house, and
to retire into those next to the garden,
where she would be safer and have less
to fear from the enemy as he marched
in,
"At last, then, my father has con
sented to think of me," said Elise, with
a bitter smile, "His patriotism has
allowed him leisxne to remember his
only daughter, who would have re¬
mained solitary and forsaken in tht
A FAITHFUL FRIEND.
59
niids^ of servants and hirelings if my
noble and faithful brother had not as¬
sumed the duties of my father, and
watched over and protected me." She
reached out both her hands to Bertram
with a look full of gratitude, but he
scarcely touched them; he held them
for a moment lightly and coldly in his,
and then let them go. This slight and
transient touch had shot through him
like an electric shock, and reawakened
all the sorrows of his soul.
"Tou will then leave this room?"
asked Bertram, approaching the door.
" I wiU go into the hall immediately
next to it."
" All alone ? " asked Bertram ; and
then fearing that she might Suspect him
of wishing to force his company upon
her, he added, quickly, "Tou ought to
keep one of your maids near you,
Elise."
Smilingly she shook her head. " For
what purpose ? " asked she. " Bertram
is my protector, and I am quite safe.
I have sent my maids to their rooms.
They were tired from long watching
and weeping ; let them sleep. Bertram
wiU watch for all of us. I have no
fear, and I would not even leave this
room, if it were not that I wished to
comply with the rarely expressed and
somewhat tardy desire of my father."
Saying which, she took the silver
candelabras from the table and quietly
traversed the room in order to proceed
to the adjoining hall. At the door she
stopped and turned round. The full
light of the candles shone on her hand-
gome, expressive face, and Bertram
gazed on her with a mixture of delight
and anguish.
" Bertram," said she, gently and tim¬
idly,—"Bertram, my brother, let me
thank you for aU your love and con¬
stancy. Would that I could reward
you more worthily! In that case all
would be different, and we would not
aU be so sad and despondent as we
now are. But always remember, my
brother, that I wUl never cease to love
you as a sister, and that if I cannot
compel my heart to love you other¬
wise, yet no other power, no other feel¬
ing can ever lessen or destroy my sis¬
terly affection. Remember this, Ber¬
tram, and be not angry with me." She
nodded to him with a sweet smile, and
retreated through the door.
Bertram stood rooted to the floor
like one enchanted, and gazed at the
dooT through which this vision of light
had departed. He then raised his eyes
to heaven, and his countenance shone
with excitement. " God grant that she
may be happy!" prayed he, softly.
" May she never be tormented by the
agonies of error or repentance ; may he
whom she loves prove worthy of her ! "
Overpowered by bitter and painful
thoughts, his head sank upon his
breast, and tears coursed down his
cheeks. But he did not abandon him¬
self long to his sad and anxious
thoughts, nor did he allow sorrow long
to take possession of his heart. After
a short pause he raised himself and
shook his head, as if to roll off the
whole burden of care and grief with
all the power of his wiU.
"At least I wUl always be at her
side," said he, his countenance beam¬
ing from the noble decision. " I will
follow her like a faithful, watchful dog,
60
TUE MERCHANT OF BERLIN.
and ward off from her every danger
and every misfortane which comes
from man and not from God. She has
called me her brother I Well, a broth¬
er has both rights and duties, and I
will perform them 1 "
CHAPTER XV.
ak ünexpected meeting.
The hall to which Elise had retired,
next to her bedroom, was on the gar¬
den side of the house, and its glass
doors opened on a porch from which
handsomely ornamented bronze steps
led winding down into the garden.
Notwithstanding the advanced season
of the year, the night was mUd, and
the moon shone brightly. Elise opened
the glass doors and stepped out on the
porch to cool her burning forehead in
the fresh night air ; and, leaning on the
balustrade, she looked up smiling and
dreamily at the moon. Sweet and
precious fancies filled the soul of the
young maiden, and brought the color
to her cheeks.
She thought of her lover, who so
lately had appeared to her as in a
dream; she repeated to herself each
one of his words. With a sweet but
trembling emotion she remembered that
he had bidden her to await him ; that
he had sworn to her to come, even if
his way should be over dead bodies
and through rivers of blood.
With all the pride of a loving girl
she recalled his bold and passionate
words, and she rejoiced in her heart
that she could call herself the bride of
a hero. Even if this hero was the en¬
emy of her country, what did she
care ? She loved him, and what to her
were nationalities or the quarrels of
princes ? She was his—his in love and
faith, in purity and innocence; what
cared she for aught else ?
Elise started suddenly from her
dreams. She had heard 0, noise down
in the garden, and leaned listening
over the balustrade. What was the
meaning of this noise ? Was it per¬
haps some thief, who, under cover of
the general confusion, had stolen into
the garden? Elise remained motion¬
less, and listened. She had not de¬
ceived herseliÇ for she distinctly heard
footsteps. A feeling of fear took pos¬
session of her, and yet she did not dare
to move from the spot, nor to cry for
help. Might it not be her lover, for
whom she had promised to wait ?
With strained attention she gazed
down into the garden ; her eye seemed
to penetrate the darkness with its
sharp, searching look. But she could
distinguish nothing ; not an object
moved through these silent paths,
where the yellow sand was sufficiently
lighted up by the moon to betray any
one sufficiently bold to tread them.
Every thing was again quiet ; but Elise
shuddered at these long, black shadows
cast on both sides of the alleys; she
was afraid to remain any longer on the
porch. She retired into the hall, the
door to which she had left open on
purpose to perceive any noise coming
from that quarter.
Now again she became aware of steps
approaching nearer and nearer. She
wished to rise, but her feet refused
AN UNEXPECTED MEETING.
61
theii office. She sank back powerless
into her chair and closed her eyes.
She could not determine whether it
was fear or happy expectation which
pervaded her whole being.
And now the footsteps ascended into
the porch, and came quite near to the
window. "Would a thief dare to ap¬
proach these lighted windows? She
raised her eyes. He stood before her 1
—^he, her beloved, the firiend of her
heart, her thoughts, her hopes I Feo-
dor von Brenda stood in the doorway
of the hall, and uttered softly her
name. She could not rise, her feet
trembled so ; and in her heart she ex¬
perienced an uneasy sensation of fear
and terror. And yet she stretched her
arms out to him, and welcomed bim
with her looks and her smUe.
And now she lay in his arms, now he
pressed her firmly to his heart, and
whispered tender, fiattering words in
her ear.
She pushed him gently back, and
gazed at him with a smUe of delight.
But suddenly her look clouded, and she
sighed deeply. Feodor's brilliant Kus-
sian uniform pained her, and reminded
her of the danger he might be incur¬
ring. He read her fear and anxiety in
her countenance.
" Do not be afraid, my sweet one,"
whispered he gently, drawing her into
his arms. "No danger threatens us.
My people are now masters of the town.
Berlin has surrendered to the Kussians.
The enemy is now conqueror and mas¬
ter, and no one would dare to touch
this uniform. Even your father must
now leam to yield, and to forget his
hatred."
He will never do it," sighed Elise,
sadly. "Ton do not know him, Feo-
dor. His will never bends, and the
most ardent prayers would not induce
him to grant that to his heart which
his judgment does not approve of. He
is not accustomed to yield. His riches
make him almost despotic. Every one
yields to him."
" He is the king of merchants," said
Feodor, as he passed his fingers play¬
fully through the dark tresses of the
young girl, whose head rested on his
shoulder. "His money makes him as
powerful as a prince."
"That is exactly my misfortune,"
sighed Elise.
The colonel laughed, and pressed a
kiss upon her forehead. "Dreamer,"
said he, " do you call yourself miserable
because you are the daughter of a mil- ,
lionnaire ? "
"Millions alone do not make one
happy," said she, sadly. "The heart
grows cold over the dead money, and
my father's heart is cold toward his
daughter. He has so many thousand
other things to do and think of besides
his daughter! The whole world has
claims upon him; every one requires
his advice, submits to and obeys him.
From all parts of the world come let¬
ters to be answered, and, when at last,
late in the evening, he remembers he is
something besides the king on 'Change,
the man of speculation, he is so tired
and exhausted, that he has only a few
duU words for his child, who lives soli¬
tary in the midst of all this wealth,
and curses the millions which make her
poor."
She had spoken with increasing ex-
62
THE MERCHANT OF BERLIN.
citement and bitterness. Even her
love had for a moment been eclipsed
by the feeling of an injured daughter,
whose grief she now for the first time
disclosed to her lover.
As she finished speaking, she laid her
arm on Feodor's shoulder, and clung still
more closely to him, as if to find in his
heart protection and shelter against all
pain and every grief. Like a poor, bro¬
ken flower she laid herself on his breast,
and Feodor gazed at her with pride
and pity. At this moment he wished
to try her heart, and discover whether
he alone were master of it. For that
purpose had he come; for this had he
risked this meeting. In this very hour
should she follow him and yield herself
to him in love and submission. His
long separation firom her, his wild sol¬
dier's life had crushed out the last
blossoms of tender and chaste affection
in his heart, and he ridiculed himself
for his pure, adoring, timid love. Dis¬
trust had resumed power over him, and
doubt, like a mildew, had spread itself
over his last ideal. Elise was to him
only a woman like the rest. She was
his property, and as such he wished to
do with her as he chose.
But yet there was something in her
pure, loving being which mastered him
against his vriU, and, as it were, changed
his determination. In her presence,
looking into her clear pure eye, he for¬
got his dark designs and his dreary
doubts, and Elise became again the
angel of innocence and purity, the saint
to whom he prayed, and whose tender
looks shed forgiveness on him.
This young girl, resting so calmly
and confidingly on his breast, and look¬
ing at him so innocently and purely,
moved him, and made him blush for
himself and his wild, bold desires. Si¬
lent and refiecting he sat at her side,
but she could read in his looks, in his
smile, that he loved her. What further
need had she of words ?
She raised her head from his breast,
and looked at him for a long time,
and her countenance assumed a bright,
happy expression.
" Oh," said she, " do I call myself
poor when I have you ? I am no longer
poor since I have known you, but I
have been so; and this, my friend,
must be the excuse for my love. I stood
in the midst of the cold glitter of gold
as in an enchanted castle, and all
around me was lifeless, stiffened into tor¬
pidity by enchantment, and I knew no
talisman to break the charm. You came,
and brought with you love. The talis¬
man was found ; a warm life awoke in
me, and aU the splendor of gold crum¬
bled into dust. I was then rich, for I
loved ; now I am rich, for you love me ! "
"Yes, I love you," cried he; "let
your father keep his treasures. You,
and only you, do I desire."
She sprang up startled from his arms.
In the overpowering happiness of the
hour she had entirely forgotten the
danger which threatened her lover.
She suddenly remembered, and her
cheek paled.
" My father ! " cried she, " if he should
come at this moment ! His look alone
would be enough to kill me." And
anxiously and tremblingly she clung to
Feodor.
" Fear not, dear one," he whisj)ered,
" he is not coming. God protects and
A.N UNEXPECTED MEETING.
63
watches over those who love each other.
Do not think of danger. Banish all
care, all fear. This hour belongs to us,
and as I now fold you in my arms with
delight, so let it be always and forever.
For you know, precious child, that you
are mine, that you can never belong to
another ; that you have pledged your¬
self, and at some future time must fol¬
low me as your husband."
" I know it, I know it," she mur¬
mured; and, in blissful self-forgetful-
ness, she leaned her head on his shoul¬
der, and listened with beating heart to
the burning, passionate words which
he poured into her ear.
Of a sudden, with the rapidity of
lightning, she sprang up, as if an elec¬
tric shock had pervaded her body, and
listened eagerly.
As Feodor was about to speak, to in¬
quire the cause of her sudden terror,
he quickly pressed her hand to his
mouth. " Silence," whispered she softly.
"I heard it distinctly. My father is
coming hither through the garden ! "
They both listened in silence. In
the quiet of the night Gotzkowsky's
voice was now heard. He ordered his
servants to shut the garden gates care¬
fully, and watch them well, as the Eus-
sians entering the town would pass by
this wall.
" You are right," said Feodor ; " it
is your father. Truly this is an un¬
lucky accident."
"He will kill me if he finds you
here," murmured Elise, clinging, half
fainting, to her lover's arm.
"I will protect you with my life,"
said he, pressing her more firmly to
him.
" No, no 1 " cried she breathlessly ;
" he must not find you here. No one
must see you. Oh, Feodor, listen to
me. He is not alone ; Bertram and his
servants are with him. Oh, my God,
they will Idll youl Save yourself;,
leave me, Feodor, and conceal your¬
self!" And drawing him with irre¬
sistible strength to the door, she whis¬
pered, " In there, in my bedroom con¬
ceal yourself."
" Never," said he firmly and decid¬
edly. "Never wiU I hide myself, or
sneak away like a coward ! "
"You must do it," entreated she;
and as she saw that he hesitated, and
drew back unwillingly, she contin¬
ued:
"Not for your sake—^for the sake
of my honor, Feodor. Kemember it is
night, and I am alone with you."
" Yes, you are right," said Feodor
sadly. "Hide me; no spot must tar¬
nish your honor."
"With convulsive haste, Elise drew
him to the door of her chamber. Gotz¬
kowsky's voice was heard just outside
the window.
" Quick ! hasten, they are coming ! "
said she, pulling the door open, and
pushing him hurriedly on.
" He is saved," cried her heart joy¬
fully, as she closed the door after him,
and, sinking down, half fainting in a
chair, her lips murmured, " Have mercy,
gracious God ; have mercy on him and
me 1 "
At this moment her father, accompa¬
nied by Bertram and the factory work¬
man, Balthazar, entered the room
through the door of the adjoining bal¬
cony.
64
THE MERCHANT OF BERLIN.
CHAPTER XVL
the eügitite.
Gotzkowsky at length returned to
his home. Sad and sorrowful was his
soul, and his brow, at other times so
smooth and clear, was now dark and
clouded. He mourned for his coimtry,
for the fruitless battles, the blood shed
in Tain, and, in the bitter grief of his
heart, he asked himself what crime he
had committed, that to him should be
assigned the painful duty of deciding
to which of the enemies they should
surrender. And yet the decision was
imperative, and Berlin had to be sur¬
rendered to the Russians.
In gloomy sadness, hardly casting a
passing glance at his daughter, whose
anxiety and death-like paleness he did
not even perceive, Gotzkowsky entered
the hall, Bertram carefully bolting the
doors behind him, and then in an un¬
dertone gave Balthazar and the ser¬
vants directions for the protection of the
house.
" What a dreadful night ! " said
Gotzkowsky, sinking down on a sofa,
exhausted ; " my heart aches as much
as my limbs."
For a moment he closed his eyes,
and lay silent and motionless. Elise
was still leaning trembling and breath¬
less on the chair near the door. Gotz¬
kowsky raised his head, and his eyes
sought his daughter. As he perceived
her, a gentle and pleased expression
passed over his face, and his brow
grew clearer. He hastened to her and
raised her in his arms.
" Bless you, Elise, my child I for two
days have I been nothing but citizen
and soldier; now at last I am per¬
mitted to remember that I am a father.
I had almost forgotten it during these
wüd sad days. Good-evening, my dar¬
ling child I "
Elise kissed his hand respectfully,
and muttered a low welcome.
Gotzkowsky said, in a gentle tone:
"This is a comfort which makes me
forget all my sufferings. Come, my
children, let us for one bright hour put
aside all care and trouble, and be hap¬
py and cheerful together. Let us have
breakfast. This poor, weak body
needs refreshment, for it reminds me
that, for two days, I have been living
on prison fere, bread and water.
Come, then, let us breakfast. Ber¬
tram, sit by my side, and our sweet
little housekeeper wiU help us to cof¬
fee."
EUse rose with difficulty and gave
the necessary orders to the servants;
and while the latter were hurrying to
and fro, serving up breakfast, Gotzkow¬
sky reclined on the sofa, half asleep
from exhaustion ; and Bertram and
Elise sat opposite to each other in si¬
lence. Suddenly there were heard in
the distance wild yells, and loud noises
and cries. Then hasty steps flew up
the staircase ; the hall door was pulled
open, and a soldier rushed in. With
breathless haste he bolted the door
behind him, threw off the white cloak
which concealed his figure, and the
broad-brimmed hat which covered his
head, and sank with a loud sigh into a
chair. Gotzkowsky hurried up to him
and looked at him attentively. Elise,
with an instinctive feeling of the dan
THE FUGITIVE.
65
ger wMch threatened Feodor, turned to
the door behind which he was hidden.
" The artillerjrman, Fritz I " cried
Gotzkowsky, with visible astonish¬
ment.
"Yes, it is I," groaned the soldier.
"Save me, Gotzkowsky; do not deliver
me up to these barbarians I "
Gotzkowsky laid his hand on his
shoulder with a friendly smile. "I
would not betray the enemy himself,
if he sought refuge in my house ; and
you ask me not to betray the most val¬
iant and renowned defender of Berlin.
Bertram, this man here, this simple
cannoneer, has performed miracles of
valor, and earned for himself an envi¬
able name in these last unfortunate
days. It was he who had charge of
the only two cannon Berlin possessed,
and who, never tiring, without rest or
relaxation, sent death into the ranks of
the enemy. Be assured, my son, you
have fought these two days like a hero,
and it cannot be God's wish that, as a
reward for your bravery, you should
fall into the hands of the enemy."
" They pursue me everywhere," said
the artilleryman. " Hunted by De Lacy's
chasseurs like a wild beast, I fled down
the street hither. You told me yester¬
day that if ever I wanted a friend in
my need, you would be one to me.
Therefore have I come to you. The
Austrians have sworn vengeance on the
cannoneer, whose balls swept their
ranks so murderously, and have set a
large price on my head."
" Ah ! " cried Gotzkowsky, laughing,
" the Austrians advertise rewards before
they have got the money to pay them.
Let them set a thousand ducats on
6
your head, my son. They will have to
do without the ducats, and your head
too, for Berlin will give them neither.
If we must pay the money, the Eussian,
shall have it ; and as for your head,
well, I will pay for that with my life.
You have fought like a lion, and like
Hons we will defend you."
" What have I gained by fighting ? "
said Fritz, with a mournful shrug of
the shoulders. " The enemy have suc¬
ceeded in getting into the town, and
their rage is fearfuL They have sworn
to kill me. But you will not give me
up 1 and should they come here and find
me, then have pity on me and kiU me,
but do not give me up to the enemy ! "
" To kill you, they must kill both of
us first I" cried Bertram, taking the
brave cannoneer by the hand. "We
will hide him in your house ; won't we.
Father Gotzkowsky ? "
" Yes, and so safely that no one will
be able to find him ? " cried Gotzkow¬
sky, cheerfully, raising the soldier up
by the hand. " Follow me, my son.
In my daughter's chamber is a safe
hiding-place. The mirror on the waU
covers a secret door, behind which is a
space just large enough to conceal a
person. Come."
He led the artilleryman toward the
door of Elise's room. But before this
door Elise had stationed herself, her
cheeks burning and her eyes flashing.
The danger of her lover lent her cour¬
age and determination, and enabled
her to meet the anger of her father im-
fiinchingly.
" Not in there, father ! " said she, in
a tone almost commanding ; " not into
my room 1 "
66
THE MERCHANT OF BERLIN.
Gotzkowsky stepped back in aston¬
ishment, and gazed at his daughter.
" How 1 " asked he, " do you forbid me
the entrance ? "
" Behind the picture of the Virgin in
the large hall is a similar hiding-place,"
said EUse, hurriedly ; " carry him
thither."
Gotzkowsky did not answer imme¬
diately. He only gazed firmly and
inquiringly into Elise's countenance.
Dark and dismal misgivings, which he
had often with much difficulty sup¬
pressed, now arose again, and filled his
soul with angry, desperate thoughts.
Like Virginius of old, he would have
preferred to kill his daughter to deliv¬
ering her into the hands of the enemy.
" .^d why should he go there, and
not remain here ? " asked he at last,
with an effort.
" Remember, father," stammered she,
blushing, " I—"
She stopped as she met the look of
her father, which rested on her with
penetrating power — as she read the
rising anger of his soul in the tense
swollen veins of his brow, and his pale,
trembling lips.
Bertram had witnessed this short but
impressive scene with increasing terror.
Elise's anxiety, her paleness and trem¬
bling, the watch which she kept over
that door, had not escaped him, even
on his entrance, and filled him with
painful uneasiness. But as he now rec¬
ognized in Gotzkowsky's features the
signs of an anger which was the more
violent for the very reason that he so
seldom gave way to it, he felt the neces¬
sity of coming to the assistance of his
distressed sister. He approached her
! father, and laid his hand lightly on hie
shoulder.
"Elise is right," said he, entreat-
ingly. "Respect her maiden hesita¬
tion."
Gotzkowsky turned round upon him
with an impatient toss of the head, and
stared him full in the face. He then
broke into a fit of wild, derisive laugh¬
ter.
"Yes," said he, "we will respect her
maiden hesitation. You have spoke
wisely, Bertram. Listen: you know
the partition behind the picture of the
Madonna in the picture-gallery. Carry
our brave fidend thither, and take heed
that the spring is carefully closed."
Bertram looked at him sadly and
anxiously. He had never before seen
this man, usually so calm, so passion¬
ately excited.
" You will not go with us, father f "
asked he.
" No," said Gotzkowsky, harshly ;
" I remain here to await the enemy."
He cast on Elise, still leaning against
the door, a threatening look, which
made her heart tremble.
Bertram sighed, and had not the
courage to go and forsake Elise in this
anxious and critical moment.
" Hasten, friend," said Gotzkowsky,
sternly. " The life of a brave man is
at stake. Hasten ! "
The young man dared not gainsay
him, but he approached Gotzkowsky,
and whispered softly: "Be lenient, fa¬
ther. See how she trembles! Poor
sister 1 "
And with a painful glance at Elise,
he took the hand of the artilleryman,
and led him out of the room.
THE EAVESDROPPER.
61
CHAPTER XVn.
THE BAVESDKOPPER.
Elise was now alone with her father.
She had sunk down near the fatal
door, and her colorless hps murmured
faint prayers.
Gotzkowsky stood there, still motion¬
less ; but his agitated countenance, his
lowering brow, his flashing eyes, be¬
trayed the deep and passionate emotion
of his soul. Struck and wounded fa¬
tally in his most sacred feelings, he felt
no pity, no compassion for this poor
trembling girl, who followed his every
motion with a timid, anxious eye. His
whole being was filled with burning
rage against his daughter, who, his
misgiving heart told him, had tram¬
pled his honor in the dust.
A long and dreadful pause occurred.
Nothing was heard but Gotzkowsky's
loud, heavy breathing, and Elise's
low-muttered prayers. Suddenly Gotz¬
kowsky drew himself up, and threw
his head proudly back. He then
walked to the door leading into the
balcony, and to the opposite one, and
ascertained that they were both closed.
No one could intrude, no one interrupt
this fearful dialogue.
Elise was terribly conscious of this,
and could only whisper, " Pity, pity,
merciful God ! I shall die with ter¬
ror ! "
Gotzkowsky approached her, and,
seizing her hand, raised her rapidly
from the floor. " "We are alone now,"
said he, with a hoarse, harsh voice.
" Answer me, now. Who is concealed
there in yom room ? "
"No one, my father."
" No one ! " repeated he, sternly
" "Why, then, do you tremble ? "
" I tremble because you look at me
so angrily," said she, terrified.
Her father cast her hand passionately
from him. " Liar ! " cried he. " Do
you wish me to kill him ? "
He took his sword from the table,
and approached the door.
" What are you going to do, my fa¬
ther ? " cried she, throwing herself in
his way.
" I am going to kill the thief who
stole my daughter's honor," cried Gotz¬
kowsky, his eyes flashing with rage.
"Father, father, by the God in
heaven I am innocent ! " cried she, con¬
vulsively, striving to hold him back.
" Then let me have the proof of this
innocence," said he, repelling her.
But she sprang forward with the
agility of a gazelle, rushed again to the
door, and clung with both hands to the
lock.
" No, no, father, I remain here. You
shall not insult yourself and me so
much as to believe what is dishonora¬
ble and unworthy of me, and to require
a proof of my innocence."
This bold opposition of Elise only
excited Gotzkowsky's anger the more,
and was to him a fresh proof of her
guilt. His rage overpowered him;
with raised arm and flashing eye he
strode up to Elise, and cried out:
" Away from the door, or by Heaven I
will forget that I am your father ! "
" Oh," cried she, breathlessly, " you
have often forgotten that, but think
now ; remember that I am the daugh¬
ter of the wife whom you loved!
38
THE MERCHANT OF BERLIN.
Trust me, father. By the memory of
my mother, I swear to you that my
honor is pure from any spot; and,
however much appearances may he
against me, I am nevertheless innocent.
I have never done any thing of which
my father would have to be ashamed.
Believe me, father ; give me your hand
and say to me—' I believe your inno¬
cence ; I trust you even without
proof !'"
She sank down on her knees, raising
her arms imploringly to him, while
burning tears streamed down hèr
cheeks. Gotzkowsky gazed at her long
and silently, and his child's tears
touched the father's heart.
"Perhaps I do her injustice," said
he to himself, looking thoughtfully
into her weeping ' face. " She may be
really innocent. Let us try," said he,
after a pause, pressing his hands to his
burning temples. As he let them drop,
his coimtenance was again calm and
clear, and there was no longer visible
any trace of his former anger. " I will
believe you," said he. " Here, Elise, is
my hand."
Elise uttered a cry of joy, sprang up
from her knees, rushed toward her fa¬
ther, and pressed her burning hps on
his extended hand. " My father, I
thank you. I will ever be grateful to
you," cried she, fondly.
Gotzkowsky held her hand firmly in
his own, and, while speaking to her,
approached, apparently by accident,
the door so bravely defended by Elise.
" You are right, my child ; I was a fool
to doubt you, but I am jealous of my
honor, the most precious property of
an honest man. Much can be bought
with gold, but not honor. True honor
is bright and clear as a mirror, and the
slightest breath dims it. Oh, how would
this envious, grudging, malignant world
rejoice if it could only find a spot on
my honor I But woe to him that dims
it, even if it were my own child ! "
Elise turned pale and cast down her
eyes. Gotzkowsky perceived it. He
still held her hand in his, and ap
proached the door with her, but he
compelled his voice to be gentle and
mild.
"I repeat it," said he, "I wronged
you, but it was a terrible suspicion
which tortured me, and I will confess
it to you, my child. The Kussian flag
of truce which came into town to ne¬
gotiate with the authorities was accom¬
panied by ten soldiers and two officers
While the commissioner was transact¬
ing business in the Council-chambei
above, they remained below in the
lower story of the building. I accom
panied the commissioner as he left th«,
Council, down-stairs, and we found his
military escort in a state of anxiety and
excitement, for one of the officers had
left them two hom« before, and had
not yet returned, and they had called
and hunted for him everywhere. The
Russians were furious, and asserted
that we had murdered one of their
officers. I succeeded in quieting them,
but my own heart I could not quiet;
it felt convulsively cramped when I
heard the name of this missing officer.
Need I name him ? "
Elise did not answer. She looked
at her father, with tears in her eyes,
and shook her head languidly.
Gotzkowsky continued : " It is the
"Ah, at last, then," said he, letting go the arm of his daughter, and grasping his sword.
p. 69.
THE TWO CANNONEEBS.
69
name of a man to whom I formerly
showed much friendship ; toward
whom I exercised hospitality, and
whom I made free of my house, and
who now shows his gratitude by steal¬
ing the heart of my daughter, like a
pitiful thief. Oh, do not attempt to
deny this. I know it, Elise ; and if I
have hitherto avoided speaking to you
about this matter, it was because I had
confidence in your sound sense, and in
the purity of heart of a German girl to
sustain you in resisting a feeling which
would lead you astray from the path
of duty and honor. I do not say that
you loved him, but that he wished to
seduce you into loving him clandestine¬
ly, behind your father's back. That is
his gratitude for my hospitality."
Speaking thus, Gotzkowsky pressed
his daughter's hand more firmly in his
own, and continued approaching nearer
to the door. " Only think," continued
he, "the mad thought crossed my
mind—'How if this man should be
rash and foolhardly enough to have
gone to my daughter Î ' But I forgot
to tell you his name. Feodor von
Brenda was the name of the treacher¬
ous guest, and Feodor von Brenda was
also the name of the officer who left
the commissioner, perhaps in search of
some love-adventure. But why do you
tremble ? " asked he in a loud tone, as
her hand quivered in his.
"I do not tremble, father," replied
she, striving for composure.
Gotzkowsky raised his voice still
higher till it sounded again. " Forgive
me this suspicion, my daughter. I
should have known that, even if this
insolent Kussian dared to renew a for¬
mer acquaintance, my daughter would
never be so mean, never stoop so low
as to welcome him, for a German girl
would never throw away her honor on
a Russian boor."
"Father," cried Elise, terrified and
forgetting all her prudence, " oh fa¬
ther ! do not speak so loud 1 "
" Not so loud Î Why, then, some
one can hear us ? " asked Gotzkowsky;
pressing the arm of his daughter. " I
will speak loud, I will declare it aloud.
He is a scoundrel who conceals himself
in a dastardly and dishonorable man¬
ner, instead of defending himself!—a
coward who would put the honor of a
maiden in the scale against his own
miserable life. No German would do
that. Only a Russian would be base
enough to hide himself, instead of de¬
fending his life like a man 1 "
At this moment the door of the bed¬
room was violently torn open, and
the Russian colonel appeared on the
threshold, his cheeks burning and his
eyes flashing with anger.
CHAPTER XVHI.
THE TWO CAHHONEEBS.
Elise uttered a cry' of terror, and
stared at her lover with wide-opened
eyes. But Gotzkowsky's countenance
was illumined with a dark and savage
joy. " Ah, at last, then I " said he, let¬
ting go the arm of his daughter, and
grasping his sword.
But the colonel advanced proudly
and collectedly toward him. " Here
70
THE MERCHANT OF BERLIN.
am I, sir," said he; "here am I, to
defend myself and revenge an insult."
" I have driven you out of your hid¬
ing-place, as the fox draws the badger
out of his kennel," cried Gotzkowsky,
with derisive laughter, purposely cal¬
culated to irritate the anger of the
young ofBcer to the highest pitch.
The two men stood opposite to each
other, and gazed at one another with
faces fuU of hatred and rage.
Elise threw herself between them,
and falling on her knees before her fa¬
ther, exclaimed, " Kül me, father ; save
your honor—^Idll me I "
But Gotzkowsky slung her pitilessly
aside. "Away!" cried he, roughly.
" What do you here ? Make room for
us ! Here is a man with whom I can
fight for my honor 1 "
Feodor stepped quickly toward Elise,
who was still kneeling on the floor,
wringing her hands, and sobbing firom
intense pain. He raised her up, and
whispering a few words in her ear, led
her to the sofa. He then turned to
Gotzkowsky, and said, " Your honor is
pure and imspotted, sir! Whatever
you may think of me, you must respect
the virtue of your daughter. She is
innocent."
" Innocent," cried Gotzkowsky deri¬
sively, " innocent ! why, your very pres¬
ence has polluted the innocence of my
daughter."
" Father, Mil me, but do not insult
me ! " cried she, a dark glow sufiusing
her cheeks.
" Pour out your anger on me," said
Feodor ardently. "It is a piece of
barbarism to attack a defenceless girl."
Gotzkowsky laughed out loud and
scornfully : " You speak of barbarism,
and you a Eussian ! "
An exclamation of rage escaped the,
colonel ; he seized his sword and draw¬
ing it, quicMy advanced toward Gotz¬
kowsky.
"At last!" cried Gotzkowsky, tri¬
umphantly, raising his blade. But
Elise, beside herself, and heedless of
the flashing steel, threw herself between
them. With burning words she en¬
treated Feodor to spare her father, and
not to raise his sword against him.
But Gotzkowsky's voice overpowered
hers. Such wild words of contempt
and insulting rage issued from his lips,
that the young officer, hurt in his mili¬
tary honor, did not dare to listen to the
voice of his beloved. It was he now
who pressed Elise back, and with raised
arm placed himself opposite to her fa¬
ther.
"You must Mil me, sir, or wash out
this insult with your blood," cried he,
preparing himself for the combat.
Both were then silent. It was a ter¬
rible, unearthly silence, only broken by
the clash of their swords or the occa¬
sional outcries of anger or savage joy,
as one or the other received or gave a
blow. Elise raised her head to heaven
and prayed ; every thing became con¬
fused before her eyes, her head swam,
and she felt as if she would go crazy.
She prayed God that He would release
her by madness or death, from the suf¬
fering of this hour, or that He would
point out to her some way of deliver¬
ance or escape. But in the violence of
their dispute and combat, the two men
had not heard that there arose sud¬
denly in the house a loud tumult and
THE TWO CANNONEERS.
71
uproar ; they had not perceiyed that a
guard of soldiers was drawn up in the
street, and that the commanding offi¬
cer with a loud voice was demanding
the delivery of the cannoneer who had
taken refuge in this house.
As no attention was paid to the de¬
mand, the officer had ordered his sol¬
diers to break open the doors of the
house and enter by force. But Ber¬
tram had anticipated this proceeding,
by having the door opened, and re¬
questing the Austrian officer to search
the house with his men, and convince
himself that no one was concealed in it.
With most industrious energy, and
mindful of the price which had been
set on the head of the cannoneer, the
soldiers searched every room in the
house, and had finally arrived at the
closed door of the haU.
Just as the combat between the two
had reached its greatest violence, it
was interrupted by fierce blows at the
door from butts of muskets, and they
were compelled to refrain from their
imbittered struggle. They stopped
and listened, but Elise sprang from her
knees, rushed with a cry of delight to
the door and threw it open. An officer
of De Lacy's chasseurs entered with
some of his soldiers, while the rest of
the men filled the entrance haU and
passages of the house with noise and
confusion.
With a commanding tone the Aus¬
trian officer demanded the delivery of
the cannoneer, who, he asserted, had
been seen by all to take refuge in this
house, whence it was impossible that he
could have escaped, as it had been im¬
mediately suiTounded. And as no one
answered his threats, but only a sullen
silence was opposed to his violently re¬
peated demand, he swore that he would
bum down the house and let no one
escape if the refugee was not given up
at once.
Gotzkowsky had at first stood like
one stunned, and scarcely heard what
the officer demanded of him. Gradu¬
ally he began to recover from his stu¬
pefaction and regain strength to tum
his attention to things around him.
He raised his head from his breast, and,
as if awaking from a dream, he looked
around with bewildered amazement.
The Austrian officer repeated his de¬
mand still more haughtily and threat¬
eningly. Gotzkowsky had now recov¬
ered presence of mind and composure,
and declared, with a determined voice,
that no one was concealed in his house.
" He is here 1 " cried the Austrian.
" Our men have followed his track thus
far, and marked this house well. De¬
liver him up to us, to avoid blood¬
shed," and, turning to his soldiers, he
continued : " Search all the rooms—
search carefuUy. This man is hidden
here, and we—"
Suddenly he interrupted his order,
and gazed eamestly at the door through
which his soldiers were pressing in.
" Had not this cannoneer, as he fled
thither, a white cloak aroimd him, and
did he not wear a broad-brimmed
hat ? " asked he.
As the soldiers answered afiirma-
tively, the officer stepped toward the
door, and drew from under the feet of
his men the cloak and hat of the can¬
noneer. A wild yell of joy broke from
the soldiers.
72
THE MERCHANT OF BERLIN.
" Do you still persist in denying that
this man is concealed here ? " asked the
officer, raising the cloak.
Gotzkowsky did not answer, but
gazed on the ground, absorbed in deep
thought.
As the soldiers thronged into the
room, the young Eussian colonel had
withdrawn himself to a remote part of
the room, and taken the most lively
interest in the scene acted before him.
A word from him would have brought
the whole affair to an end, for, as an
involuntary listener, he had heard all
that had transpired concerning the
cannoneer. Consequently he knew ex¬
actly the hiding-place in which the lat¬
ter had been concealed. But it never
occurred to him to play the informer
and traitor. He was only intensely in¬
terested iu the issue of the scene, and
firmly determined, if the danger should
grow more urgent, to hasten with his
weapon to Gotzkowsky's assistance, änd
to defend him against the fury of the
Austrians.
Gotzkowsky still stood silent. He
was trying to devise some plan by
which he might save the brave de¬
fender of Berlin, whose presence, after
such positive proof, he could no longer
deny.
As suddenly as lightning an idea
seemed to penetrate his mind, his coun¬
tenance cleared, and he turned with a
singular expression in his eye to Colo¬
nel von Brenda.
"Well! " asked the officer, "do you
still deny it ? " ,
" No, I cannot deny it any longer,"
said he, in a determined tone. "You
are right, sir ; the cannoneer who shat¬
tered your ranks is concealed here in
my house ! "
The soldiers broke out again in a
triumphant roar. But Elise looked at
her father with anxious terror, and
sought, trembling, to read in his coun¬
tenance the meaning of these words.
" Can he possibly be capable of betray¬
ing this man whom he has sworn to
protect ? " thought Feodor, and yield¬
ing to his curiosity, he approached the
group in the middle of the hall. Sud¬
denly he felt Gotzkowsky's hand laid
on his shoulder, and met his dark eye,
full of hatred.
"Well," said Gotzkowsky, with a
loud, defiant voice, "you are looking
for the artilleryman, Fritz. Here he
is!"
A scream and a burst of laughter
were heard. It was Elise who uttered
the scream, and the colonel who greeted
this unexpected tiun with a merry
laugh. But Gotzkowsky did not allow
himself to be confused by one or the
other.
He laid his arm on Feodor's neck,
and forced his countenance to assume a
friendly expression. " Dear friend,"
said he, " you see it is vain any longer
to deny it. Our stratagem has unfortu¬
nately failed."
" What stratagem ? " asked the Aus¬
trian and Feodor simultaneously.
Gotzkowsky replied in a sorrowful
tone to Feodor : " Do not disguise your¬
self any longer, my son ! you see it is
useless." Then turning to the officer,
he continued : " We had hoped that he
might escape detection in this Eussian
uniform, left here by the adjutant of
General Sievers, who was formerly »
THE TWO CANNONEERS.
prisoner of war in my house, but un¬
fortunately the hat and cloak have be¬
trayed him."
Feodor von Brenda looked at Gotz-
kowsky with admiring wonder, and this
rapidly invented ruse de guerre pleased
, him astonishingly.
It was a piquant adventure offered him
by Gotzkowsky's hate and cunning, and
he did not feel inclined to throw away
such an original and interesting chance
of excitement. He the Russian colonel,
and Count von Brenda, the favorite of
the empress, degraded to a Prussian
cannoneer, whose life was in danger !
His wilful and foolhardy imagination
was pleased with the idea of playing
the part of a criminal condemned to
death.
"Well," asked the Austrian officer,
" do you acknowledge the truth of this
statement, or do you deny being the
cannoneer, Fritz?"
" Why should I deny it ? " answered
Feodor, shrugging his shoulders. " This
gentleman, who ought to have saved
me, has already betrayed me. I am
the man whom you seek ! "
With a scream of surprise, Elise threw
herself toward her lover.
" No ! " cried she, loudly, " no, he
is—"
Her father's hand pressed heavily on
her lips. " Another word, and you are
a murderess I " whispered he.
The officer looked suspiciously at
them. " You do not deny," asked he of
Feodor, " that you are he who direct¬
ed such a murderous fire on our lines ?
You do not deny that you are the artil¬
leryman, Fritz, and that this cloak and
hat belong to you ? "
" I deny nothing 1 " replied Feodori
defiantly.
The officer called to some of his men
and ordered them to shoulder arms,
and take the prisoner in their midst ;
enjoining them to keep a sharp watch
on him, and at the first attempt to
escape, to shoot him down. But when
he demanded his sword of the colonel,
the latter recoiled, shocked, and re¬
sisted.
He now became aware of his fool-
hardiness and rashness, and that he
had not considered or foreseen the dan¬
gerous and perhaps dishonorable con¬
sequences. However, as he had gone
so far, he considered that it would be
disgraceftd and cowardly to retreat
now. He was also desirous of pursu¬
ing to the end this adventure which he
had begun with so much boldness and
daring. He drew his sword, and with
considerable strength breaking it in
pieces, he threw them at the feet of the
Austrian officer.
That officer shrugged his shoulders.
" Your insolence will only make your
situation worse. Remember you are
our prisoner."
"He must and shall die!" shouted
the soldiers, thronging around Feodor,
angrily.
The officer ordered silence. "He
must die," said he, " that is true ; but
we must first carry him to the general,
. to obtain the price offered for him."
The soldiers surrounded him and
shoved him toward the door. But
Elise broke through the crowd. "With
flashing eyes, and cheeks burning with
a feverish excitement, she rushed tow¬
ard Feodor. " No ! " cried she, with
74
THE MERCHANT OF BERLIN.
all the ardor of love, " no, I -will not
leave you. You are going to your
death 1 "
Feodor kissed her lightly on her
forehead, and replied with a smUe : " I
fear nothing. Fortune does not for¬
sake a brave soldier."
He then took her by the hand and
led her to her father. Gazing on him
with a long and speaking look, he con¬
tinued : " Here, Father Gotzkowsky, I
bring your daughter to you : be a bet¬
ter father to her than you have been a
friend to me. These are my farewell
words."
He leaned forward as if to give
Gotzkowsky a parting embrace, and
whispered to him: "I hope we are
now quit ! I have atoned for my
fault. You will no longer wish to pun¬
ish your daughter for my transgression."
He then threw the white cloak
around him, and bidding EUse, who
leaned half fainting against her father,
a tender farewell, he stepped back into
the ranks of the guard.
" Attention ! shoulder arms ! " com¬
manded the ofiBcer ; and the Austrians
left the hall with closed ranks, the pris¬
oner in their midst.
CHAPTER XTX
father gotzkowsky.
The door had closed behind the sol¬
diers and their prisoner. Gotzkowsky
and Elise remained behind, silent and
immersed in the deep sorrows of their
souls. Neither spoke a word: both
stood motionless and listened.
They heard the soldiers hurry down
the steps ; they heard the house door
violently thrown open, and the officer
announce in a loud voice to those ot
his soldiers who were waiting in the
street, the lucky capture of the artil¬
leryman.
A cry of triumph from the Aus¬
trians was the answer ; then was heard
the loud word of command from the
officer ; and the roll of the drum grad¬
ually receding in the distance until it
was no longer audible. Every thing
was silent.
" Have mercy. Father in heaven, have
mercyj They are leading him to
death I " cried Elise in a heart-rending
tone, and she sank on her knees in
prayer.
"The brave cannoneer is saved!"
murmured Gotzkowsky in a low voice
to himself, and he too folded his hands
in prayer. Was it a prayer of grati¬
tude, or did it proceed from the de¬
spairing heart of a father ?
His countenance had a bright and
elevated expression ; but as he turned
his eyes down on his daughter, still on
her knees, they darkened, and his fea¬
tures twitched convulsively and pain¬
fully. His anger had evaporated, and
his heart was fiUed with boundless
pity and love. He felt nothing but
painful, sorrowful compassion for this
young girl who lay deathly pale and
trembling with suffering on the floor.
His daughter was weeping, and his
heart yearned toward her to forgive
her every thing, to raise her up and
comfort her.
Suddenly Elise started up from her
knees and strode toward her father.
FATHER GOTZKOWSKY.
There was something solemn and im¬
posing in her proud bearing her extra¬
ordinary composure, which only imper¬
fectly veiled her raging grief and pas¬
sionate excitement.
"Father," said she, solemnly, and
her voice sounded hoarse and cold,
" may God forgive you for what you
have done! At this moment, when
perhaps he is suffering death, I repeat
it, I am innocent."
This proud composure feU freezLngly
on Gotzkowsky's heart, and drove back
all the milder, forgiving impulses. He
remembered only his shame and the
injured honor of his daughter.
" You assert your innocence, and yet
you had a man concealed in the night
in your bedchamber ! "
" And yet I am innocent, father ! "
cried Elise, vehemently. " Bead it on
my forehead, see it in my eyes, which
do not fear to meet yours. I am inno¬
cent 1 "
And completely overpowered by the
bitter and desperate anguish of her
soul, she continued, still more excited :
" But how does aU this concern you ?
It was not my honor that you were in¬
terested in : you did not seek to avenge
that. You only wished to punish me
for daring to assert my freedem and in¬
dependence, for daring to love without
having asked your leave. The rich
man to whom all bend, whom all wor¬
ship as the priest of the powerful idol
which rules the world, the rich man
sees with dismay that there is one be¬
ing not dazzled by his treasures who
owns an independent life, a will of her
own, and a heart that he cannot com¬
mand. And because this being does
15
not ef her own accord bow down before
him he treads it in the dust, whether
it be his own chUd or not."
" Elise," cried Gotzkowsky, shocked,
" Elise, are you mad ? Do you know
that you are speaking to your father ? "
But her tortured heart did not no¬
tice this appeal; and only remember¬
ing that perhaps at this moment her
lover was suffering death through her
father's fault, she allowed herself to be
carried away by the overpowering
force of her grief. She met the flashing
eye of her father with a smile of con¬
tempt, and said, coldly : " Oh yes, you
may look at me. I do not fear your
angry glances. I am free; you your¬
self have absolved me from any fear of
you. You took from me my lover, and
at the same time deprived yourself of
your child."
" O God ! " cried Gotzkowsky in an
undertone, "have I deserved this.
Father in heaven ? " and he regarded
his daughter with a touching expres¬
sion.
But she was inexorable ; sorrow had
unseated her judgment, and "Oh!"
cried she in a tone of triumph, " now I
will confess every thing to you, how I
have suffered and what I have under¬
gone."
" Elise ! " cried he, painfully, " have
I not given you every thing your heart
could desire ? "
"Yes ! " cried she, with a cruel laugh,
"you fulfllled all my wishes, and
thereby made me poor in wishes, poor
in enjoyment. You deprived me of the
power of wishing, for every thing was
mine even before I could desire it. It
was only necessary for me to stretch
76
THE MEROHANT OF BERLIN.
out my hand, and it belonged to me.
Cheerless and solitary I stood amidst
your wealth, and all that I touched
was turned into hard gold. The rich
man's daughter envied the beggar-wo¬
man in the street, for she stiU had
wishes, hopes, and privations."
Gotzkowsky listened to her, without
interrupting her by a word or even a
sigh. Only now and then he raised his
hand to his forehead, or cast a wander¬
ing, doubtful look at his daughter, as
if to convince himself that all that was
passing was not a mad, bewildering
dream—but painful, cruel reality.
But when Elise, breathless and trem¬
bling with excitement, stopped for a
moment, and he no longer heard her
cutting accents of reproach, he pressed
both hands upon his breast, as if to
suppress a wail over the annihilation of
his whole life. " O God ! " muttered
he, in a low voice, " this is unparalleled
agony! This cuts into a father's
heart I "
After a pause, Elise continued: "I
too was a beggar, and I hungered for
the bread of your love."
"Elise, oh, my child, do you not
know then that I love you infinitely ? "
But she did not perceive the loving,
almost imploring looks which her fa¬
ther cast upon her. She could see and
think only of herself and her own tor¬
mented heart.
" Yes," said she, " you love me as one
loves a jewel, and has it set in gold in
order to make it more brilliant. You
loved me as a costly ornament of your
rooms, as something which gave you an
opportunity of exercising the splendor
of your liberality, and to be produced
as an evidence of your renowned
wealth. But you did not love me as a
father; you did not perceive that I
wept in secret, or if you did see it, you
consoled me with diamonds, with rich
dresses, to make me smile. But you
did not give me your father's heart.
At last the rich man's child discovers
a happiness not to be bought with gold
or treasures, a happiness that the mil¬
lions of her father could not purchase
for her. This happiness is—^love.
The only possession that I have owned,
father, contrary to your will, you have
deprived me of, because it was mine
against your will. Now, poor rich
man, take all your gold, and seek and
buy yourself a child with it. Me you
have lost ! " and staggering back with
a sob, she sank fainting on the carpet.
A dread silence now reigned in the
room. Gotzkowsky stood motionless,
with his eyes directed toward heaven.
The cruel, mocking words of his
daughter sounded over and over again
in his ears, and seemed to petrify the
power of his will and chain him fast,
as if rooted to the floor. Gradually he
recovered from this apathy of giiefi
The stagnant blood revived in his
veins, and shot like burning streams of
fire to his heart. He bent over his
daughter, and gazing for a long time
at her, his features assumed a gentler
and softer expression. Tenderly with
his hand he smoothed the tresses &om
her clear, high forehead ; and as he did
so, he almost smiled again, so beautiful
and charming did she seem to him in
her death-like repose.
" She has fainted," whispered he,
low, as if fearful of awakin? her. " So
FATHER GOTZKOWSKT.
77
much the better for her; and Trhen
she recovers, may she have forgotten
all the cruel words that she has ut¬
tered ! "
He laid his hand on her head as if
to bless her, and love and forgiveness
were expressed in his looks. A perfect
peace seemed to pervade his whole
frame. In this moment he forgave her
all the pain, all the suffering she had
caused him. He pardoned her those
unjust reproaches and accusations, and
with lofty emotion, raising his eyes tow¬
ard heaven, he exclaimed, "O God!
Thou seest my heart. Thou knowest
that love alone has possession of its very
depths, love to my child 1 and my
child has no faith in me. I have
worked—I am rich—I have amassed
wealth—only for her. I thought of
my child as I sat at my desk during
the long, weary nights, busied with
difficult calculations. I remembered
my daughter when I was wearied out
and overcome by this laborious work.
She should be happy; she should be
rich and great as any princess; for
this I worked. I had no time to toy or
laugh with her, for I was working for her
like a slave. And this," continued he
with a sad smile, " this is what she re¬
proaches me with. There is nothing
in which I believe, nothing but my
chüd, and my child, does not believe
in me I The world bows down before
me, and I am the poorest and most
miserable beggar."
Overcome by these bitter thoughts,
which crowded tumultuously upon his
brain, he leaned his head upon his
hand and wept bitterly. Then, after a
long pause, he drew himself up erect.
and, with a determined gesture, shook
the tears from his eyes.
" Enough ! " said he, loudly and
firmly, "enough; my duty shall cure
me of all this suffering. That I must
not neglect."
He rang the bell, and ordered the
servant-maids, who appeared, to raise
up the insensible girl and bear her to
her room.
But when the maidens called the
waiting-man to their assistance to raise
their mistress, Gotzkowsky pushed
them all aside, and carried her softly
and gently, as carefully and tenderly
as a mother, to a couch, on which he
placed her. He then pressed a fervent
kiss upon her brow. Elise began to
move, a faint blush overspread her
cheeks, she opened her eyes. Gotz¬
kowsky immediately stepped back, and
signed to her maids to carry her into
her room.
He looked after her untU. she had
disappeared, his eyes dimmed with
tears. " My child," said he, in a low
voice, " she is lost to me. Oh, I am a
poor, pitiable father!" "With a deep
groan he pressed his hands to his face,
and nothing was heard but the painftil
sobs wrung fi-om the heart of this fa¬
ther wrestling with his grief.
Suddenly there arose from without
loud lamentations and cries for help.
They came nearer and nearer, and at
last reached Gotzkowsky's house, and
filled its halls and passages. It was
not the outcry of a single person.
From many voices came the sounds of
lamenting and weeping, screams and
shrieks:
" Help I help ! have pity on us, save
Ï8
THE MERCHANT OF BERLIN.
us. The Austrians are hewing us down
—they are burning our houses—save
usl"
Gotzkowsky dropped his hands fronx
his faee and listened. "What was
that Î who cries for help ? " asked he,
dreamingly, still occupied with his own
sorrows, scarcely conscious of the real¬
ity. But suddenly he started, and from
his eyes beamed life and courage.
" Ah ! " cried- he aloud, " mankind is
suffering, and I am thinking of my own
griefs. I know these voices. The
wives and children of my workmen,
the poor and oppressed of the city are
calling me. The people need me. Up,
Gotzkowsky! give them your heart,
your life. Endeavor to be a father to
the unfortunate, and you will not be
poor in children 1 "
Without, the wailing and cries for
help continued to resound, and the
voices of weeping and trembling wo¬
men and plaintive children cried aloud,
"Gotzkowsky, help us! have pity on
us. Father Gotzkowsky ! "
" Father ! " cried he, raising his
head, his countenance beaming with
delight. "They caU me father, and
yet I complain. Up, üí my dear chil
dren who love me, and who need my
help ! "
BOOK II
CHAPTER I.
the two editobs.
On the morning succeeding the night
of horrors and confusion in which Ber¬
lin had surrendered to the conqueror,
the vanguard of the Russians marched
into the town through the König's
Gate. But the commanding general,
Tottleben, wished to make his trium¬
phal entry with his staff and the main
body of his army through the Kottbuss
Gate, and had ordered the magistracy
of the town to meet him there, and to
bring with them a deputation of the
merchants, to determine what contri¬
bution should be laid upon them. But
before the Russian general could make
his entry, the vanguard of De Lacy's
army corps had penetrated into the
Frederick Street suburb, and were
•onunitting the most atrocious acts of
cruelty in the New Street. With wild
yells they entered the houses to rob
and plunder, ill-treating those who re¬
fused to give up their valuables, and,
by violent threats of incendiarism, rais¬
ing forced levies from the frightened
.'^habitants.
But it was not alone this lust of plun¬
der in the soldiers which spread terror
and dismay in each house and in every
family. Count De Lacy possessed a list
of those persons who, by word, deed,
or writing, had declared against Austria
or Russia, and he gave it to his ofScers,
with the order that they should not
hesitate at any measures, any threats
or acts of violence, to obtain posses¬
sion of these people. Besides which,
he promised a considerable reward for
each " traitor " brought to him ; and it
was therefore no wonder that these of¬
ficers, with brutal and avaricious zeal,
had scarcely arrived in the city before
they commenced the pursuit of these
. outlaws. With fearful yells they rushed
into the houses, shouting out the names
of those on the pursuit of whom they
were bent, and whose seizure would se¬
cure them a golden reward.
Naturally enough, the writers and
journalists were the first on whom the
vengeful wrath of the conqueror was
poured, for it has ever been the lot of
authors to suffer for the misfortunes of
the people, to be made responsible for
the being and thinking, the will and
action of the nation to which they be-
80
THE MEECHAIÎT OF BERLIN.
long. But it is only in days of misfor¬
tune that the responsibility of authors
and poets commences. They must an¬
swer for the ill-luck, but are never re¬
warded for the happiness of the na¬
tion.
Three names, especially, did De La-
cy's chasseurs cry out with a raging
howl for vengeance, through the Fred¬
erick-Street and down the Linden
Street, and they searched for their own¬
ers in every house.
"De Justil De Justi!"—^with this
cry one of the Austrian officers rushed
through the street, knocked with his
sword violently against the closed
house doors, and demanded with sav¬
age threats the delivery of this crimi¬
nal for whose arrest a high premium
had been offered.
M. De Justi was indeed a notorious
criminal. Not that he had written
much or badly, but principally because
he had dared to use his sharp pen
against the Austrian empress, and her
allies the Eussians and Saxons. It was
especially three pamphlets which ex¬
cited the wrath of the victorious ene¬
my. These pamphlets were called:
"Proof that the Emperor should be
deposed;" "Why and wherefore Cer¬
tain Nations in Europe are disposed to
become Anthropophagous;" and lastly,
" Account of the Life of Count Briihl.'l-
He had offended not only the Austrians,
but also the Eussians and Saxons. It
was therefore natural that these three
powers reigning in Berlin should wish
to take their revenge on the writer of
these insulting pamphlets.
But De Justi had been prudent
enough to escape from the pursuit of
his revengeful enemies. During the
siege he had betaken himself to the
house of a friend in a more secure
street, and had hidden in the cellar
where it was impossible to find him.
As they could not get possession of the
writer, they were obliged to cool their
wrath on his treasonable writings.
They were dragged in his stead, as
prisoners of state and dangerous crim¬
inals, to headquarters at the New Mar¬
ket.
The two other writers, whom the
Austrians piusued with furious zeal,
were the two newspaper editors,
Kretschmer and Krause. These two
had no idea of such pursuit ; indeed,
they did not even know that the Aus¬
trians had penetrated into the city. In
the safe hiding-place in which both of
them had passed the night they had
only learned that Berlin had surren¬
dered to the Eussians, and that General
Tottleben had ordered the magistrates
to receive him the next morning at the
Kottbuss Gate at eight o'clock.
It was intended that the reception
should be a brilliant and solemn one,
and that the general should be molli¬
fied and conciliated by hiunble subjec¬
tion; it was also determined to en¬
deavor, by an offering of money made
to him individually, to induce bim to
make the contribution laid on the
town moderate and light.
The news was like a thunder-clap to
the two editors, for it compelled them
to leave their safe hiding-place, and to
venture out into the dangerous world.
For these gentlemen, editors of such
renowned journals, who prided them¬
selves on giving their readers the most
THE TWO
EDITORS.
81
recent and important intelligence,
would not dare to be absent at the
reception of the Russian general. For
the love of their country they had to
forget their own fears, and, for the
honor of their journals face danger like
true heroes.
Day had scarcely dawned, and deep
silence and death-like stillness reigned
at the Kottbuss Gate. The wings of
the gate were closed, and the watch¬
man had withdrawn into his little box,
and was resting from the events of the
past days. Dawn still lay like a veil
over poor, anxious Berlin, and con¬
cealed her tears and bloody wounds.
The silence was suddenly inter¬
rupted by the sound of approaching
footsteps, and around the nearest cor¬
ner glided the cowering figure of a
man. He remained still for a minute
and listened ; then, convinced that all
around him was quiet and süent, he
crept along, keeping anxiously close to
the houses, and reached unperceived
the pillar on the right side of the gate,
in the dark shadow of which he con¬
cealed himself. This man was no other
than Mr. Kretschmer, the editor of the
Vossian Gazette, who made himself
comfortable in his hiding-place.
" This is quite nice and right," said
he, shoving a stone behind the pillar,
in order to raise himself to a higher
point of view. " From here I can hear
and observe every thing."
So, settling himself on the stone, he
leaned back in the comer of the door-
piUar, as if it were the leathern arm¬
chair in his sanctum. A comfortable
smile stole over his features.
."This time," said he, "at least, I
6
have forestalled my rival, good Mr.
Krause. To-morrow the Vossian Oor
zette will be the only one which will be
able to report, from actual observation,
on the formal entry of the Russian gen¬
eral. Oh, how vexed Spener's will be !
There is seven o'clock striking. In an
hour the ceremony will begin. Spen¬
er's Journal still sleeps, while the Vos¬
sian Gazette wakes and works, and is
alert to satisfy the curiosity of Ber-
Hn."
Poor, benighted editor of the Vos¬
sian ! You, indeed, could not see him,
but the veil ofthe dawning day, which
spread over Berlin, concealed yoim rival,
as well as yourself, in its folds. His
drawn-up figure was not visible to your
dimmed sight, as he sneaked along the
houses, and hid himself behind the pU-
lar on the left of the gate. While you
were rejoicing over the long sleep of
Spener's Journal, its editor Mr. Krause,
was standing opposite to you, behind
the pillar, whither he had come, not¬
withstanding his sixty-eight years, like
you, to witness the entrance of the
Russians. And happy was he in spirit
at this victory obtained over his rival,
the editor of the Vossian Gazette, and
it made him very proud indeed to
think that this once he had forestalled
Mr. Kretschmer, and consequently
would have the monopoly of describ¬
ing in the morning's paper, to the peo¬
ple of Berlin, the magnificent and pom¬
pous entrance of the Russians !
The editor of the Fcssiasn. Gazette h&ä
no idea of the vicinity of his rival. i
He continued to congratulate himself
on the advantage he had obtained, and
proceeded cheerfully in his soliloquy.
82
THK MERCHANT OF BERLIN.
" It makes me laugh to think of Spen-
w's Journal. I, myself, advised Mr.
Ejause to conceal himself, and the
good man faithfully followed my ad¬
vice. Perhaps the little old gentleman
dreams that I am at this moment sit¬
ting by my fireside, while there is so
much matter for my newspaper here.
Good matter, too, that can be moulded
into an interesting article, is not so
common that it can be carelessly squan¬
dered. Sleep, therefore, sleep, good
Spener—the Fém'a» wakes ! "
But Spener did not sleep. He was
at the opposite pillar, smirking and
saying to himself, " How lucky it is that
I have anticipated the Vossian ! " He
then was silent, but his thoughts were
active, and in the bottom of his heart
he instituted some very serious reflec¬
tions upon the superfluousness of a sec¬
ond newspaper, how perfectly unneces¬
sary it was in fact.
"This Vossian Oasette is perfectly
intolerable," thought he. " There ought
to be a law prohibiting the publishing
of more than one newspaper in each
town. Then the public would always
get reliable news, and draw its political
opinion from one source, which would
be undoubted, and it would accept as
true what we gave forth for truth. If
the government would follow this plan,
and allow only one newspaper to each
town, and conciliate this one with
money or patronage, mankind would
be much happier and more contented,
and less liable to be distracted by the
most opposite political views and infor¬
mation. What profits the existence of
this Vossian Gazette ? What does it
rio but rob me of my subscribers ? By
Heavens ! I wish the Russian would
exterminate it thoroughly."
While Mr. Krause was thus speaking
to himself, Mr. Efretschmer had fol¬
lowed the same course of thought, and,
very naturally, arrived at a similar con¬
clusion. He, too, had to confess that
SpeneSs Journal was very inconveni¬
ent, and hated its editor from the bottom
of his heart. In the vehemence of his
vexation, he overlooked the necessary
precaution, and cried out, " Cursed be
this rival, this man who has the pre¬
sumption to imagine he can compete
■with me ! "
Mr. Krause shuddered at the sound
of this voice, which seemed to him as
it were the echo of his own unspoken
thoughts, but he mastered his alarm,
and cried aloud, " Did any one speak ? "
" Did any one speak ? " sounded back
again, and two heads were seen pro¬
truding from the pillars on each side of
the gate, the eyes in them inquiringly
peering at each other. The morning
in the mean while had become lighter,
and, with an inward shudder, the two
gentlemen recognized each other.
" It is Spener's ! May the de'vil take
him 1 " thought Mr. Kretschmer.
"It is the Vossian! Damn the fel¬
low ! " thought Mr. Krause.
But while they thought this to them¬
selves, they rushed forward and em¬
braced each other, with greetings and
assurances of friendship, to all appear¬
ances warm and sincere.
" I am not mistaken ! it is my dear
friend Krause."
" Oh, what happiness !—my dear
Kretschmer I "
And they shook each other's hands and
THE CHIEF MAGISTRATE OF BERLIN.
83
repeated their asseverations of friend¬
ship and esteem, but at the same time,
oreithed in their hearts their curses
and execrations. But the two editors
were not the only persons who had
sought the Kottbuss Gate at this early
hour. An Austrian officer with a guard
of soldiers, in his search after the two
editors, had also reached the spot, and
was marching with his men from the
comer near the gate, looking eagerly
right and left and up at all the win¬
dows. His eye fell upon these two
men who shrank from his sight, utter¬
ing pious çiaculations to Heaven. The
officer approached them and demanded
their names. Neither answered. The
officer repeated his question, and ac¬
companied it with such threats as con¬
vinced Mr. Krause of the imperative
necessity of answering it. He bowed,
therefore, respectfully to the officer, and
pointing to his friend, said, " This is
Mr. Kretschmer, the editor of the Vos-
dan Gazette."
Kretschmer cast upon him a look full
of hatred and revenge. "And this,"
said he, with a wicked smUe, " is Mr.
Krause, editor of Spener's Journal."
An expression of joyous triumph
shone in the coxmtenance of the officer :
"Ton are my prisoners, gentlemen,"
said he, as he beckoned to his soldiers
to arrest them.
Pale did Mr. Krause grow as he
drew back a step. " Sir, this must be
a mistake. We are quiet, peaceable cit¬
izens, who have nothing to do with the
war, but only busy ourselves with our
pens."
" Our arrest is contrary to all nation¬
al law," cried Mr. Kretschmer, at the
same time endeavoring to defend him¬
self from the weapons which were
pointed at him.
The officer laughed. "In war we
know no national law. Tou are my
prisoners." And disregarding their
stmggles and cries for help, they
dragged the two editors as prisoners
to the guard-house at the New Market.
CHAPTER H.
the chief magistrate op berlin.
After a short interval of quiet and
lonesomeness at the Kottbuss Gate,
there appeared, first far down the street,
then approaching nearer and nearer, a
solemn procession. Foremost staggered
the chief burgomaster. Von Kircheisen,
in fuU uniform, adorned with his golden
chain, which rustled as it rose and sank
with his hurried, feverish respiration.
He was followed by the second burgo¬
master, with the town Council, and
deputation of merchants, headed by
Gotzkowsky. With a solemn, serious
air, these gentlemen took up their posi¬
tion at the gate.
The chief burgomaster then beckoned
Gotzkowsky to his side. " Stand by
me, my fnend,'.' said he, with a groan,
and offering his hand to Gotzkowsky
with a dismal air. "I am suffering
terribly, and even the two bottles of
Johannisberger are not sufficient to in¬
spire me with courage. Is it not terri¬
ble that the honorable Council should
be obliged to attend in person ? It is
an unheard-of indignity 1 "
84
THE MERCHANT OF BERLIN.
" Not only for you, but for the low¬
est citizen the insult is equally great,"
said Gotzkowsky.
Herr von Kircheisen shook his head
in a most melancholy manner. " Yes,"
said he, " but the common citizen does
not feel it so deeply. It does not affect
his honor as it does that of the magis¬
tracy."
Gotzkowsky smiled scornfully. " Do
you think," asked he, " that the magis¬
trates possess a different kind of honor
from that of any citizen of the town ?
The sense of honor is keener among
the people than it is among the noblest
lords."
The chief burgomaster frowned.
" These are very proud words," replied
he, with a shrug of his shoulders.
" Pride belongs to the citizen I "
cried Gotzkowsky. " But believe me,
noble sir, my heart to-day is not as
proud as my words. It is sore with
pain and grief over our deep, immer-
ited degradation."
" Silence, silence ! " whispered the
chief magistrate, leaning tremblingly
on Gotzkowsky's arm. He heard a
noise behind the closed gates, and his
mind misgave him that the dreaded
enemy was at hand.
Suddenly there sounded on the other
side of the walls the loud notes of a
trumpet, and the warder hastened to
throw open the gate. A rare and mot¬
ley mixture of Russian uniforms now
came in sight. There were seen Cos¬
sacks, with their small horses and
sharp lances ; body-guards, with their
gold - adorned uniforms ; hussars, in
their jackets trimmed with costly furs,
all crowding in in confused tumult and
with deafening screams and yells, that
contrasted strangely with the silence
inside the gates, with the noiseless, de¬
serted streets, the closed windows of
the houses, whose inhabitants scorned
to be witnesses to the triumphal entry
of the enemy. Only the ever-curious,
ever - sight - loving, always - thoughtless
populace, to whom the honor has at
times been accorded of being called
" the sovereign people," only this pop¬
ulace had hurried hither from all the
streets of Berlin to see the entry of the
Russians, and to hurrah to the con¬
queror, provided he paraded right
handsomely and showily in. And now
a deep silence took place in the ranks
of the enemy ; the crowd opened and
formed a lane, through which rode the
Russian General Bachmann and his
staff As he reached the gate he drew
in his horse and asked, in a loud, son¬
orous voice, in French, whether the
magistrates and deputation of mer¬
chants were present.
The chief magistrate felt unable to
answer; his knees tottered and his
teeth chattered convulsively. He could
only wag his head in silence and point
with trembling hand to his compan¬
ions.
" Is the merchant, John Gotzkowsky,
one of your deputation ? " asked the
general.
Gotzkowsky stepped out of the
crowd and approached the general
with a proud step. " I am he, sir."
" I am glad to meet you," said the
general, with a gracious sndle. "I
bring you greetings from General Sie-
vers. He commissioned and ordered
me to show you all possible favor. If
/
THE CHIEP MAGISTRATE OF BERLIN.
85
I can be of servide to you in any pos¬
sible way, pray command me. I am
General von Baebmann, and during
our presence here have been appointed
to the command of Berlin."
" Are you a friend of the noble Sie-
vers ? " cried Gotzkowsky, his counte¬
nance beaming with pleasure. '' Oh,
then, I need fear nothing for this un¬
fortunate town, for only a noble, high-
minded man can be a fnend of Sie-
vers. You wiU have pity on our dis¬
tress I "
" Tell me wherein I can serve you,
and how I can oblige you ; my word
has much influence on our general-in-
chief. Count Tottleben."
Gotzkowsky was silent.
" Beg him to make the contribution
as small as possible," whispered Kir¬
cheisen in Gotzkowsky's ear.
But Gotzkowsky took no notice of
him. He fixed his dark eyes on the
general, as if he wished to read his
soul.
" Speak out," said the general. " If
it is possible, your wish shall be
granted."
"Well, then, general," cried Gotz¬
kowsky, "this is my request; Spare
the poor and needy of this town.
Order your soldiers to be humane, and
not to forget mercy. Let your war¬
riors neither murder nor plunder ; let
them not deride the defenceless and
conquered. Give to the world the ex¬
ample of a generous and noble con¬
queror."
The general looked into Gotzkow¬
sky's noble countenance with increas¬
ing astonishment, and his features as¬
sumed a more benevolent expression.
" I give you my word that your peti¬
tion shall be granted," said he ; "I will
give my soldiers strict orders, and woe
be to him who does not obey them !
But you have spoken for others, and I
would like to oblige you personally.
Have you no request to make for your¬
self? "
" Oh, yes, indeed ! " cried Gotzkow¬
sky, " I beg you to allow me to hasten
to the Coimcil-hall to report to the
elders of the citizens your kind prom¬
ise."
General Bachmann nodded affably to
him. " Hasten then, and return soon."
But as Gotzkowsky turned to hasten
away, Herr von Kircheisen seized him
with a convulsive grasp and drew him
back. "My God! you are not going
to leave me ? " h» whined out. Only
think—"
" That the brave and noble citizens
may lay the general's words as a balm
to their wounds—^that is what I am
thinking of," cried Gotzkowsky, tear¬
ing himself loose and hurrying away
Avith rapid strides.
"And now for you, most worthy
burgomaster," said General Bachmann,
sternly, " your name, if you please ? "
Von Kircheisen looked at him gloom¬
ily, but made no answer.
The general repeated his question
in a louder and sterner voice, but the
burgomaster still maintained the same
obstinate silence.
" Have you, by some unlucky chance,
forgotten your name, sir ? " asked the
general, with a lowering brow. The
angry, piercing look he fastened on
him, seemed to awaken the burgomas¬
ter from his lethargy.
86
THE MERCHANT OF BERLIN
"My name is Kircheisen, Von Kir-
cheisen," stammered he, with a heavy
tongue.
" "We come as conquerors, sir," said
General Bachmann; "and it is usual
for conquerors to dictate their terms
before they enter a captured city. In
the name of om general. Count Tottle¬
ben, I have to communicate to you
what sum we demand from you as a
war contribution : this demand amounts
to four minions of dollars in good
money."
The burgomaster stared at the gen¬
eral with glazed eyes, broke out into
a loud laugh, and staggered back on
the wall of the gate-warder's house.
"I implore you, collect yourself,"
whispered the second burgomaster, as
he endeavored to support the reeling,
staggering chief " Eemember our weal
or woe depends upon you ! "
Von Kircheisen grinned an idiotic
laugh. " Four millions of dollars ! "
screamed he aloud. "Four millions
of dollars ! Hurrah ! hurrah for the
Russians ! "
The countenance of the general be¬
came still more threatening, and an
angry light flashed from his eye. " Do
you dare to mock me ? " asked he, in
a harsh tone. " Beware, sir ; and re¬
member that you are the conquered,
and in our power! I demand from
you a decided answer. You under¬
stand my demand, do you not ? "
But still he answered not. He
stared at General Bachmann with a
vacant smile, and his head wagged
from side to side like the pendulum
of a clock.
" This is disgraceful conduct," cried
the general, " conduct which does little
honor to the chief magistrate of Berlin.
But I warn you, sir, to beware! I
have promised the poor and suffering
my protection, but I weU know how to
punish those who abuse our magna¬
nimity. If you do not answer me this
time, sir, by Heavens I will have you
carried off imder arrest and let a court-
martial pronounce judgment on you ! "
The chief magistrate continued dumb.
The pale and terror-stricken counte¬
nances of those present were turned
toward him. The members of the
Council implored and besought him to
put aside this unnatural stubbornness.
Von Kircheisen answered their plead¬
ings with a loud laugh. He then
stared at the general; his features
worked and struggled, writhed, and
flnally he opened his mouth.
" Ah ! God be praised, he is going
to speak,'' cried the second burgomas¬
ter.
But no, he did not speak; he only
distorted his face. A cry of dismay
sounded from the lips of the deputation,
a cry of anger from the Russian gen¬
eral, who, turning to his adjutant,
ordered him immediately to arrest the
burgomaster and carry him off. And
now there arose an indescribable scene
of confusion and terror. Pale with
fright, the Council and deputation of
merchants had flocked around Von
Kircheisen to protect him from the
advancing soldiers who sought to ar¬
rest him, while he, in the midst of all
the horror and tumult, continued to gig¬
gle and make grimaces. The enraged
soldiery had already commenced to
push aside Kircheisen's defenders with
THE CHIEF MAGISTRATE OF BERLIN.
87
blows from the butts of their muskets,
when a man made his way through the
crowd. It was Gtotzkowsky, who, with
Í loud and full voice, demanded the
cause of this singular uproar. A hun¬
dred voices were ready to answer him,
and to explain the scene in confused,
unintelligible jargon.
But General Bachmann beckoned
him to his side. " Tell me, sir, is this
chief burgomaster a fool or a drunkard,
or is he, indeed, so demented as to in¬
tend to mock us ? "
As Gotzkowsky looked at the death¬
ly pale, convulsed countenance of the
magistrate, who renewed his shrill,
screeching laugh, he comprehended the
racking and terrible torture which the
unfortunate man was suffering. He
hastened to him, seized him by the
arm, and led the tottering figure tow¬
ard the general
" This man is neither a fool nor a
madman, your excellency ; suffering has
robbed him of speech, and he laughs,
not in derision, but from the convulsion
of intense sorrow."
And as the offended and angry gen¬
eral would not believe him, and com¬
manded his soldiers anew to arrest the
burgomaster, and the soldiers with re¬
newed rage pressed on him, Gotzkow¬
sky placed himself before him, and
protected him with his proud and
respect-inspiring person.
" General Bachmann," exclaimed he,
warmly, " I remind you of your oath.
You vowed to me to protect the suffer¬
ing. Well, then, this man is a sufferer,
a sick man. I demand, from the noble
friend of General Sievers, that he have
compassion on the sick man, and allow
him to be escorted safely and unmolest¬
ed to his house."
"Can you give me your word that
this man ^d not act thus out of arro¬
gance ? " asked the general, in a milder
tone ; " are you convinced that he is
sick?"
" I swear to you, please your excel¬
lency, that the chief magistrate of Ber¬
lin has never been a healthy man ; that,
for many years, he has been subject to
fits of convulsive laughter."
General Bachmann smiled. " This
is an unfortunate disease for the chief
magistrate of a city," said he, " and it
seems to me as if the citizens of Berlin
did wrong in choosing for their burgo¬
master a man who laughs and cries in¬
differently, and to whom the misfor¬
tunes of his fellow-citizens apparently
served only for a joke. But you re¬
minded me of my promise, and you
shall see that I will keep it."
He beckoned to his soldiers, and or¬
dered them to fetch a litter on which
to carry the sick burgomaster home.
He then turned, with a smile, to Gotz¬
kowsky, and said; "Sir, the Council
of Berlin have cause to be grateful to
you ; you have saved their chief from
death."
Herr von Kircheisen did not laugh
now. His features jerked and distorted
themselves still, but a stream of tears
gushed from his eyes.
With an unspeakable expression he
seized Gotzkowsky's hand, and pressed
it to his lips, then sank unconscious in
the arms of his deliverer.
BS
THE MERCHANT OF BERLIN.
CHAPTER m.
the kussiah, saxon, and adstkian,
in beblin.
Berlin was now given up to the
enemy, and through the once cheerful
and pleasant streets could be heard
nothing but screams and shrieks of ter¬
ror, mingled with the wild curses and
boisterous laughter of the conqueror,
who, not satisfied with attacking the
trembling inhabitants to rob them of
their possessions and property, ill-treat¬
ed them out of sheer cruelty, and took
delight in hearing their screams and
looking at the contortions caused by
pain.
And who was this enemy, who, in
scorn of all humanity and civilization,
tortured the unfortunate and hunted
them down ?
They were not Russians, nor wild
hordes of Cossacks. They were Aus-
trians and Saxons, who, robbing and
plundering, murdering and destroy¬
ing, violating and burning, rushed
through Berlin, filling aU the inhabi¬
tants with terror and alarm.
General Bachmann kept faithfully
the promise he had made to Gotzkow-
sky, and the Russian army at first not
only preserved the strictest discipline,
but even protected the inhabitants
against the violence of the Austrians
and Saxons.
The terrified citizens had one pow¬
erful and beneficent fidend—^this was
John Gotzkowsky. Yielding to his
urgent entreaty. General von Bach-
mann's adjutant. Von Brinck, had taken
up his quarters in his house, and with
his assistance and his own influença
with the general, Gotzkowsky was en¬
abled to afford material aid to all Ber¬
lin. For those citizens who were able
to pay the soldiers he procured a Rus¬
sian safeguard, and more than once this
latter protected the inhabitants of the'
houses against the vandalism of the
Austrians and Saxons.
Contrary to the wish of the Russians,
the Austrians had forced themselves
into the city, and, in spite of the terms
of the capitulation agreed upon with
the Russians, had quartered themselves
upon the citizens, from whom, with the
most savage cruelty and threats of in¬
genious torture, they extorted all the
gold and jewels they possessed.
Berlin was now the open camping-
ground of Croats, and Austrian hussars,
nod Russian Cossacks, and all minds
were filled with dread and anxiety.
It is true that even the Cossacks for¬
got the strict discipline which had been
commanded them, and entered the
houses, robbing and compelling the
inhabitants, by blows of the knout, to
give them all they wanted. But yet
they were less cruel than the Saxons,
less barbarous than the Austrians, who,
with scoffing and derision, committed
the greatest atrocities. Indeed, it was
only necessary to complain to the Rus
sian general, in order to obtain justice
immediately, aud have the Cossacks
punished. Eight of them were strung
up in one day at the guard-house on
the New Market square, as a warning
and example to the others, and expi¬
ated their robberies by a summary
death. But with the Austrians and
Saxons it was the officers themselves
THE RUSSIAN, SAXON, AND AUSTRIAN, IN BERLIN.
89
who instigated the soldiers to acts of
revolting barbarity, and who, forgetful
of all humanity, by their laughter and
applause excited their subordinates to
fresh ill-treatment of the inhabitants.
Disregarding the capitulation, and lis¬
tening to their national enmity, and
their love of plunder, they pressed
forward with wild screams into the
royal stables, driving away the safe¬
guard of four-and-twenty men, which
General von Tottleben had placed there
for their protection, and with shameless
insolence defiling the Prussian coat-of-
arms pictured on the royal carriages.
Then they drew them out into the
open street, and, after they had stripped
them of their ornaments and decora¬
tions, piled them up in a great heap and
set them on fire, in order to add to the
Mght and terror of the bewildered
citizens by the threatening danger of
confiagration.
High blazed the flames, consuming
greedily these carriages which had
once borne kings and princes. The
screams of fright of the inmates of the
nearest houses, and the crackling of the
window-glass broken by the heat, were
drowned by the joyous shouts of the
Austrians, who danced round the fire
with wild delight, and accompanied
the roaring of the flames with insult¬
ing and licentious songs. And the fire
seemed only to awaken their inventive
powers, and excite them to fresh deeds
of vandalism. After the fire had
burnt out, and only a heap of ashes
told of what were once magnificent
royal vehicles, the Austrians rushed
back again into the building with ter¬
rific outcry, to the apartments of the
royal master of the horse, Schwerin, in
order -to build a new bonfire with his
furniture, and fill their pockets with his
gold and silver ware.
In the royal stalls a great uproar
arose, as they fought with each other
for the horses that were there. The
strongest leaped on them and rode ofii
furiously, to carry into other neighbor¬
hoods the terror and dismay which
marked the track of the Austrians
through Berlin. Even the hospitals
were not safe from their brutal rage.
They tore the sick from their beds,
drove them with scoffs and insults into
the streets, cut up their beds, and cov¬
ered them over with the feathers. And
all this was committed, not by wild
barbarians, but by the regular troops
of a civilized state, by Austrians, who
were spurred on, by their hatred of
the Prussians, to deeds of rude cru¬
elty and beastly barbarity. And this
unlucky national hatred, which pos¬
sessed the Austrian and made him
forgetful of all humanity, was com¬
municated, like an infectious plague,
to the Saxons, and transformed these
warriors, who were celebrated for be¬
ing, next to the Prussians, the most
orderly and best disciplined, into rude
Jack Ketches and iconoclastic Van¬
dals.
In the royal pleasure-palace at Char-
lottenburg, where Brühl's (Saxon) dra¬
goons had taken up their quarters by
force, they set up a new species of
dragoonade, which was directed not
so much against the living as against
marble statues and the sacred treas¬
ures of art. All the articles of splen¬
dor, brilliancy, and luxury which had
90
THE MERCHANT OF BERLIN.
been heaped up here, every thing
which the royal love of the fine arts
had collected of what was beautiful
and rare, was sacrificed to their raging
love of destruction. Gilded furniture,
Venetian mirrors, large porcelain vases
firom Japan, were smashed to pieces.
The silk tapestry was torn from the
walls in shreds, the doors inlaid with
beautiful wood-mosaic were broken up
with clubs, the most masterly and
costly paintings were cut in ribbons
with knives. To be sure, it some¬
times happened that the officers res¬
cued from the soldiers some costly
vase, some rare treasure or painting,
and saved it from destruction, but
this was not to save the King of Prus¬
sia's property, but to appropriate it to
themselves, and carry it home with
them.
Even the art - collection of Count
Polignac, embracing the most splendid
and rare treasures of art in the palace
of Charlottenburg, did not escape this
mania of destruction. This collection,
containing among other things the
most beautiful Greek statues, had been
purchased in Home by Gotzkowsky,
and had afforded the king peculiar
gratification, and was a source of much
enjoyment to him. In the eyes of
some Saxon officers, to whom this fact
was known, it was sufficient reason for
its condemnation. They themselves
led the most violent and destructive
of their soldiers into the halls where
these magnificent treasures were ex¬
posed, even helped them to break the
marble statues, to dash them down
from their pedestals, to hew off their
neads, arms, and legs, and even carried
their systematic malice so far as to
order the soldiers to grind into pow¬
der the fragments, so as to prevent any
restoration of the statues at a subse¬
quent period.
The unfortunate inhabitants of
Charlottenburg witnessed all this
abomination that was perpetrated by
the Saxons in the royal palace with
fear and trembling, and in order to
save their own persons and property
from similar outrage, they offered the
enemy a contribution of fifteen thou¬
sand dollars. The Saxons accepted the
money, but regardless of every obliga¬
tion usually considered sacredly bind¬
ing, they only became more savage and
ferocious. With yells of rage they
rushed into the houses, and, when the
money they demanded was refused
them, they stripped the men of their
clothes, lashed them until the blood
flowed, or cruelly wounded or maimed
them with sabre-cuts; and when the
women fled from them, they followed
them up, and forced them by brutal
ül-treatment to yield themselves. No
house in Charlottenburg escaped being
plundered ; and so cruel were the tor¬
tures which the inhabitants suffered,
that four of the unfortunate men died
a miserable death at the hands of the
Saxon soldiers.
They were Germans who waged
against their brother Germans, against
their own countrymen, a brutality and
barbarous love of destruction almost
unequalled in the annals of modem
history. Consequently it seemed but
natural that the Bussians should be
excited by such examples of barbarity,
so unstintedly set them by the Aus-
THE CADETS.
91
oians and Saxons. No wonder that
they, too, at last began to rob and
plunder, to break into houses at night,
and carry off women and maidens by
force, in order to have them released
next day by heavy ransom ; and that
even the severe punishments, inflicted
on those whom the people had the
courage to complain of to the generals,
lost their terror, and were no restraint
on these sons of the steppes and ice¬
fields, led away as they were by the
other ruffians.
Two hundred and eighty-two houses
were destroyed and thoroughly plun¬
dered in Berlin by the Austrians ; the
Saxons had devastated the royal pal¬
ace in Charlottenburg, and the whole
town. Should not the Kussians also
leave a memorial of their vandalism ?
They did so in Schönhausen, the pleas¬
ure-palace of the consort of Frederick
the Great, who had left it a few days
previous, by express command of the
king, to take up her residence in Mag¬
deburg. Eight Kussian hussars forced
themselves into the palace, and, with
terrible threats, demanded the king's
plate. Only the castellan and his wife,
and a few of the royal servants, had
been left behind to protect the place,
and the only answer they could make
to the furious soldiers was, that the
booty which they were in search of had
been carried with the royal party to
Magdeburg. This information excited
their fury to the highest pitch. Like
the Saxon dragoons of Charlottenburg,
they devastated the Schönhausen pal¬
ace, stripped the castellan and his wife,
and, with shouts of wild laughter,
whipped them and pinched their flesh
with red-hot tongs. And, as if the
sight of these bloody and torn human
bodies had only increased their desire
for blood and torture, they then at¬
tacked the two servants, stripped them
of their clothes, cut one to pieces like
a beast, and threw the other on the red-
hot coals, roasting him alive, as for¬
merly the warriors of her Most Chris¬
tian Majesty of Spain did those whom,
in the pride of their civilization, they
denominated " the wild heathen." *
CHAPTEK IV.
the cadets.
The day following the occupation
of Berlin, a strange and singular pro¬
cession moved down the Linden Street
through the Brandenburg Gate, and
took the road to Charlottenburg.
Brühls dragoons and De Lacy's chas¬
seurs rode on each side of the line,
which would have excited laughter, if
pity and sorrow had not overcome the
comical element. It was a procession
of children decked in rmiform, and
having nothing military about them
but their apparel, nothing manly but
the dress-sword at their side.
This singular little regiment was the
"Corps of Cadets," which had been
made prisoners of war by the Austrians
and Saxons.
The commandant, Von Bochow, did
not imagine that the enemy would car-
* The aceoant of all these oraeltles and this van¬
dalism is verified in the original, by referenee to
Ton Arch#holz: "History of the Seven Tears'
War," pp. 194-198.—Teakslatoe.
92
THE MERCHANT OF BERLIN.
ry his hard-heartedness to such an ex¬
tent as to consider these lads of tender
age as part of the garrison, and make
them prisoners of war in consequence.
None of these boys exceeded the age
of twelve years (the larger and older
ones having been drafted into the army
to supply the want of officers), and he
presumed that their very helplessness
and weakness would be their security,
and therefore had omitted to mention
them specially in the surrender. But
the conqueror had no compassion on
these little children in uniform, and
pronounced them prisoners of war.
Even LUiputian warriors might be
dangerous ! Remember the pangs suf¬
fered by Gulliver, as, lying quietly on
the ground, he was suddenly awakened
by a violent discharge poured into him
from behind the high grass by the Lili-
putians. To be sure, their weapons
were only armed with needles—^whence
we may infer that the Idliputians are
the original inventors of the modem
Prassian needle-percussion rifles—^but,
one can be killed by needle-pricks.
Count de Lacy feared, perhaps, the
needle weapons of the little LUiputian
cadets, and treated the poor, delicate,
tender children as if they were tough
old veterans, accustomed to aU the
hardships and privations of war.
With coarse abuse and blows from the
butt of the musket, they were driven
out into the highway, and compelled
to travel on the soft, muddy roads
without cloaks, notwithstanding the
severe weather, and only the short jack¬
ets of their uniforms. Heart-rending
was the waU of the poor l^tle ones
from whom the war had taken their
fathers, and poverty their mothers—
torn from their home, the refuge of
their orphaned chUdhood, to be driven
like a flock of bleating lambs out into
the desert wUderness of life.
And when their feet grew weary,
when their little bodies, unaccustomed
to fatigue, gave way, they were driven
on with blows from sabres and the
butts of muskets. When they begged
for a piece of bread, or a drop of wa¬
ter for their parched lips they were
laughed at, and, instead of water, they
were told to drink their own tears,
which ran in streams down their chUd-
ish cheeks. They had already marched
the whole day without food or refresh¬
ment of any kind, and they could
hardly drag their bleeding feet along.
With eyes bright with fever, and
parched tongues, they stUl wandered
on, looking in the distance for some
friendly shelter, some refreshing spring.
At nightfall the little cadets were
camped in an open field, on the wet
ground. At first, they begged for a
little food, a crust of bread ; but when
they saw that their sufierings gave
pleasure to the dragoons, and that their
groans were to them like a pleasant
song, they were sUent, and the spirits
of their fathers reigned uppermost in
the breasts of these little, forsaken,
trembling lads. They dried their eyes,
and kept their complaints in their lit¬
tle aching hearts.
"We will not cry any more," said
little Ramin, who, though only twelve
years of age, was yet the oldest of the
captives, and recognized as their cap¬
tain and leader. "We will not cry
any more, for our tears give pleasure
THE CADETS.
93
M our enemies. Let us be cheerful,
and that perhaps will yex them. To
spite them, and show how little we
think of om: hunger, let us sing a joUy
song."
" Come on, let us do it 1 " cried the
boys. " What song shall we sing ? "
" Prince Eugene,^ cried young Ra¬
min ; and immediately with his child¬
ish treble struck up " Prince Eugene,
the noble knight."
And all the lads joined in with a
sort of desperate enthusiasm, and the
song of the noble knight rose from
their young lips like a peal of rejoicing.
But gradually one little trembling
voice after another fell, by degrees the
song grew lower and shriller, and be¬
came lost in a trembling whisper ; then
it would rise into an unnatural and
terrified scream, or sink into a whining
sob or trembling wail.
Suddenly little Ramin stopped, and
a cry of pain, like the sound of a
snapped string, burst from his breast.
" I cannot sing any more," sighed he.
" Hunger is killing me." And he sank
down on his knees, and raised his little
arms beseechingly to one of the Aus¬
trian soldiers, who was marching be¬
side him, comfortably consuming a
roast chicken.
" Oh ! give me a bit of bread, only a
mouthful, to keep me from starving to
death."
"Have pity on us, do not let us
starve."
With similar piteous lamentations,
the whole corps of trembling, weeping,
starving little cadets threw themselves
on their knees, and filled the air with
their crifs and prayers.
"Well, if you positively insist upon
eating, you shall have something to ap¬
pease your hunger," said the officer
who commanded the chasseurs, and he
whispered a few words to the corporal,
who received them with a loud laugh,
and then rode off.
"Now, be quiet, and wait," com¬
manded the Austrian officer. " I have
sent the corporal and some soldiers
into the village to get food for you.
Only wait now, find be satisfied." And
the children dried their eyes, and com¬
forted each other with encouraging
words.
With what impatience, what painful
longing, did they look forward to the
promised food ! How they thanked
God, in 'the gladness of their hearts,
that He had had pity on them, and
had not allowed them to die of hunger !
They all seemed revived, and strained
their hopeful eyes toward the quarter
whence the corporal was to return
And now, with one voice, they broke
out into a cry of joy; they had espied
him returning, accompanied by soldiers
who seemed to be bringing a heavy
load.
They approached nearer and nearer.
"Form a ring," commanded the offi¬
cer, and they obeyed in expectant glad¬
ness ; and around the thickly-crowded
ring the Austrian officers and the troop
of soldiers took their stand. In silent
waiting stood the cadets, and their
hearts leaped for joy.
" Attention ! your dinner is coming,"
cried the officer.
The ring opened. Ah I now the cor¬
poral and the soldiers are going to
bring in the dinner.
04
THE MEECHANT OF BERLIN.
But no I The dinner came walking
along by itself. With a dignified step
it marched in and gave utterance to an
expressive bleat. It was a live sheep,
which was given to the poor Jads who
were faint from hunger. An outburst
of boisterous laughter from the Aus-
trians greeted the dignified wether, and
drowned the cries of the bitterly dis¬
appointed cadets.
" A sheep 1 " they cried, " and what
are we to do with it ? "—and they be¬
gan to weep afresh.
"Kill him and roast himl" jeered
the officer. "You are brave soldiers.
Well, you vnll only have to do what
we often do in camp. Be your own
cook and butler ; none of us will help
you. We want to see what sort of
practical soldiers you will make, and
whether you are as good hands, at cook¬
ing as at crying and blubbering."
And the Austrians folded their arms,
and looked on idly and with derisive
satisfaction at these poor children who
stood there with their heads bowed
down with helplessness and grief.
At length little Ramin arose. His
eyes glistened with fierce defiance, and
an expression of noble courage illumi¬
nated his pale coimtenance.
"If the sheep belongs to us," said
he, " we will eat him."
" But he is alive ! " qried the boys.
"We will kill him," answered the
little fellow.
"We? we ourselves? We are no
butchers. We have never done such a
thing ! "
" Have we ever killed a man ? "
asked Ramin, rolling his large bright
eves around the circle of his comrades.
" Have we ever deprived a man of his
life?"
"No!"
" Well, then, we will have it yet to
do ! We hope to be able to kill many
an enemy, and to do that we will have
to begin with some one. Let us make
believe, then, that this wether is the
enemy, and that we have to attack
him. Now, then, down upon him ! "
"Ramin is right," cried the boys;
" let \is attack the enemy."
" Attention I " commanded Ramin.
The boys drew themselves up in mil¬
itary order right opposite the bleating
sheep.
" Draw swords 1 "
In the twinkling of an eye they had
drawn their little rapiers, which looked
more like penknives than swords, and
which the Austrians had left to their
little prisoners of war.
" One, two, three I " commanded the
little Ramin. " Attention ! Forward ! "
Down they charged upon the enemy,
who was standing motionless, with
staring eyes, bleating loudly. Tlie
Austrian soldiers roared and screamed
with delight, and confessed, with tears
in their eyes, that it was the best joke
in the world, and no end of fun to see
these poor boys made desperate by
hunger.
The first feat of arms of the little
cadets was completed, the wether was
slain. But now came the question how
to dress him, how to convert the dead
beast into nice warm roast meat.
They were well aware that none of
the laughing, mocking soldiers would
help them, and therefore they disdained
to ask for helo. "Wood, a roastiner-spit,
THE EXPLOSION.
95
and a kettle, were given them—means
enough to prepare a good soup and
roast. But how to begin and set about
it they themselves hardly knew. But
gnawing hunger made them inventive.
Had they not often at home skinned
many a cunningly caught mole—had
they not often kUled and drawn a rab¬
bit ? The only difference was that the
sheep was somewhat larger than a mole
or a rabbit.
Finally, after much toil and trouble,
and under the approving laughter of
the spectators, they accomplished it.
The meat simmered in the kettle,
watched by two cadets, two others turn¬
ing the spit. The work was done ;
the sheep was converted into soup and
roast.
And because they showed themselves
so industrious and cheerful, one and
another of the soldiers softened their
hearts and threw them a piece of bread
or a canteen; and the poor boys ac¬
cepted these alms thrown at them with
humble gratitude, and no feeling of re¬
sentment or defiance remained in their
hearts, for hunger was appeased; but
appeased only for the moment—only to
encounter new sufferings, renewed hun¬
ger, fresh mockeries. For onward, far¬
ther onward must they wander. Every
now and then one of them sank down,
begging for pity and compassion. But
what cared the soldiers, who only saw
in the children the impersonation of
the hated enemy, to be tortured and
worried to death as a sport ?
More than twenty of these little ca¬
dets succumbed to the sufferings of this
journey, and died miserably, forsaken'
and alone, on the high road ; and no
mother was there to close their eyes, no
father to lean over them and bless them
with a tear. But over these poor mar¬
tyr-children watched the love of God,
and lulled them to sleep with happy
dreams and gentle fancies about their
distant homes, their little sister there,
or the beautifur garden in which they
had so often chased butterfiies together.
And amidst such fancies and smiling
memories they dreamed away their
childish souls, beyond the grave, to a
holy and happy reawakening.
CHAPTER V.
the explosion.
General von Tottleben was alone
in his chamber—at least he had no
visible company; but two invisible
compatuons were there—Care and Sor¬
row. They whispered to him imcom-
fortable and melancholy thoughts,
making his countenance serious and
sad, and drawing deep and dark lines
across his brow. He was a German, and
was fighting in the ranks of the enemy
against his German fatherland. Therein
lay the secret of his careworn features,
the reading of the, suppressed sighs;
the broken, sorrowful words which he
uttered, as with folded arms and bowed
head he paced up and down his room.
He was a German, and loved his coun¬
try, which had repaid his love with
that apathy and non-appreciation that
have destroyed and kUled some of the
greatest and noblest men of Germany;
while others have taken refuge in for¬
eign countries, to find there that rec-
96
THE MERCHANT OF BERLIN.
ognition which was denied them at
home. General von Tottleben was
only a German—why, then, should
Germany take notice of him ? Because
he possessed information, talent, genius.
Germany would have appreciated these
if Von Tottleben had been a foreigner;
but, as unfortunately he was only a
German, Germany took no notice of
him, and compelled him to seek in a
foreign country the road to fame and
distinction. He had gone to Russia.
There his talents had been prized and
employed. He was now a general in
the Russian army, and the alliance be¬
tween Russia and Austria compelled
him to fight against his own country.
But ! the Russian general still pre¬
served his German heart ; this heart so
strong in suffering, so unfaltering in its
faith, so faithful in its love, so great in
its hope, humble in its obedience, modest
in its desires ; this German heart of his
was the cause of much suffering to him,
for it could not adapt itself to his Rus¬
sian instructions, and despite his efforts
to render it callous, would insist upon
overflowing with pity and sympathy.
He loved Berlin, for in this city he had
passed the best years of his youth.
And now he was called on to act as a
cruel tyrant, an unfeeling barbarian,
to sow broadcast death and destruction
in this city, from which he yearned so
to win a little love, a little sympathy
for her rejected son.
But now his German heart was
foreed into silence by the exigencies of
Russian discipline, and the general
had to obey the orders of his superior
officer. General von Fermore. His
chief had ordered him to exercise the
utmost severity and harshness, and im¬
posed upon him the task of scourging
Berlin like a demon of vengeance. And
yet Berlin had committed no other
crime than that of remaining faithful to
her king, and of not wishing to surren¬
der to the enemy.
A fresh dispatch had just arrived
from General von Fermore, and its con¬
tents had darkened the brow of Tottle¬
ben with anxious care. He had re¬
ceived orders to blow up the arsenal in
Berlin. This noble and handsome
building, which rose in proud q)lendor
in the midst of a populous town, was to
be destroyed without reference to the
fact that the blowing up of this colossal
edifice would scatter death and ruin
throughout unfortvmate Berlin.
" I will not do it," said he, pacing up
and down the room, and crushing the
accursed paper which brought the cruel
order in his clinched hand. "I cannot
be such a barbarian. Fermore may
command me to do barbarous actions,
but I will not accept such commands !
I will not obey ! No one but myself
knows of this order. I will ignore it.
The Empress Elizabeth has always
been very gracious toward me, and
win forgive me for not executing an
order which certainly never proceeded
from her own kind heart." At this
moment the door opened, and the adju¬
tant entering, announced Count de
Lacy.
Tottleben's countenance assumed a
gloomy expression, and, as with hasty
step he advanced toward the Austrian
general, he muttered to himself, " I per¬
ceive the blood-hounds have got the
scent, and are eager for blood." In the
THE EXPLOSION.
97
mean time Count de Lacy approaclied
him with a friendly and gracious smile.
He seemed not to be at all aware that
Tottleben did not accept the hand
which the Austrian general held out to
him with a hearty greeting.
" I come to chat for a short quarter
of an hour with your excellency," said
Coxmt de Lacy, in very fluent German,
but with the hard foreign accent of a
Hungarian. "After a battle won, I
know nothing pleasanter than to recall
with a comrade the past danger, and to
revel again in memory in the excitement
of the flght."
"May I request your excellency to
remember that the Austrians cannot
count the conquest of Berlin in the list
of their victories," cried Count Tottle¬
ben, with a sarcastic smile. " It was
the Russian army which besieged Ber¬
lin, and Berlin surrendered to us."
" You are very kind to remind me of
it," said Count de Lacy, with his un¬
changeable pleasant smile. "In the
mean time may I request a more par¬
ticular explanation than this poUte re¬
minder ? "
" You shall have it, sir," cried Tottle¬
ben, passionately. " I mean to say that
Berlin is not Charlottenburg, and to
request that the vandalism which the
Austrian troops practised there, may
not be transferred to Berlin. Be satis¬
fied with the booty which your soldiers
stowed away in their knapsacks at that
place, and have the kindness to order
the Austrian army to learn a little dis¬
cipline and humanity from the Rus¬
sians."
" From the Russians ? " asked Count
Lacy, with ironical astonishment.
" Truly one is not accustomed to learn
humanity from that quarter. Does your
excellency mean to say that the Aus¬
trians are to learn good manners from
the Russians ? "
"Yes, from the Russians," replied
Tottleben — " from my soldiers, who
neither plunder nor rob, but bear in
mind that they are soldiers, and not
thieves I "
" Sir," cried De Lacy, " what do
these words mean ? "
" They mean that I have promised
my protection to the people of Berlin,
and that I am prepared to afibrd it to
them, even against our own allies.
They mean that I have made myself
sufliciently strong to bid you defiance,
sir, and to defend Berlin against the
cruelty and inhumanity of the Austrian
army. The Russian army will compel
it to be humane, and to pause in the
cruel rage with which they have deso¬
lated unhappy Germany."
Count de Lacy shrugged his shoul¬
ders. " What is Germany to you, and
why do you feel for her ? " asked he,
jeeringly. "I beg you, count, let us
not speak of Germany. What to us is
this lachrymose, fantastic female Ger¬
mania, which has been betrothed to so
many lords and wooers, that she can re¬
main faithful and true to none ? Ger¬
mania wiU then only be happy when
one of her lovers has the boldness to
kill off and tread under foot aU his
rivals and so buUd himself up an un¬
disputed throne. That is Austria's
mission, and our duty is to fulfil it.
We are the heralds who go before
Germania's Austrian bridegroom, and
everywhere illuminate the heavens
98
THE MERCHANT OF BERLIN.
with the torches of our triumphs. If
the torches now and then come too
near some piece of humanity and set
it on fire, what is that to ns ? Ger¬
many is our enemy, and if we have a
puling compassion on our enemy, we
become traitors to our own cause.
That's all. But what is the use of this
strife and these recriminations ? " asked
he, suddenly breaking into a smile.
" I have only come to ask your excel¬
lency when you intend to light these
new wedding - torches which are to
redden the sky of Berlin ? "
" What wedding-torches ? " inquired
Tottleben, turning pale.
" Well, those which are to burst out
from the mint and factory buildings,"
said De Lacy, with a smile of indiffer¬
ence. " I anticipate with extraordinary
pleasure this exhibition of fireworks
which the town of Berlin is going to
give in honor of our presence."
" You mean to say in disgrace of our
presence," exclaimed Tottleben, ardent¬
ly-
Count de Lacy looked at him with
a compassionate shrug of the shoul¬
ders. " My dear count," said he, with
cutting coldness, " when a man be¬
comes a Russian general, he must have
a Russian heart, and not allow himself
to be influenced by a German softness
or sympathy. Otherwise it might hap¬
pen that they might make a mistake,
and not being able to deprive you of
your German heart, might take your
German head instead."
General Tottleben drew back with
astonishment, and stared at him.
Count de Lacy continued, smiling,
and in a quiet tone : " I warn you to
guard against your own mildness and
your German heart. General Fermore
is my friend, and often consults me
about the meaning of German words.
How would you like it if I should ex¬
plain the word trecmn in a manner
dangerous to yourself, and if this ex¬
planation should result in translating
your excellency into Siberia ? "
" General Fermore is neither my
commander nor my master," cried Tot¬
tleben, proudly.
"But the lord and master of your
lady and mistress, the high and mighty
Empress Elizabeth — remember that !
Win your excellency now condescend
to inform me at what time the Berlin
armory shall rise fluttering in the air
like a bird ? "
" And do you know that, too ? "
asked Tottleben, with painful astonish¬
ment.
" I have already told you that the
Russians and Austrians are faithful
allies, and have no secrets from each
other, as far as their designs upon Ger¬
many are concerned. Oh, it will be a
splendid feu de joie for the house of
Austria, when the Prussian armory is
blown into the air ! When are we to
enjoy this spectacle, general ?
General von Tottleben sank his head
in silence on his breast. Count de
Lacy regarded him with a cold and
piercing glance. Tottleben felt this
look, and understood its important
significance. He knew that his whole
future, his freedom, perhaps even his
life, hung upon this moment.
" In three hours from now the spec¬
tacle will take place," said he, with a
forced laugh. "In three hours the
THE EX]
wedding-torcliea shall be lighted, and in
order to make it the pleasanter, we will
have the wails of the people of Berlin
as a musical accompaniment."
" In three hours, then," said Count
de Lacy, bowing low ; " I hasten to
announce it to my officers. I am burn¬
ing with impatience to witness this
rare spectacle."
Count de Lacy departed, and Gen¬
eral Tottleben was again alone.
For a long time did he pace his
room in abstract meditation, anger and
pity, fear and terror, struggling in his
soul. He was perfectly aware of the
danger which threatened him. He
knew that Count Fermore hated him
as a dangerous rival for the smiles of
the empress, and only waited for a fa¬
vorable opportunity to overthrow him.
He was therefore obliged to yield to
this cruel necessity : the Berlin armory
must be sacrificed.
Suddenly his countenance lighted
up, and his features assumed an ex¬
pression of joy. He hastened rapidly
to the door and summoned his body-
servant and slave, Ivan Petrowitsch.
"Ivan," said he, vdth the stern and
cold composure of a Eussian—" Ivan, I
have a commission for you, and if yon
are successful in its execution, I wUl
not have your son Fedor hung, al¬
though I know that yesterday, con¬
trary to my order, he was present at
the plundering of a house."
" Speak, master, what am I to do ?
I will save my son, even if it cost my
own life."
" It will cost your life, Ivan."
"I am your property, master, and
my life belongs to you," said the serf.
LOsroN. -LjI-j::; jr ' ^ 99
sadly. "You can have me whipped
to death any time it pleases you. Say,
then, what I must do to save my son."
"Fifty Cossacks are to ride immedi¬
ately to the powder-mills to bring
powder. Ton will accompany them."
Ivan looked at him with astonish¬
ment. "Is that all I have to do?"
asked he.
Tottleben was not yet sufficiently
Eussian. His German heart would as¬
sert its rights. As he met the inquir¬
ing look of Ivan, he turned his eye
away. He forgot that it was only a
serf he was speaking to, and not a
human being.
But he soon reealled it. " Ton will
accompany these Cossacks to the pow¬
der-mills, I say, and as you do so you
will smoke your pipe, and see that the
tobacco bums weU, and that you have
burning tinder on top of it."
An expression of comprehension
shone in Ivan's eyes. "I will smoke,
master," said he, sadly.
" When you are in the powder-mills,
and the Cossacks are loading the pow¬
der, you will help them, and in doing
so you wUl let the pipe fall out of your
mouth," said Tottleben, in an under¬
tone, and his voice trembled ever so
little. There was a pause—Ivan leaned,
pale and trembling, against the wall.
General Tottleben had turned away, as
if afraid to encounter the pallid, terri¬
fied countenance of his slave.
"If you do not execute my com¬
mand," said he, finally, " I will have
your only son hung, as he deserves to
be. If you betray to any one soever a
word of my order, I will have your vrife
whipped to death. Now think of it."
100
THE MERCHANT OF BERLIN.
Ivan shook as if in an ague. His
teeth chattered together. " I will
smoke, master," said be, at last, with
an effort, " and I will drop my pipe in
the powder-mills. Have pity on my
son, master, and spare my wife ! "
" I will do so, Ivan," said Tottleben.
" I will give them both their freedom,
and a pension."
Ivan dropped his head, and a convul¬
sive groan burst from his breast.
" Time passes ; make haste ! " cried
the general with assumed harshness.
"I go, master," sighed Ivan. " You
will not, then, string up my poor Fe-
dor, nor have my -wife whipped ? "
"If you execute my order strictly
and punctually, I will care for them."
Two tears coursed slowly down
Ivan's brown cheek. "I will carry
out your orders, master ; I will smoke,
and I will drop my pipe. Farewell,
master ! "
He approached his master with slav¬
ish humility, and kissed the hem of his
garment. " Farewell, master. I thank
you, for you have always been a kind
master to me," said he, and his tears
moistened the general's coat.
General Tottleben was as yet unable
completely to convert his German heart
into a Kussian one. He felt himself
touched by this humble and heroic sub¬
mission of his slave. He felt as if he
must give him some comfort on his
fatal road.
" Ivan," said he, softly, " your death
will save, perhaps, not only the prop¬
erty but also the lives of many hundred
other men."
Ivan kissed passionately his proffered
hand. " I thank you, master. Farewell,
and think sometimes of your poor
Ivan."
A quarter of an hour afterward was
seen a troop of fifty Cossacks, on thmr
swift-footed little horses, racing down
Frederick Street. Each man had a
powder-sack with him, and seeing
them ride by, people whispered to each
other, " They are riding to the powder-
mills. They have shot away all their
own powder, and now, in true Cossack
style, they are going to take our Prus¬
sian powder." At that time Frederick
Street did not reach beyond the River
Spree. On the other bank began the
faubourgs and the gardens. Even
Monbijou was then only a royal coun¬
try-seat, situated in the Oranienburg
suburb. The powder-mills, which lay
beyond the gardens, with a large sandy
plain intervening, were sufficiently re¬
mote from the town to prevent aU dan¬
ger from their possible explosion.
Ivan, the serf of Count von Tottle¬
ben, rode by the side of the officer of
the Cossacks. He pranced his pony
about, and was cheerful and jolly like
his comrades, the merry sons of the
steppe. As they reached the gate they
halted their horses, and gazed with
evident pleasure on the desert, wild
sandy plain, which stretched out before
them.
" How beautiful that is ! " exclaimed
Petrowitsch, the hetmán of the Cos¬
sacks. " Just look—what a handsome
steppe ! "
"Just sucha fine sand-steppe as at
home in our own country ! " sighed one
of the Cossacks, beginning to hum a
song of his home.
"This is the finest scenery I have
THE EX
seen in Germany," cried another.
" What a pleasure it would he to race
over this steppe ! "
" Come on, then, let us get up a race
over this splendid steppe," said a fourth,
" and let us sing one of the songs we
are used to at home."
"Yes, agreed! let usl" cried all,
ranging quickly their horses in line.
"Wait a moment," cried Ivan; "I
can't sing, you aU know, and I've only
one sweetheart, and that's my pipe.
Let me then light my pipe so that I
can smoke." He struck fire with his
steel, and lighting the tinder, placed
it in the bowl of his pipe. No one
saw the sad, shuddering look which
he cast at the glowing tinder and his
spark-scattering pipe. " Now forward,
boys, and sing us a lively song fi-om
home," said Ivan.
" Hurrah ! hurrah ! "
They charge over the beautiful plain,
and sing in a pealing chorus the favorite
song of the Cossack, so soft and sad :
Lovely Minka ! mnst I leave thee ?
Big tears ran down poor Ivan's
cheeks. No one saw them, no one
observed him. He charged with the
others over the Berlin steppe, and blew
the smoke out of his pipe. No one
heard the sad sighs which he uttered
as he drew nearer and nearer to the
powder-mills. No one heard the sad
words of parting which he muttered to
aimself as his comrades sang :
" Lovely Mînkaî mast I leave thee,
Leave my happy heather plains ?
Ah I this parting does not grieve thee,
Thongh still true my heart remains.
Far from thee I roam,
Sadly see the sunbeams shining,
Lonely all the night Tm pining
Far from thee alone."
'LOSION. 101
They reach the powder-mills; the
Cossacks halt their horses, and spring
from their saddles.
Slowly and hesitatingly does Ivan
proceed ; he fusses about his pipe ; he
pufis at the tobacco to make it bum,
and smoke more freely.
And now all's right. The pipe is
alight. Like briUiant eyes of fire the
burning tobacco shines out of the bowl.
Ivan puts it back in his mouth, and
blows great clouds of smoke, as he and
the Cossacks approach the gates of the
powder-mills.
The Kussian sentinels let them pass,
and, joking and laughing merrily, the
Cossacks carry their bags into the
building to fill them with powder for
the blowing up of the arsenal. How
joyous and careless they are, these sous
of the stejjpe ! How calmly does Ivan
continue to smoke his pipe, although
they are now in the large hall, where
casks of powder are ranged in endless
rows!
And now a cask is opened, and mer¬
rily and jestingly the Cossacks begin to
load the powder into their sacks.
What art thou staring at so wildly,
Ivan Petrowitsch ? Why do the big
drops of sweat run down thy forehead ?
Why do thy hps tremble, and why
dost thou look so sadly and mournfully
at thy comrades ?
They sing so merrily, they chatter so
gayly, all the while pouring the pow¬
der into their sacks nimbly and actively !
Ivan keeps on blowing furious clouds
of smoke out of his pipe.
Suddenly he utters a cry, a heart¬
rending, pitiful cry. The burning pipe
drops from his mouth !
102
THE MERCHAOT OF BERLIN.
Then rises a wild yell—an awful,
horrible report 1
The earth quakes and trembles, as if
about to open, to vomit forth the burn¬
ing stream of a thundering crater. The
sky seems blackened by the fearfiil
smoke which fiUs the air far and wide,'
Everywhere may be seen human bodies,
single shattered limbs, ruins of the ex¬
ploded building, flying through the air,
and covering the groaning, trembling
earth. But no syllable or soimd of
complaint, no death-rattle is now
heard. All is over.
The powder-mills have blown into
the air, and, though far distant from
Berlin, yet this terrible explosion was
felt in every part of the city.* In the
Frederick Street the houses shook as
if from an earthquake, and coimtless
panes of glass were shattered.
With darkened brow and a burst of
anger did General von Tottleben receive
the news that the powder-mills had
blown up, and fifty Cossacks had lost
their lives thereby. He mourned for the
unfortunate Cossacks and his poor serf,
Ivan Petrowdtsch. Still more did he
lament that it was now impossible to
blow up the arsenal in Berlin. But it
was not his fault that the commands of
his empress could not be executed.
The Kussians had shot away all their
powder, and the stock in the powder-
mills having been destroyed, there was
none left to carry into execution this
grand imdertaking.
* Arcbenholz: "History of the Seven Tears'
War," p. 104.
CHAPTER 'VX
JOHN OOTZKOWSKT.
A SAD and anxious period had the
unfortunate city of Berlin yet to pass
through. With fear and trembling did
the inhabitants await the approach of
each morning, and in spiritless de¬
spondency they seemed to have lost all
capacity for helping themselves.
There was but one man who, unter-
rified and unwavering, with the cheer¬
ful com-age of a noble soul, exposed
himself to danger, to suffering and
grief, who proposed to himself but one
object—to help others as far as lay in
his power, and to avert fresh misfortune,
additional care and anxiety from the
too heavily laden inhabitants of Berlin.
This one man was John Gotzkowsky,
the Merchant of Berlin. In this day of
their trouble the inhabitants looked up
to him as to a helping angel ; the poor
prayed to him, the rich fled to him
with their treasmes-; with him the per¬
secuted found refuge, the hungry shel¬
ter and food.
For Gotzkowsky there was no rest or
leisure, nor did he feel care or sorrow.
The tears he had shed about Elise he
had buried in his heart, overcoming a
father's grief by the power of his wül.
At this time he only remembered that
he was called to the sacred duty of
succoring his fellow-men, his suffering
brothers—^to be a father to the needy, a
deliverer to the oppressed.
The doors of his house were open to
all who sought refuge with him. Tlie
wives and children and aged parents of
his workmen rushed there with screams
john go:
and loud lamentations, and he received
them all, and gave them beds in his
splendid halls, and his gilt and silken
ottomans served for refreshing-places to
hungry and freezing poverty.
But not the poor alone, the wealthy
also found refuge in his house. They
knew that Gotzkowsky's word had
much influence, not only with General
Bachmann, but also with General
von Tottleben, and that this latter had
ordered that Gotzkowsky should always
have free admission to him. In their
anxiety and need they put aside the
proud bearing of their rank and dig¬
nity, and hastened to him to plead for
help and rest, to hide their treasures
and place their lives and fortunes under
his guardianship.
But while hundreds sought refuge
and safety there, Gotzkowsky himself
was like a stranger in his own house.
Day and night was he seen on the
streets; wherever danger and alarm
prevailed, he appeared like a rescuing
angel ; he brought help when all else
despaired, and the power of his elo¬
quence and his pleading words silenced
even the rough insolence of the enemy's
soldiers. A hundred times did he ex¬
pose his own life to save some unfortu¬
nate. In the New Frederick Street he
rushed through the flames into a burn¬
ing house to save a child which had
been forgotten.
Elsewhere he fought singly against
twenty Austrian soldiers, who were
about to carry off two young girls in
spite of their heart-rending shrieks
and entreaties. The rescued maidens
sank at his feet, and bathed his hands
with their tears.
zkowsky. 103
Gotzkowsky raised them to his heart
and said, with an indescribable expres¬
sion : " Should I not have compassion
on you ? Am I not a father ? Thank
my daughter, for it was she who saved
you."
But now, at last, exhausted Nature
demanded her rights. After two days
and nights without rest, Gotzkowsky
tottered toward his own house. As he
crossed the threshold he asked himself
with an anxious heart—"Will Elise
come to meet me ? Has she cared for
me?" And trembling with care and
love, he went in.
Elise did not come to meet him. No
one bade him welcome but his servant
Peter. Gently at last, indeed almost
timidly, he ventured to inquire after his
daughter,
" She is in the large haU, busy nurs¬
ing the wounded who have been carried
there."
Gotzkowsky's countenance expressed
great delight and relief at this report.
Elise had not, then, buried*herself in
the solitude of her room in idle com¬
plaint, but had sought, like himself,
comfort for her suffering in helping and
sympathizing with others. In this mo¬
ment he appreciated the infinity of
his love. He yearned to take her to
his heart, and pour out to her all his
unappreciated, doubted love, and con¬
vince her that she, his daughter, the
only child of his wife, was the true end
and object of his life. But unhappy,
oppressed Berlin left him no time to
attend to the soft and gentle dictates of
his father's heart. He had scarcely
got into his house, when two messen¬
gers arrived from the town Council,
104
THE MEECHAJíT OF BERLIN.
bringing him six thousand dollars in
cash, with the urgent request that he
would take charge of this sum, which
would he safe only with him. The
town messengers had scarcely left him,
when there arrived the rich manufac¬
turers Wegeli and "Wuerst, with a
wagon-load of gold and silver bars
which Gotzkowsky had promised to
keep in his fire-proof cellars.
His house had become the treasury
of the whole of Berlin ; and if it had
been destroyed, with all these gold and
silver ingots, these diamonds and silver
ware, money and papers, all the ex¬
changes of Europe would have felt the
disastrous consequences.
At last, aU these treasures were
stowed away, and Gotzkowsky ad¬
dressed himself to rest, when the door
of his room was suddenly opened, and
General von Bachmann entered hastily.
"Gotzkowsky," said he, "I have
come with important intelligence, and
to redeem the promise I made to my
fiiend Sievers." Approaching more
closely to Gotzkowsky, he said to him
in an undertone : " General von Tottle¬
ben has just received orders to destroy
and bum all royal factories and mills."
Gotzkowsky turned pale, and in¬
quired with horror, " Why this barba¬
rous proceeding ? "
General Bachmann shragged his
shoulders. "It is the order of the
commander-in-chie^ Coimt von Fer-
more," said he; "and Tottleben will
have to be all the more particular from
the fact that, instead of the arsenal,
fifty of our soldiers were blown into the
air. Here, in the mean while, take this
paper, and see whether, among the fac¬
tories to be destroyed, one of yours has
been included by mistake."
Gotzkowsky looked over the list with
dismay. " Did not your excellency say
that only royal factories were to be de¬
stroyed ? "
" Yes, so runs the order."
" But the factories that stand on this
list are not royal institutions. The
brass-works' in Eberwalde, the gold
and silver factories, and the warehouse
in Berlin, do not belong to the king,
and are they going to be so barbarous
as to destroy them ? That cannot be.
I will hasten to General Tottleben, and
entreat him to revoke this cruel order."
General Bachmann shook his head
sadly. " I am afraid it will be in vain,"
said he. " Besides, you incur great risk
in your undertaking. The general is
in a very angry, excited mood, and
your intercession wiU only increase his
bitterness and anger."
"I fear not his anger," cried Gotz¬
kowsky, boldly. " If no one else dares
to teU him the trath, I will do it ; and
with argument and entreaty compel
him to be humane, and to respect the
property of others. Come, sir, let us
go to General Tottleben ! "
" No, sir. I am not going with you,"
said Bachmann, laughing. " I am not
a man to tremble on the eve of battle,
and yet I fear to meet Tottleben's an¬
gry looks. In his wrath he is like Ju¬
piter Tonans, ready to launch his thun¬
derbolts, and dash to pieces all who
approach him."
"lam not afraid of his thunder!"
cried Gotzkowsky, fervently. " The
property and welfare of Berlin are in
danger. I must go to the general ! "
THE HORRORS OF WAR.
105
"Then go along," said Bachmann,
"and may God give power to your
words! I have warned you," and that
is all I can do."
Gotzkowsky did not answer him.
Trembling with eagerness and impa¬
tience, he dressed himself, and throwing
his cloak around him, he once more left
his house, with the alacrity of a young
man.
General Bachmann looked after him,
smiling thoughtfully. " He is a noble
fellow," said he, " and Berlin has good
reason to be grateful to him, and to
love him. But who knows ? perhaps,
for that very reason, she will one day
hate him. Noble-mindedness is so
soon forgotten ! It is the solid weight
that sinks to the bottom, while light
deeds float on top. Mankind is not
fond of being grateful. I would like
to know whether Berlin will ever show
a due appreciation of this noble man ! "
CHAPTER m
the hokkobs op wab.
The Russians had at last allowed
themselves to be carried away by the
example set them by the Austrians
and Saxons. Like them, they roamed
through Berlin, robbing and plunder¬
ing, unmindful of discipline, and for¬
getting the severe punishments which
Tottleben inflicted on those whose mis¬
deeds reached his ear.
Like the Austrians, the Cossacks en¬
tered houses with wanton arrogance,
and, under the pretext of being Rus¬
sian safeguards, they stole, and robbed.
and ill-treated in the rudest manner
those who opposed their demands.
They had even managed to reduce
their robbery and extortion to a kind
of system, and to value the human per¬
son after a new fashion. It was a sort
of mercantile transaction, and the Cos¬
sacks were the brokers in this new-
fashioned business. Stealthily and un¬
heard, they slipped into houses, fell
upon the imsuspecting women and chil¬
dren, and dragged them out, not to
capture them as the Romans did the
Sabine women, but to hold them as so
much merchandise, to be redeemed by
their friends and relatives at high and
often enormous ransoms.
But the Cossacks drew but small
profits from this hunt after noble hu¬
man game. They were only servants,
acting under orders from their officers.
These latter divided the victims and
the booty, throwing to the Cossacks a
small reward for their skill in robbing.
Thus, for some days, Berlin was not
only subjugated by the enemy, hut a
prey to robbers and slave-dealers, and
moans and lamentations were heard in
every house. All the more merrily did
the enemy's soldiers carouse and enjoy
themselves, laugh and joke. For them,
Berlin was nothing more than an or¬
ange to be squeezed dry, whose life-
blood was to be drawn out to add new
zest to their own draught of life.
The young Russian officers were sit¬
ting together in the large room of their
barracks. They were drinking and
making merry, and striking their glasses
noisily together ; draining them to the
health of the popular, handsome, and
brilliant comrade who had just entered
106
THE MERCHANT OF BERLIN.
their circle, and who was no other than
he whom Gotzkowsky's daughter, in
the sorrow of her heart, was mourning
as dead !—no one else than the Russian
' colonel. Count Teodor von Brenda,
He had been right, therefore, in trust¬
ing to Fortune. Fortune had favored
him, as she always does those who
boldly venture all to win all, and who
sport with danger as with a toy. In¬
deed, it was an original and piquant
adventure which the Russian colonel
had experienced—^the more piquant be¬
cause it had threatened him with
death, and at one moment his life had
been in extreme danger. It had de¬
lighted him for once to experience all
the horrors of death, the palpitation,
the despair of a condemned culprit ; to
acquire in his own person a knowledge
of the great and overpowering feelings,
which he had read so much about in
books, and which he had not felt in
reality even in the midst of battle.
But yet this bold playing with death
had, toward the last, lost a little of its
charm, and a moment arrived when his
courage failed him, and his daring
spirit was overpowered by his awed
physical nature. There was not, as
there is in battle, the excitement which
conquers the fear of death, and drunk
with victory, mocks him to his face;
there was not the wild delight which
possesses the soldier in the midst of a
shower of balls, and makes him rush tow¬
ard eternity with a shout. No, indeed I
It was something quite different which
Colonel von Brenda, otherwise so brave
and valiant, now felt.
When the Austrian soldiers had pro¬
nounced his sentence of death, when
they formed a ring around him at the
Gens-d'Armes Market, and loaded their
pieces for his execution, then the
haughty Russian colonel felt a sudden
change take place; his blood curdled
in his veins, and he felt as if thousands
of small worms were creeping through
them, gliding slowly, horribly to his
heart. At length, in the very despair
which oppressed him, he found strength
to cast this incubus from his breast,
and with a voice loud and powerful as
thunder to cry out for help and succor.
His voice was heard; it reached the
ear of General Bachmann, who came
in person to set free the wild yoimg of¬
ficer, the favorite of his empress, from
the hands of the Austrians.
This adventure, which had termina¬
ted so famously. Count Brenda now
related to his friends and comrades.
To be sure, the general had punished
the mad freak with an arrest of four^
and-twenty hours. But after undergo¬
ing this punishment, he was more than
ever the hero of the day, the idol of
his comrades, who now celebrated his
release from arrest with loud rejoicing
and the cracking of champagne-bot
ties. After they had laughed and
joked to their satisfaction, they re
sorted to the dice.
" And what stake shall we play for ? "
asked Feodor, as he cast a look of Hi-
concealed contempt on his young com¬
panions, who so little understood the
art of drinking the cup of pleasure
with decency, and rolled about on their
seats with lolling tongues and leering
eyes.
Feodor alone had preserved the pow¬
er of his mind; his brain alone was
THE HORRORS OF "WAR
107
snclouded by the fiimes of champagne,
and that which had made the others
mad had only served to make him sad
and gloomy. The drunkenness of his
comrades had sobered him, and, feeling
satiated with all the so-called joys and
delights of life, he asked himself, with
a smUe of contempt, whether the stam¬
mering, staggering fellows, who sat
next to him, were fit and suitable com¬
panions and associates of a man who
had made pleasure a study, and who
considered enjoyment as a philosophi¬
cal problem, difficult of solution.
" And for what stake shall we play ? "
he asked again, as with a powerful grip
he woke his neighbor. Lieutenant von
Matusch, ont of the half sleep which
had crept over him.
" For our share of the booty ! " stam¬
mered the lieutenant.
Feodor looked at him with surprise.
" What booty ? Have we, then, become
robbers and plunderers, that you speak
of booty ? "
His comrades burst into a wild
laugh.
" Just listen to the sentimental dream¬
er, the cosmopolite," cried Major von
Fritsch. " He looks upon it as dishon¬
orable to take booty. I for my part
maintain that there is no greater pleas¬
ure, and certainly none which is more
profitable. Fill your glasses, friends,
and let us drink to our hunting.
' Hurrah 1 hurrah for human game 1 ' "
They struck their glasses together,
aud emptied them amidst an uproar of
laughter.
" Colonel, you shall have your share
of the booty I " said Lieutenant von
Matisch, laying his heavy, shaky hand
on Feodor's shoulder. "We never in¬
tended to cheat you out of your por¬
tion, but you were not here, and there¬
fore up to this time you could have no
share in it."
As Feodor pressed him with ques¬
tions, he related how they had formed
a compact, and pledged themselves to
have their booty and captives in com¬
mon.
" We have caught more than a dozen
head, and they have ransomed them¬
selves handsomely," cried Major von
Fritsch. "We have just sent out ten
of our men again on the chase."
" Oh I I hope they wiU bring in just
such another handsome young girl as
they did yesterday," cried Matusch, rub¬
bing his hands with delight. "Ah,
that was a pleasant evening ! She of¬
fered us treasures, diamonds, and mon¬
ey; she promised us thousands if we
would only release her at once ! She
wept like a Madonna, and wnmg her
snow-white hands, and all that only
made her prettier stiU."
Colonel Feodor looked at him in an¬
ger. In contact with such coarse and
debauched companions his more refined
self rose powerful within him, and his
originally noble nature tmned with
loathing from this barren waste of vul¬
garity and infamy.
" I hope," said he warmly, " that you
have behaved as becomes noble gentle¬
men."
Matusch shrugged his shoulders and
laughed. "I do not know what you
caU so, colonel. She was very pretty,
and she pleased me. I promised to
set her free to-day, for the ransom
agreed on, and I have kept my word."
108
THE MERCHANT OF BERLIN.
As he spoke thus, he burst into a
loud laugh, in which his fnends joined
with glee.
But Feodor von Brenda did not
laugh. An inexplicable, prophetic
dread overpowered him. "What if
this young girl, described to him with
so much gusto, and who had been so
shamefully ill-treated, should prove to
be his Elise, his beloved I
At this thought, anger and distress
took possession of him, and he never
loved Elise more ardently and truly
than he did at this moment when he
trembled for her. " And was there no
one," cried he, with flashing eyes, " no
one knightly and manly enough to take
her part ? How I even you. Major von
Fritsch, allowed this thing to happen ! "
" I was obliged to do so," replied the
major. "We have made a law among
ourselves, which we have aU sworn to
obey. It is established that the dice
shall determine to which of the oflScers
the booty shall belong; and he who
throws the highest number becomes the
owner of the person. He has to nego¬
tiate about the ransom. This, however,
of course is divided among his com-
radea"
" But if the person is poor ? " asked
Feodor, indignantly, "if she cannot
pay?"
" Then she belongs to him who has
won her ; he must decide on her fate.
He is—"
The major stopped "suddenly. The
other officers raised themselves in their
seats, and listened with breathless at¬
tention.
" I think I hear the signal," whis¬
pered the major. He had not deceived
himself. A shrill, piercing whistle
sounded a second time. The officers
sprang from their seats, and broke into
a loud cry of triumph :
"Our Cbssacks are coming. They
have caught something ! Come, come,
let us throw the dice."
With fierce eagerness, they aU rushed
to the table, and stretched out their
hands for the bones. Immediately a
deep, expectant silence ensued. Nothing
was heard but the rattling of the dice,
and the monotonous calling of the num¬
bers thrown. Feodor alone remained
at his place, lost in deep thought, and
his tortured heart kept asking itself the
question, " Could it be she whom the
barbarians had captured and ill-used ? "
This question burnt in his brain like
a red-hot dagger, upsetting his reason,
and driving him almost mad with an¬
ger and grief. Still the rattling of the
noisy dice went on—the calling of the
numbers. ' No one took notice of the
young man, who, in desperate distress,
his clinched fist pressing against his
breast, paced up and down the farther
end of the room, uttering broken words
of anger and grief No one, as has
been said, noticed him, nor did any
one remark that at this moment the
door in the background of the hall was
opened, and six Cossacks entered,
bearing a litter on their shoulders.
Feodor von Brenda saw them, and,
with deep compassion, he regarded the
veiled, inanimate figure lying on the
litter, which was set down by the Cos
sacks.
" Colonel von Brenda " cried Major
von Fritsch at this moment, " it is your
turn."
THE HORRORS OF WAR.
109
" Oh, he is too sentimental ! " laughed
»
out Matusch. "Is not that the fact,
colonel ? "
Feodor remained musing and pen¬
sive. " It is a woman," said he to him¬
self—" perhaps a young and handsome
woman like Elise. How if I should try
to save her ? I have luck at the dice.
"Well, I will try." And with a firm step
he approached the table. "Give me
the bones," cried he. " I wiU throw
with you for my share of the booty."
The dice rattled and tumbled merrily
on the table.
" Eighteen spots ! "
" The highest thrown ! "
" Colonel von Brenda has won ! "
" The woman is mine ! " cried Feo¬
dor, his countenance beaming with joy.
His comrades looked at him with
astonishment. "A woman! How do
you know beforehand that it is a wo¬
man ? "
Feodor pointed silently to the back
part of the room. There stood the
Cossacks, next to the litter, waiting in
solemn silence to be noticed.
" A woman ! Yes, by Heavens ! it
is a woman," cried the officers. And,
with boisterous laughter, they rushed
toward the Cossacks.
" And where did you pick her up ? "
asked Major von Fritsch.
" Don't know," answered one of the
Cossacks. "We crept along a wall,
and when we had climbed to the top,
we saw a garden. We got down
slowly and carefully, and waited be¬
hind the trees, to see if any one would
come down the long avenue. We did
not have long to wait before this lady
came by herself. We rushed on her.
and all her struggles, of course, went
for nothing. Luckily for her and us,
she fainted, for if she had cried out,
some one, perhaps, might have come,
and then we would have been obliged
to gag her."
The officers laughed. "Well," said
the major, " Colonel Feodor can stop
her mouth now with kisses." In the
mean while. Lieutenant Matusch threw
the Cossacks a few copper coins, and
drove them out of the room, with
scornful words of abuse.
" And now let us see what we have
won," cried the officers, rushing to the
litter. They were in the act of raising
the cloth which concealed the figure,
but Feodor stepped forward with de¬
termined countenance and flashing
eyes.
" Let no one dare to raise this veil,"
cried he, haughtily. His comrades
rushed, with easily-aroused anger, on
him, and attempted again to approach
the veiled woman. " Be on your
guard I " cried Feodor, and, drawing
his sword fi:om its scabbard, he placed
liimself before the litter, ready for the
combat. The officers drew back. The
determined, defiant countenance of the
young warrior, his raised and ready
sword, made them hesitate and yield.
"Feodor is right," said the major,
after a pause ; " he has fairly won the
woman, and it is his business now to
settle about the ransom."
The others cast their eyes down, per¬
haps ashamed of their own rudeness.
"He is right, she belongs to him,"
murmured they, as they drew back and
approached the door.
" Go, my friends, go," said Feodor
110
THE MERCHANT OF BERLIN.
" I promise you that I will settle with
her about her ransom, and give up he-
forehand all claim to my share I "
The countenances of the Russian offi¬
cers brightened up. They nodded and
smiled toward him as they left the
room. Coimt Feodor von Brenda was
now alone with the veiled and insensi¬
ble woman.
CHAPTER Vm.
BT CHAUCE.
As soon as the officers had left the
room, Feodor hastened to close the
door after them carefully, to prevent
any importunate intrusion. He then
searched thoroughly afl the comers of
the room, and behind the window-cur¬
tains, to make sure that no one was
concealed there. He wished to be en¬
tirely undisturbed with the poor wo¬
man whose face he had not yet beheld,
but toward whom he felt himself at¬
tracted by a singular, inexplicable sen¬
sation. As soon as he was convinced
that he was quite alone, he went to her
with flushed cheeks and a beating
heart, and unveiled her.
But scarcely had he cast his eyes on
her, when he uttered a cry, and stag¬
gered back in horror. This woman
who lay there before him, lifeless and
motionless, pale and beautiful as a
broken flower, was none other than
Elise Gotzkowsky, his beloved 1 He
stood and stared at her ; he pressed his
hands to his forehead as if to rouse
himself from this spell which had hold
of him, as if to open his eyes to truth
and realit^. But it was no dream, no
illusion. It was herself, his own Elise.
He approached her, seized her hand,
passed his hands over her glossy hair,
and looked at her long and anxiously.
His blood rushed like a stream of fire
to his heart, it seethed and burned in
his head, in his veins ; and, quite over¬
come, he sank down before her.
" It is she," murmured he softly, " it
is Elise. Now she is mine, and no one
can take her from me. She belongs to
me, my wife, my beloved. Fate itself
bears her to my arms, and I were a
fool to let her escape again."
"With passionate impetuosity he
pressed her to his heart, and covered
her lips and face with his kisses. But
the violence of his aflection aroused
Elise. Slowly and stunned she raised
herself in his arms, and looked around,
as if awakened from a dream. " "Where
am I ? " asked she, languidly.
Feodor, still kneeling before her,
drew her more closely to his heart
" You are with me," said he,* passiou'
ately, and as he felt her trembling in
his arms, he continued still more warm
ly : " Fear nothing ; my Elise, look not
so timidly and anxiously about you.
Look upon me, me, who am lying at
your feet, and who asks nothing more
from Fortune than that this moment
should last an eternity."
Elise scarcely understood him. She
was still stunned—still confused by the
dreams of her swoon. She passed her
hand over her forehead, and let it
drop again listless and powerless. " My
senses are confused," whispered she in
a low voice, " I do not hear ; what has
happened to me ? "
" Do not ask. do not inquire," cried
BY CHANCE.
Ill
Feodor, ardently. "Think only that
love has sent an angel to yon, on whose
wings you have reposed on your pas¬
sage hither to me. Why will you ask
after the nature of the miracle, when
the miracle itself brings delight to our
eyes and hearts ? Therefore, fear noth¬
ing, gentle, pure being. Like an angel
do you come to me, through the deluge
of sin. You bear the olive-branch of
peace, and love and happiness are be¬
fore us."
But as he was about to press her
still more closely to his heart, a shud¬
der pervaded her whole frame. " Oh,
now, I recollect," she cried, vehement¬
ly ; " now I know all ! I was alone in
the garden. There came those terrible
men. They seized me with their rude
hands. They wounded my heart with
their horrible looks, which made me
shudder. "Whither have they brought
me ? where am I ? "
" You are with me," said Feodor,
carrying her hand to his lips.
For the first time, then, she looked
at him—^for the first time she recog¬
nized him. A deep blush of joy suf¬
fused her cheeks, and an angelic smile
beamed on her lips. She felt, she
knew nothing further than that her
lover was at her side, that he was not
dead — that he was not lost to her.
With an outcry of delight she threw
herself into his arms, and greeted the
lost, the found one, with warm and
happy words of love. She raised her
eyes and hands to heaven. "Oh, my
God, he lives ! " cried she, exultingly.
"I thank Thee, God, I thank Thee.
Tliou hadst pity on my suflerings."
"Love protected me," said Feodor,
gazing at her passionately. " Love
saved me by a miracle. Still more
miraculously, it brings you to my arms.
Fear not, Elise. , No other eyes than
mine have seen you. No one knows
your name. That sweet secret is only
known to Love and ourselves."
Elise trembled. This imprudent
speech woke her out of the stupor
which had so long had possession of
her ; it recalled her to the world, and
dispelled the charm which his presence,
his looks, and his words had thrown
around her. She was now aroused, and
hurried from a state of dreamy delight
to one of cruel and dread reality. The
ray of joy faded fr-om her cheek, the
smile died on her lips, and extricating
herself forcibly from his arms, she
stood before him in her priäe and
anger. "Feodor," said she, terriÇed,
" you sent those fearful men ! You
caused me to be kidnapped ! " With
an angry, penetrating glance, she looked
'at Feodor, who sank his eyes in confu¬
sion to the ground.
As she saw this, she smiled con¬
temptuously, and her injured maiden
honor overcame her love and tender¬
ness. " Ah ! now I understand ! " said
she, with cutting scorn. " I have been
told of the hunt after human beings
which is carried on in the town. Colo¬
nel Feeder von Brenda plays a worthy
part in this game ! "
Feodor wished to approach her and
take her hand, but she repulsed him
sternly. " Do not touch me," cried she,
haughtily; "do not seek to take my
hand. You are no longer he whom I
love. You are a kidnapper. But let
me tell you, though you have com-
112
THE MERCHANT OF BERLIN.
pelled my body to suffer this dishonor¬
able deed, yet my soul remains free,
and that despises you 1 "
It was a splendid sight to see her
in her noble wrath which seemed to
elevate her whole frame, and drive a
deep glow to her cheeks.
Feodor looked at her with ardent
gaze. Never had he seen her so fas¬
cinating, so charmingly beautiful.
Even her wrath delighted him, for it
was a token of her purity and inno¬
cence.
He wanted again to draw near to
her, to take her to his heart, but she
drew back in pride and anger. " Go,"
said she, " I have nothing to do with
a man who violates the most sacred
laws of hmnan honor, and, like a vile
thie^ sneaks in to destroy innocence."
Her voice failed her, her eyes filled
with tears, but she shook them from
her. " I weep," said she, " but not for
grief, nor yet for love ; anger it is alone
which extorts tears from me, and they
are bitter—far more bitter than death."
And as she thus spoke, she pressed
her hands to her face, and wept bit¬
terly.
Feodor passed his arm gently
around her trembling ' form. In the
excess of her grief she did not feel it.
"No, Elise," said he, "you weep be¬
cause you love me. You weep because
you think me unworthy of your love.
But before you condemn me, listen to
me. I swear to you by the memory of
my mother, the only woman in whom,
besides yourself, I ever believed, that
I had no part in this treachery which
has been committed toward you. You
must believe me, Elise 1 Look at. me.
beloved one—I can bear your looks. I
dare raise my eyes to you. I am not
guilty of this crime."
Her hands glided slowly from her
face, and she looked at him. Their
looks met, and rested for a long time
on each other. She read in his eyes
that he was innocent, for love is con¬
fiding, and she loved him. With a
charming smile she extended both
hands toward him, and he read in her
looks the words of love and tenderness
which her timid lips did not dare give
expression to.
Feodor drew her warmly to his
heart. "You believe me," cried he,
passionately; and as he raised her
with irresistible strength in his arms,
he murmured low, " Now let us enjoy
the sacred hour of happiness without
inquiring what divinity we have to
thank for it."
But the instinct of modesty pre¬
vailed o.ver love. " No," cried she, as
she struggled out of his arms, trem¬
bling with excitement—"no, Feodor,
it is no hour of happiness in which my
honor and good name are to be buried ;
no hour of happiness when scandal can
tell from mouth to mouth how a Ger¬
man maiden let herself be carried into
the Russian camp, and shamelessly
rushed into the arms of dishonor ; for
so they will teU it, Feodor. No one
will believe that you had no hand in
this outrage. The world never believes
in innocence. Whoever is accused is
already condemned, even if the judge's
sentence should a thousand times pro¬
nounce him innocent. No, they will
point at me, with the finger of scorn,
and with an exultant laugh will say to
BY CHANCE.
113
each other, ' Behold the barefaced wo¬
man who deserted to the Eussians, and
revelled with her lover, while her na¬
tive town was groaning midst blood
and tears 1 Look at the rich man's
child, who is so poor in honor 1 ' "
Deeply moved by her own words,
she drew herself up still more in the
power of her dignity and innocence,
and gazed at Feodor with flashing
eyes. " Count Feodor von Brenda," cried
she, firmly, " will you allow your bride
to be suspected and defamed? that a
stain should be allowed to rest upon
the name of her who is to become your
wife ? "
In her proud excitement she did not
perceive the rapid motion of his lips,
nor the blush of shame which suffused
his cheeks; she remarked not that he
cast down his eyes and spoke to her
with broken and trembling voice.
"Elise," said he, "you are beside
yourself. Your excited fancy paints
every thing to you in sombre colors.
Who will dare to defame you ? "Who
knows that you are here ? "
" But the whole world wiU know it.
Scandal has a thousand tongues to
spread evil reports. Feodor, let me go.
You say that no one knows that I am
here ; then no one will know that I go.
Be merciful with me, let me go 1 "
" No," cried he, almost rudely. " I
will not let you. You ask what is
impossible. I were a fool if I were
thus madly to cast the happiness away
which I fain would purchase with my
heart's blood. Twice have I risked my
life to see you, to be able to kneel for
one happy, undisturbed hour at your
feet, and gaze on you, and intoxicate
s
myself with that gaze. And now you
ask that I shall voluntarily give up my
happiness and you 1 "
" My happiness, my honor ! yes, even
my life I ask you to preserve by letting
me go hence, and return to my father's
house," cried Elise, eagerly.
As she perceived that he shook his
head in refusal, and met his wild, pas¬
sionate looks, reading in them that she
might expect no mercy from him, her
anger flashed forth. Imploringly she
raised her arms to heaven, and her
voice sounded full and powerful : "Fe¬
odor, I swear to you by God in heaven,
and the memory of my mother, that I
wiU only become the wife of that man
whom I follow of my free will out of
the house of my father. I am capable
of leaving my father's house; but it
must be my own free choice, my free
determination."
"No," said Feodor, wildly; "I will
not let you go. You are mine, and
you shall remain."
Elise drew near to him with bashful
tenderness. "You must let me go
now, in order one of these days to
demand your pure wife from out her
father's house," said she. There was
something so touching, so confiding in
her manner that Feodor, against his
will, felt himself overcome by it ; but
even while submitting to this fascina¬
tion he was almost ashamed of himself,
and deep sadness filled his soul.
Silently they stood opposite to each
other, Elise looking at him with ten¬
derness, yet with fear—^he his head
bowed, wrestling with his own heart.
Suddenly this silence was interrupted
by a loud and violent knocking at the
114
THE MERCHANT OP BERLIN.
door. The voices of his wild compan¬
ions and mad comrades were calling out
loudly Feodor's name, and demanding,
with vehement impetuosity, the open¬
ing of the closed door. Feodor turned
pale. The thought that his EUse, this
young, innocent, and modest girl,
should be exposed to the insolent gaze
of his riotous companions, irritated
him.
Casting his angry glances around
the room to seek for a hiding-place
in which to conceal Elise, he per¬
ceived that this was in vain, that no
escape was possible. Sadly he sank
his head upon his breast, and sighed.
Elise understood him; she compre¬
hended her disconsolate and desperate
position.
" There is then no place where I can
hide myself?" said she, in despair.
" Shame awaits me. The whole world
will know that I am here ! "
Outside the officers raged still loud¬
er, and demanded with more violent
cries the opening of the door. Feodor
still looked around him for a secret
place. Nowhere was there a possibili¬
ty of hiding her, or letting her escape
unnoticed. His infuriated companions
threatened to break the door in.
Feodor now with determination
seized the large shawl which had pre¬
viously enveloped Elise's form, and
threw it over her face. " Well, then,"
said he, " let them come ; but woe to
him who touches this cloth ! "
He pressed the veiled maiden down
in a chair, and, hastening to the door,
drew back the bolt.
CHAPTER IX.
MISTRESS OR MAID?
As Feodor opened the door, his com¬
rades rushed screaming and laughing
uproariously into the room, spying
round eagerly for the poor woman, the
noble game which they had hunted
down.
When they perceived Elise seated in
a chair, veiled and motionless just as
they had left her, they gave vent to a
cry of delight, and began to explain to
the colonel, in a most confused jumble,
often interrupted by bursts of laughter
and merry ejaculations, the cause of
their stormy interruption. A young
man, they said, had just come inquiring
after a young lady who had been car¬
ried off by the Cossacks. He had in¬
sisted upon seeing Colonel Feodor von
Brenda, in order to offer a ransom for
the captive lady.
" We have come to inform you of
this," said Lieutenant von Matusch,
"so that you may not let her go too
cheap. This is the richest haul we
have made yet."
" The daughter of the rich Gotzkow-
sky ! " cried another officer.
" She'll have to pay a tremendous
ransom," shouted Major von Fritsch.
Feodor exclaimed, with assumed as¬
tonishment ; " That woman there the
daughter of Gotzkowsky! Why, don't
you know, my friends, that I lived for
a long time in Berlin, and am intimately
acquainted with the beautiful and bril¬
liant daughter of the rich Gotzkowsky ?
I can assure you that they do not re¬
semble each other in a single feature."
MISTRESS OR MATO?
115
The officers looked at one another
with amazement and incredulity. " She
IS not Gotzkowsky's daughter? But
the young man told us that he came
from Mr. Gotzkowsky."
" And from that you drew the con¬
clusion that this is his daughter whom
you have caught," cried Feodor, laugh¬
ing. " Where is this man ? "
Lieutenant von Matusch opened the
door, and on the threshold appeared
the serious figure of Bertram. He had
fulfilled the vow which he had made to
himself, and carefully and attentively
watched and guarded every step of
Elise ; and while Gotzkowsky was ab¬
sent from home night and day faithful¬
ly serving his country, Bertram had
been a vigilant sentinel over his daugh¬
ter. Indeed, Gotzkowsky's house had
been, to aU appearance, perfectly safe :
it was the sanctuary and refuge of all
the unfortunate, the only secure place
where they could bestow their valua¬
bles. Russian sentinels stood before the
house, and Tottleben's adjutant had his
residence in it. But this security only
applied to the house. As long as Elise
kept herself within-doors, Bertram had
no fear. But there was the large gar¬
den in which she loved to roam for
hours together, and especially her favor¬
ite resort at the extreme end of the same,
not far from the wall, which was so easy
to climb.
Bertram had not ventured to restrain
Elise from visiting this solitary and
secluded spot, but he had followed her
on her visits to it. There, hidden be¬
hind some tree, he had with patience
and perseverance of which love alone is
capable, watched the young girl, who
was neither desirous of nor grateful for
guardianship. This very day he had
followed her softly and unperceived
into the garden. Then, when he had
ascertained whither she directed her
steps, he had returned into the house
to complete some important business
of Gotzkowsky. But impelled by anx¬
ious and unaccountable restlessness, he
had hastened back into the garden ; at
a distance he heard Elise's cry for help,
and, rushing forward, had come up just
in time to see her raised over the wall
by the Cossacks.
Stunned by horror at this sight, Ber¬
tram stood for a moment motionless.
He then felt but one desire, one resolve,
and that was—^to rescue her. He hur¬
ried to the house for the purpose of
proceeding to General Tottleben and
invoking his assistance and support.
But a sudden and painful thought ar¬
rested his steps.
Suppose that Elise had not gone
against her will ? Suppose that this
had been a preeoncerted abduction, to
which the semblance of violence had
only been given, in order, in case of
failure, to maintain Elise's reputation
free from stain ?
With a sigh of anguish he recalled
to mind when Elise had hidden her
lover in her bedchamber that night
when Gotzkowsky had delivered Feo¬
dor over to the Austrians. Since then
father and daughter had not met, and
no word of reproach had passed Elise's
lips. But Bertram understood that
Gotzkowsky's cruel and relentless sacri¬
fice of her lover had forever estranged
the heart of his daughter from him;
that this hard though just deed had
116
THE MERCHANT OF BERLIN.
torn asunder the last link which bound
her to him.
Elise could have learned just as well
as Bertram had that Feodor had been
accidentally saved. Her lover himself
could have sent her this information,
and she, who in the bitterness of her
grief had torn herself loose from her fa¬
ther, might not have had the strength to
withstand his ardent prayers. Perhaps
in her sense of bereavement, trusting to
her love, she might have found the
sad courage to brave not only her fa¬
ther, but the judgment and scorn of
the world, in order to be united to her
lover.
Such thoughts as these arrested Ber¬
tram's steps, and compelled him to re¬
flection. Only one thing was positive
—he must save her at every hazard,
even against her will, even if he should
reap, as the sole reward of his devoted
love, her aversion ; he must save her
from her own passionate, foolish heart,
or from the wild lust of the unprin¬
cipled man to whom she trusted her
innocence, her youth and beauty.
But this duty he had to perform
alone ; he dared not trust any one with
his secret, for fear of thereby defeating
the object he had in view, and, instead
of saving, bringing disgrace upon her.
His resolve was formed. He must seek
her out. He must penetrate to where
she was, even if hid behind a waU of
Russian soldiers. Faithful and unself¬
ish as ever, she should find him at her
side, ready to protect her against every
attack, every danger, even from her
own inerperience or the reckless passion
of her lover. Especially, above all
things, her abduction must remain a
secret. To her maidens, therefore, Ber¬
tram said, that their young mistress
had withdrawn into her room, and
shut herself in, in order, after so many
sleepless nights, to enjoy a little rest.
The same information he left behind
for Gotzkowsky, and, j)roviding him¬
self with weapons, he betook himself
to the search for Elise. In the first
place, he naturally directed his steps to
the dwelling of Colonel von Brenda.
Here he learned that the latter was not
at home, but had gone to an entertain¬
ment at the mess-room of his regiment.
Thither he hastened, firmly resolved to
overcome all obstacles, and in spite of
every refusal to see the colonel, and
read in his countenance whether he
were an accomplice of the crime com¬
mitted, or whether Elise had followed
him of her own free will.
At first, he had been obstinately re¬
fused admittance ; then in his despair
and anguish he had made use of Gotz-
kowsky's name, a golden key to open
the doors, as he weU knew. In fact,
scarcely had the gold-greedy Russian
oflBcers ascertained that the young
stranger came as a messenger from
Gotzkowsky, and wished to inquire oí
Count von Brenda, after a young lady
who had been carried away by the
Cossacks, than with a yeU of delight
they rushed toward the door of the
room in which were Feodor and the
captured maiden. Bertram had, there¬
fore, to thank the avarice of the Rus¬
sian ofiScers that the door was opened
and he was allowed to enter.
As Bertram appeared on the thresh¬
old of the room, a scream escaped the
lips of the female, and he was enabled,
MISTRESS
OR MAID?
117
notwithstanding the concealment, to
recognize her whom he sought. His
heart was convulsed with pain, and his
impulse for a moment was, to rush
upon this audacious, dissolute young
man who stood next to Elise, to mur¬
der him, and revenge in his blood the
disgrace he had brought upon her.
But remembering the sacred duty he
had imdertaken of protecting Elise and
concealing her flight as far as possible,
he controlled his anger and grief, and
forced himself to appear calm and col¬
lected.
EUse, in the mean while, with joyful
emotion recognized Bertram. His un¬
expected and unlooked-for appearance
did not surprise her, it seemed so natu¬
ral to her that whenever danger threat¬
ened he should appear as her protector
and savior. She had such confidence in
Bertram's appearance whenever she
stood in need of him, that when she
saw him, she looked upon herself as
saved, and protected from every danger
which threatened her. She motioned
Feodor to her side, and with a touch of
triumphant pride, said to him, " It is
Bertram, the friend of my youth. He
has risked his Ufe to save me from dis¬
honor." Feodor felt the reproof which
lay in the intonation of these words,
and his brow grew dark. But he
overcame this momentary irritation,
and turning to Bertram, who was ap¬
proaching him with a firm and deter¬
mined step, asked him, " Well, sir,
whom do you seek ? "
" A young girl who has been carried
off by force," replied Bertram, and he
regarded the young man with angry
looks. But Feodor met his glance
with firmness and composure. " It is
true," said he, " such an outrage has
been committed; some Cossacks kid¬
napped a yoimg girl in a garden and
brought her here. I myself will inform
the general of this dishonorable deed,
for you understand, sir, that this out¬
rage is an insult to us as well as to your¬
self. I have promised my protection
to this young person, and I am ready
to defend her against any one who
dares to touch her honor or to doubt
her virtue. Come, now, sir, and see
whether this be the same young girl
whom you seek."
He stepped toward Bertram, and as
he led him to Elise, he whispered rap¬
idly in a low tone, " Be silent^ and do
not betray her name, for Elise's honor
is at stake."
He raised the veil, and, pointing to
Elise's abashed and blushing counte¬
nance, he asked, with a derisive laugh,
" Well, now, do you recognize her ?
Will you swear that this is Gotzkow-
sky's daughter 2 "
Bertram looked at him with assumed
surprise. "Gotzkowsky's daughter?"
asked he, shrugging his shoulders.
" Why, it is the young lady herself who
sent me, and no one is looking for her."
Colonel Feodor turned with a laugh
of triumph toward his comrades.
"Did I not tell you so?" cried he.
" You credulous fools were hoping to
get half a million ransom, and I have
been bargaining with her for the last
hour for a hundred dollars 1 She
swears with tears in her eyes that she
is not worth a hundred pence. Gotz¬
kowsky's daughter indeed ! Do you
imagine that she goes about in a plain
118
THE MERCHANT OF BERLIN.
white dress, without any ornament or
any thing elegant about her 2 She is
just as fond of dress as our own prin¬
cesses and pretty women, and, like
them, the daughter of the rich Gotz-
kowsky is never visible except in silk
and velvet, with pearls and diamonds.
Oh ! I woiild like myself to catch the
millionnaire's daughter, for then we
might bargain for a decent ransom."
" But who, then, is this woman 2 "
roared the disappointed officers. " Why
does the rich Gotzkowsky send after her,
if she is not his daughter 2 "
" Who is she 2 " cried Feodor, laugh¬
ing. " Well, I will tell you, as you at¬
tach so much importance to it. You
have been served like the seekers after
hidden treasure. You have been seek¬
ing for gold, and, instead, you have
only found coals to bum your fingers.
You sought after the millionnaire, the
rich heiress, and, instead of her, you
have only caught her—chambermaid."
" A chambermaid ! " growled out his
comrades, and turning their dark, low-
^ ering looks on Bertram, they inquired
of him whether this woman were only
a chambermaid in Gotzkowsky's house,
and assailed him with reproaches and
curses because he had deluded them
into the belief that Gotzkowsky's
daughter had been captured.
"If we had not thought so, we
would not have let you in," cried lieu¬
tenant von Matusch. "It was not
worth while making so much fuss
about a little chambermaid."
" It was just for that very reason,"
replied Bertram, " and because I knew
you would not otherwise help me, that
I let you believe it was Gotzkowsky's
daughter whom you had captured;
otherwise you would never have let
me come near Colonel von Brenda.
And Mademoiselle Gotzkowsky had
expressly directed me to apply to that
gentleman, and I did so. You can
understand my doing so, when I in¬
form you that this young girl is my sis¬
ter ! "
Feodor turned himself to Elise with
an expression of anger on his counte¬
nance. " Is this true 2 "
" It is true ! " cried she, reaching
her hand out to Bertram, with a look
of heart-felt gratitude. "He is my
brother, my faithful brother ! "
But, as she read in Feeder's dark¬
ened countenance the marks of ill-con¬
cealed anger and jealousy, she turned
toward her lover with a rare sweet
smile. " Oh," said she, " there is noth¬
ing nobler, nothing more sacred and
unselfish, than the love of a brother."
Feodor's searching look seemed to
penetrate into the inmost recesses of
her heart. Perhaps he read all the
love, innocence, and strength that lay
therein, for his brow cleared up, and
his looks resumed their open cheerful¬
ness. Quickly he took Bertram's hand
and laid it in Elise's. "Well, then,"
said he, " you happy pair, take each
other's hands, and thank God that the
danger is over. We have nothing to
do with young and pretty girls—^we
only want rich ones. Go ! "
" No, no," cried the officers, " not at
all, not without ransom!" Saying
which, they pressed noisily and an¬
grily nearer, raising their clinched
fists. " She must pay, or we will keep
her ! "
MISTRESS
OR MAID?
119
" Dare one of you touch her ? " cried
Feodor, drawing hia sword, and pla¬
cing himself in front of Elise.
"I have come to fetch my sister,"
said Bertram, turning to the officers,
" but I knew very well that you would
not let her go unless her ransom were
paid. I therefore brought all my little
portion with me. Take this purse full
of ducats, and let it pay for her."
A cry of triumph was the answer
from the soldiers as they drew Bertram
toward the table that he might count
out the money. While they were di¬
viding it among themselves, talking
loudly and laughing merrily, Feodor
remained standing at Elise's side,
neither daring to break the impressive
silence. Their souls communed with
each other, and they needed not words
nor outward signs. At last, after a
long pause, Feodor asked—
" Are you satisfied now, EUse ? "
She answered him with a sweet
smile, " I am thine forever ! "
"And will you never forget this
hour ? "
" I wül not forget it. I will remem¬
ber that I have sworn to follow you
voluntarily from my father's house,
even against his vnll." And letting
her blushing face droop upon her breast,
she whispered, in a voice scarcely audi¬
ble—" I await you I "
But these words, low as they had
been spoken, reached the ears of two
men at the same time. Not only Colo¬
nel Feodor, but also Bertram, who had
drawn close up to Elise again, had
overheard them. The first they filled
with emotions of delight, the other
with painful anguish. Bertram, how¬
ever, was accustomed to wrestle with
his love, and smother the expression
of his pain, under the appearance of
quiet composure. He approached Elise,
and offering her his hand, said, " Come,
sister, let us go."
" Yes, go," said the colonel, with the
proud superiority of a preferred rival
He extended his hand toward Ber¬
tram, and continued, " Be a good bro¬
ther to her, and conduct her safely
home."
Bertram's countenance, usually so
quiet and calm, assumed for an instant
an offended and almost contemptuous
air, and bitter words were on his
tongue ; but his angry eye accidentally
met Elise's anxiously and imploringly
directed toward him. He could not
master himself sufficiently to accept
Feeder's hand, but at least he eould
control hia anger. " Come, sister,"
said he, gently leading Elise toward
the door which the colonel indicated
to him by a silent nod.
Elise had not the courage to leave
her lover without a word of farewell ;
or rather, she was cruel enough to in-
fiict this torture on Bertram. Stretch¬
ing both hands toward him, she said,
softly, " I thank you, Feodor ; God
and love will reward you for having
greatly and nobly conquered yourself."
Feodor whispered to her, " And will
you remember your vow ? "
" Ever and always ! "
In bending over to kiss her hand, he
murmured, " Expect me, then, to-mor¬
row."
" I will expect you," said she, as she
passed him on her way to the door.
No word of their whispered conver-
120
THE MERCHANT OP BERLIN.
sation escaped the attentive ear of Ber¬
tram; and he understood it, for he
loved her, and knew how to read her
thoughts in her looks and her eyes.
As he followed her through the long
corridor, and her light, graceful figure
fioated before him like a vision, a deep,
despairing melancholy settled on his
heart, and he murmured to himself,
" To-morrow she expects him Î " But
with desperate determination he con¬
tinued to himself, " Well, then, woe to
him if I find him going astray I "
CHAPTER X.
ah unexpected ally.
Thanks to Bertram's forethought
and caution, he had succeeded in re¬
storing Elise to her father's house,
without her absence having been re¬
marked, or having occasioned any sur¬
mise. In the close carriage in which
they performed the journey home, they
had not exchanged a word ; but lean¬
ing back on the cushions, each had
rest and repose after the stormy and
exciting scenes they had just passed
through. Elise's hand still rested on
Bertram's, perhaps imconsciously, per¬
haps because-she had not the courage
to withdraw it from him to whom she
owed so much gratitude.
Bertram felt the feverish warmth of
this trembling hand, and as he looked
at her and remarked the paleness of
her lips, he was overcome by a feeling
of deep wretchedness, of pitying sad¬
ness, and was obliged to tum his head
away to conceal his tears from her.
When the carriage stopped; and he
accompanied her into the house, Elise
pressed his hand more firmly, and
turned her gaze upon him with a look
of deep gratitude, which made his
heart palpitate with a mixture of de¬
light and anguish. He wished to with¬
draw, he wished to let her hand go,
but she held his still more firmly
clasped, and drew him gently up the
steps. Powerless with emotion, he fol¬
lowed her.
As they entered the hall which led
to her room, she cast a searching look
around to see if any one were present,
and perceiving that they two were
alone, she turned toward Bertram with
an indescribable expression. She tried
to speak, but the words died on her
lips, a deep glow suffused her cheeks,
and completely overpowered, and
giddy from the tumult of her feeUnp,
she leaned her head on her friend's
shoulder.
Gently he passed his arm around
her delicate, trembling figure, and his
eyes beamed with a pure emotion. In
the depth of his heart he renewed to
God and himself his vow of fidelity and
self-sacrificing love to this poor girl
who lay on his bosom like a drooping
flower.
Suddenly she raised her head, her
face wet with tears and convulsed with
deep feeling. " Bertram," she said, " I
know that I am not worthy of yom
noble, generous love, but yet, in my
crushed heart, I thank God that I pos¬
sess it. A time may come when all
the thoughts and feelings which now
fill my soul will appear as vain dreams
and illusions. It may be that some
AN UNKXPECTED ALLY.
121
day I will look upon life as a grand
delusion, a fruitless striving after hap¬
piness and repose. But never, my bro¬
ther, never will that time come when I
can doubt your faithful, pure affection.
No power, no other feeling, will ever
succeed in supplanting the deep and
boundless gratitude which pervades
my whole soul and hinds me to you
forever."
And then it seemed to him as if he
felt the breath of an angel wave over
his face ; as if the dream and desire of
his whole life had closed his lips in
unexpected bliss ; as if the wishes and
hopes of his ardent hut resigned heart
had been fulfilled, and become a de¬
lightful reality.
When he recovered from this sweet
dream, which for a moment robbed
bim of his consciousness, Elise had dis¬
appeared. But her kiss still glowed
on his lips, and seemed to bless and
sanctify his whole life.
This dream of happiness lasted but
for a short time, and Bertram soon
awoke, with a sad sigh, from his de¬
lightful fancies, to recall the painful
hours he had just gone through, and
to realize that Elise was lost to him
forever, that he never could hope to
rescue that heart from the lover to
whom she had yielded it with all the
devotion of her ardent nature. With
a sorrowing heart did he remember the
last words of the lovers. She had ap¬
pointed a meeting for him on the mor¬
row, she expected him, and, braving
the anger of her father, had given him
a rendezvous in his house.
As Bertram thought over this, he
paced the room up and down, panting
with excitement, and wringing his
hands. " If Gotzkowsky knew this, he
would kill her, or die himself of grief.
Die of grief 1" continued he, after a
pause, completely buried m his sad and
bitter thoughts—" it is not so easy to
die of grief. The sad heart is tenacious
of life, and sorrow is but a slow grave-
digger. I have heard that one could
die of joy, and it seemed to me indeed
just now, when Elise rewarded me
vrith a kiss, that I could understand
this. If she only loved me, it were a
blessing of God to die, conscious of her
love."
Completely overcome by his painful
thoughts, he remained for a while mo¬
tionless and sad. But he soon recov¬
ered himself, and shook off the dark
cloud which overshadowed his soul.
" I am not born to die such a death.
It is my destiny not to be happy my¬
self, but to save others from unhappi-
ness. I feel and know that Elise can¬
not be happy in this love. A loving
heart is gifted with prophetic second
sight to read the future. Elise can
never be happy without her fether's
blessing, and Gotzkowsky wiQ never
give his sanction to this love. How
can I lead her past this abyss which
threatens to engulf her? May God,
who sees my heart, help mel He
knows how hopeless and disinterested
it is. Help me, Father in heaven!
show me some way of saving her noble
father from the grief which lies before
him."
It seemed as if God had heard his
prayer, and taken compassion on his
pure, unselfish spirit, and sent him as¬
sistance. A loud knocking at the door
122
THE MERCHANT OF BERLIN.
aroused Mm suddenly fi-om Ma gloomy
thougMs, and he hastened to open
it
A veiled lady stood there, wrapped
Ù1 furs, and attended by a servant in
rich livery. In fluent French, wMch it
could be perceived, however, was not
her native tongue, she inquired wheth¬
er, as she had been told, Herr von
Brink, Tottleben's adjutant, resided
there. As Bertram answered tMs ques¬
tion in the affirmative, but added, that
Herr von Brink was in the habit of not
returning from the general's quarters
before evening, she added, in a decided
tone, "Well, then, I will wait for
him."
Without deeming Bertram's consent
necessary, she entered the hall, and mo¬
tioned to her servant to remain at the
door.
AJter a pause, there ensued between
the two one of those superficial, cere¬
monious conversations, the usual refuge
of those who have nothing to say to
each other ; but the evident uneasiness
and confusion of the young lady pre¬
vented her from joining freely in it.
Her large bright eyes strayed restlessly
around the room. A hectic flush alter¬
nated on her cheeks with deatMy pal¬
lor ; and the smile, wMch occasionally
played around her lips, seemed but a
painful expression of mental suffering.
Suddenly she raised her head, as if de¬
termined no longer to bear this con¬
straint, or submit to the fetters of con¬
ventionality.
" Sir," said she, in a tone vibrating
with excitement and anxiety, " you will
excuse my asking you a question, on
the answer to wMch depends my future
happiness—my life, indeed—to obtain
which I have travelled from St. Peters¬
burg here. I have just left my car¬
riage in which I performed the journey
from that city. You can therefore
judge how important the cause of tMs
undertaking is to me, and what an in¬
fluence it may have on my whole exist¬
ence. Its object lies in the question I
am about to put to you."
Bertram took pity on her painflil
agitation. "Ask," he said, "and, on
the honor of a gentleman, I assure you
that your question shall be answered
truly, and that I am ready to serve you,
as far as it lies in my power."
"Are you acquainted with General
Bachmann's adjutant ? " asked she,
shortly and hurriedly.
" I am," replied Bertram.
She trembled as in an ague. " I am
come to inquire after a man of whom I
have not heard for six months. I wish
to know whether he is alive, or only
dead to me."
" His name î " asked Bertram, with
painful misgiving.
Her voice was scarcely audible as she
replied: "Colonel Count Feodor von
Brenda, of the regiment Bachmann."
Bertram was quite taken aback by
this unexpected turn of the conversa¬
tion, and she continued with great ex¬
citement: "You do not answer! oh,
have compassion on me, and speak !
he alive ? "
" He is alive, and is here," answered
Bertram, sadly.
A cry of delight escaped the lips of
the lady. " He lives I " she exclaimed,
loudly. " God has then heard my
prayer, and preserved him to me ! "
AN UNEXPECTED ALLY.
123
But suddenly the cheerful smile on
aer lips died away, and, dropping her
head on her breast, she cried, " He is
alive and only dead to me. He is
alive, and did not write me ! " For a
moment she stood in this position,
silent and depressed; then drawing
herself up erect, her eyes sparkling with
passionate warmth, she said : " Sir, I
crave your pardon for a poor stranger,
who hardly knows what she is doing
or saying. I am not acquainted with
you, or even your name, but there is
something in your noble, calm counte¬
nance which inspires confidence."
Bertram smiled sadly. " Fellow-
sufferers always feel attracted to each
other by a community of feeling. I,
too, am a sufferer, and it is God's will
that our sorrows should spring from a
common source. The name you have
uttered is but too weU known to me."
"You know Colonel Brenda?" she
asked.
"I do know him," answered Ber¬
tram.
" The count was at one time a pris¬
oner of war," continued the lady.
" He visited this house frequently, for I
have been told that it belongs to Mr.
Gotzkowsky, of whom the colonel
wrote me, in the commencement of his
captivity, that he received him most
hospitably."
" Did he write you any word of Gotz-
kowsky's handsone daughter?" asked
Bertram, looking inquiringly into the
countenance of the stranger.
She shuddered, and turned pale.
" O Heaven 1 " she murmured low, " I
have betrayed myself I "
Bertram seized her hand, his features
evincing deep emotion. " Will you an¬
swer me one question ?" he asked, and
as she bowed her head in silence, he
proceeded—" is the Count von Brenda
your brother ? "
"Oh, sir," she said, with a faint
smUe, " one does not suffer for a brother
as I have suffered for Feodor. I am the
Countess Sandomir, and the Count
Feodor is my betrothed. The good
empress herself joined our hands, and
blessed our union. A short time after
our marriage, the war broke out, and
deprived me of my lover and husband.
For six months I have had no tidings
of him, and, tortured by anxiety and
apprehension, I resolved to come my¬
self to Germany to seek my betrothed,
either to bury or nurse him, for I be¬
lieved he must be sick or dead, as he
"did not return to me."
Bertram offered in his heart a prayer
of gratitude to God. With feelings of
sympathy, he then turned his eyes on
the quivering features of the stranger.
" Listen to me," said he, gently. " As
you entered, I had just prayed to God,
in the suffering and sadness of my
heart, to show me some way and means
of escape from the labyrinth in which
Count von Brenda has placed us. It
would seem as if He had compassion on
us all, for at the very moment he sends
you, the affianced bride of the count,
and through you alone can we be saved.
We must be open and candid toward
each other. Therefore, listón to me.
I love Gotzkowsky's daughter—love
her without hope, for she loves an¬
other."
" And this other ? " asked she breath¬
lessly.
124
THE MERCHAKT OF BERLIN.
"She loves the Count Feodor von
Brenda, and is about to escape with
him."
" Escape 1 " cried the lady, and her
voice sounded threatening and angry,
and her eyes flashed. " Oh ! " said she,
gnashing her teeth, " I will prevent this,
even if I kill this girl 1 "
Bertram shook his head sadly.
" Let us rather try to kill this love in
her heart. Let us contrive some
means of bringing your lover back to
you."
" Are there any such means ? " asked
she, anxiously.
Bertram did not answer immedi¬
ately. His brow was clouded with
deep thought, and a heavy sigh es¬
caped him. He then asked quickly,
" Will you follow me and enter into
my plot ? "
" I will," she said, firmly.
"Above all things, then, let us be
cautious. Count Feodor must have no
suspicion that you are here, for your
presence would drive him to some des¬
perate resolve, and I fear Elise loves
him sufficiently not to draw back from
any thing."
"Tou are very cruel," murmured
the lady. "You know not what tor¬
ture you are preparing for me."
" If I did not know it, I would not
undertake the enterprise that is to
serve us both. I have told you that
I love Elise, but I have not told you
how deep and sacred this love is. I
would cheerfiiUy venture my life for
her, but now I dare to interfere with
her love, and earn her hatred."
" You have, then, already made your
plan?"
" I have made my plan, and if you
will allow me to escort you to your
hotel, I will disclose it to you, so that
we may arrange the particulars to¬
gether."
" Come, then," said she, grasping
his hand warmly, " and may God as¬
sist us, and restore to you your bride,
and to me my lover ! "
CHAPTER XL
the jew ephhaim.
Much sorrow and tribulation were
suffered during this time by the inhab¬
itants of Berlin. But the saddest lot of
all fell to the Jews, who were threat¬
ened with the greatest danger. In
Berlin, as everywhere else, they only
led a tolerated, reviled, and derided
existence. They possessed no rights,
only duties; no honor, only insults;
no dignities, but humiliation and dis¬
grace. Now they were called upon to
give up the last and only thing which
shed some gleam of brightness on their
poor down-trodden existence—their
gold and their treasures.
The Russian commander had im¬
posed upon the Jewish community in
Berlin a special tax ; and as they hesi¬
tated about paying it, and declared
themselves incapable of raising such a
large sum. General von Tottleben had
the three elders of the Jews arrested
and strictly guarded in the Vincenti
House in Brueder Street.
But who could despise or blame the
poor Jews for not wishing to give up
their gold ? Gold was to them a con-
THE JEW EPHRAIM.
125
ditîon of existence, their future, their
happiness, their family. Gold enabled
some of them to raise themselves from
the dust and degradation to which flie
cruel severity of CTmstian charity had
condemned them,, and to indulge in hu¬
man aspirations, human happiness, and
human feelings. Only those among
them who possessed wealth were toler¬
ated, and dared hope by strenuous in¬
dustry, ceaseless activity, and fortunate
speculation, to amass sufficient fortune
to found a family or beget children.
The happiness of domestic life was
only allowed to them on condition of
their being rich.
Frederick the Great had learned
with indignation that the Jewish fam¬
ilies in Berlin far exceeded the ntunber
of one hundred and fifty-two allowed
by law, and there were fifty-one too
many. Consequently a stringent de¬
cree was issued that they should no
longer be counted by families, but by
heads, and that when the poll exceeded
the permitted number, the poorest and
lowest of them should be shipped offi*
Gold was therefore to the rich Jew a
certificate of naturalization, while the
poorer ones had no certainty of a home.
They could at any moment be turned
off, driven out of Berlin, if a richer one
should by his wealth and trading ac¬
quire the right to take to himself a
wife, and by her have a child. But
even he,—the rich one,—could only
have one child ; only one child was
allowed to him by law. For one child
only could he obtain legal protection,
and only in exceptional cases, as when
their factories and firms succeeded re¬
markably well, did the king, in the
fulness of his grace, allow a second
child to inherit its guardianship.*
Of what avail, then, was it to the
poor Jews to have toiled and worked so
hard, driven by the necessity of paying
the hateful Jewish poll-tax, and thereby
procuring for themselves a temporary
toleration ? At any moment they could
be driven off in case the rich Ephraim or
the rich David Itzig, in the arrogance
of their wealth, should venture to give
to the world more than one child, and
purchase for the sum of three thousand
dollars another certificate of protection
for the second ! Of what avail was
their wealth even to the rich Jews
Ephraim and Itzig ? They were never¬
theless under the ban of their pro¬
scribed race. No privileges, no offices
existed for them. They could only
build factories or carry on commerce.
All other paths of life, even agricul¬
ture and horticulture, were forbidden
to them. And now they were called
on to give up to the Russians their
very life, the nerve of their existence,
the heart which carried blood and
warmth to their entire organization—
their money.
Ephraim and Itzig were rich and
powerful in Berlin: they could build
houses, found factories, and even de¬
termine the value of money, for the
mint was in their hands. They had
farmed it from the king, and paid
birn an enormous rent for the same,
which had increased each year, and in
1760 amounted to seven millions. But,
♦ Bttsching'g Travels, 1780.
» " Annals of the Jews in the Prussian States."
Berlin.—Umgee.
126
THE MERCHANT OF BERLIN.
thanks to this farming, the value of
money had increased exorbitantly.
Twenty dollars were paid for a Fred¬
erick d'or, and five-and-thirty for the
mark of fine silver. Owing to the
labors of these Jewish lessees, there
were many millions of light money,
many millions of bad eight-gros-
chen pieces, which, to this day, are
known by the name of EpTiraimites,
and whose repudiation at a later pe¬
riod ruined many thousands of honest,
worthy tradesmen, while Ephraim and
Itzig became wealthy and powerful
thereby. Tet it was not this same
money which brought misfortune to
them, and was the cause of their suffer¬
ing and mortal anxiety : for General
Tottleben had threatened that if the
Jews could not pay the tax imposed on
them, he would take the mint farmers
with bim as hostages, and destroy their
factories. Besides this, he had, as we
said before, arrested their elders and
sworn to send them to Siberia, if the
Jews did not pay.
The payment was to be made in
three days. But the three days had
elapsed, and they had not been able to
raise the money which was demanded of
them. In this dire extremity, the two
mint-contractors remembered the man
whom they had hitherto most cordially
hated, and whose ruin was the cher¬
ished wish of their life. They now
recoLected that John Gotzkowsky was
the only man who, in the generosity
and kindness of bis heart, was capable
of forgetting their former insults and
injuries, and of remembering only their
need and misery. They determined,
therefore, to ajîply to him, and request
his intercession and assistance, but they
did this with a bitter sigh, for they
felt the hatred and grudge which
they nursed in their hearts toward him
become only stronger and more intense.
" Who would have thought it ? " said
Ephraim, as, by the side of Itzig, and
accompanied by some of the most
wealthy Jewish merchants, he took the
road to Gotzkowsky's dwelling—" who
would have thought it ? ' The powerful
Russian General von Tottleben is the
fiiend of Gotzkowsky, and the greatest
men among our people are now obliged
to go to Gotzkowsky's house to implore
his influence and protection."
"Yes," sighed the rich merchant
David, "we are obliged to apply to
him to befriend us, and yet what is he
compared to you ? you are much richer
than he is."
" Silence, unfortunate man ! " cried
Ephraim, with a shudder, as he looked
shyly around. "I am poor, and for
that reason can pay nothing. I am
poor, as all of us wretched Jews are.
Have we not to contribute the greater
portion of the war-tax? Are not all
our means exhausted? Is that not
enough ? "
" Too much ! " groaned Itzig, who
tiU now had walked in melancholy con¬
templation at Ephraim's other side-
" It is too much. Are we then treated
like human beings? Have we any
rights? Only when we have to pay,
do they remember that we have the
right of giving up our hard-earned
property. If the Jew has no money, is
he not at least a man, say I ? "
" Pshaw ! a man 1 " cried Ephraim.
" Whoever is without money is no man,
THE JEW
EPHRAIM.
127
De lie Jew or Christian. If Gotzkow-
sky had no money, he would he no bet¬
ter than we are. Why does the Rus¬
sian general have any thing to do with
him ? Because he is rich. Why do
the counts and lords pay court to him ?
For the same reason. Why do they
call his daughter an angel, and swear
she is the handsomest woman in Ber¬
lin ? Because her father is the richest
Christian merchant in the town. The
whole world knows and admires him.
And why ? Because he is rich;"
"No one is rich," said Itzig, shaking
his head. "He who has not every
thing, is not rich. There is no such
thing as riches, for he who has much
has to give much."
"God knows we will have to give
much ! " whimpered Ephraim, and aU
his companions joined in with groans
and sighs as a chorus to his speech.
" They mean to take every thing from
us that we own, and Itzig is right ; if
the Jew has not money, he is nobody.
Have we not suffered as much as
others? Have we not protected our
people, and fed and housed our poor ?
No one talks about these things, but
the whole town talks about Gotzkow-
sky. They praise him, they exalt him ;
they cry out his name everywhere, so
that one's heart actually burns for
vexation. And yet at the highest cal¬
culation he is not worth more than a
million.
" He is worth more than ourselves ;
he is worth much more, for he has the
favor of the Russian general. For this
reason we must bow down before him,
and flatter him, and assure him of our
eternal gratitude, for it is a question
not of life, but what is more precious
than life—money."
With deep-drawn sighs they whined
out, "Tes, we must bow to him, and
flatter him, and yet we are richer than
he is."
As long as they were on the street
they maintained an air of pride and
vexation ; but as soon as they entered ■
Gotzkowsky's house and stood in his
presence, they were all gentleness, hu¬
mility, and friendliness. With tears
they implored Gotzkowsky to have
pity, and to beg General Tottleben to
have compassion on them. They vowed
eternal gratitude to him, and swore
with solemn oaths that if he succeeded
in relieving the Jews from the special
impost, they would love him forever,
and be everlastingly thankful to him.
Gotzkowsky smiled in pity. " That
means that you would feel yourselves
under obligations to me, and, if ever
you got me in your power, you would
take the opportunity to ruin me. But
that is of no consequence to me. This
impost is a crying injustice, and there¬
fore wiU I plead for you, for it never
shall be said that Gotzkowsky suffered
an injustice to be done when he could
prevent it. Go home in peace, for, if I
can, I will help you."
" How arrogant this man is ! " said
Itzig, when they had left the house.
" One would suppose that he had aU
virtue and honor on lease, just as we
have the mint."
" And if he has," said Ephraim, with
a laugh, " if he has the monopoly of
virtue and honor, it is only to trade on.
No doubt his speculation wUl tum out
just as profltably as ours with the mint.
128
THE MERCHANT OF BERLIN,
No doubt he will coin it into light
eight-groschen pieces, cheat the people
with them, and make more than his
expenses, as we have done."
" But woe be unto him," growled It-
zig, "if any light coin of his virtue
come into my hands ! I will throw
them back into his face till blood flows,
and I will never forgive him that this
day we have had to stand before him
begging and pleading. If he ever
comes to grief, I wiU remember it. If
the Jew has no money, he is nobody.
WeU, we will see what Gotzkowsky is
worth without money. Let me teU
you we win aU of us live to see that
day. He has too much stupid gener¬
osity, which some day or other wUl run
away with his purse, and then there
will be a grand blow-up, honor and
virtue and all, sky high. Then there
will be no more talk about the great
Gotzkowsky and his virtue, and all
that. Oh! I do so rejoice over that
time a-coming. But in the mean time
I am so very glad that Gotzkowsky can
be of some service to us 1 "
CHAPTER XH.
THE BtrSSIAN GENEEAL AND THE
GEHMAN MAN.
Scarcely had the Jewish deputa¬
tion left Gotzkowsky's house, before
he betook himself, full of the important
information received from General
Bachmann, to General Tottleben's resi¬
dence, fully determined to venture every
thing to prevent the execution of the
cruel order which threatened the fac¬
tories and other branches of industry.
But this was not the sole object which
led him there. He went there as a
representative of the whole town.
Every one who needed assistance ap¬
plied to him, and to each one he had
promised to intercede for him. Laden
with petitions and commissions from
the magistracy, the merchants, and the
citizens of Berlin, he entered the Rus¬
sian general's quarters. Deeply in¬
spired with the importance of his com¬
mission, he traversed the halls which
led to the general's private apartments,
saying to himself, " This is the most
important mission I have ever imder-
taken, for the welfare of the whole
town depends upon it—a million dol¬
lars depend upon every word I may utter.
Many a struggle have I had in these
days, but this is the hardest of them
all, and victory hangs on my tongue."
With a beaming countenance and
sparkling eyes, with his whole being
animated with the sacredness of his
office, he entered the cabinet of the
Russian general. Tottleben did not
offer him, as heretofore, a friendly wel¬
come. He did not even raise his eyes
from the dispatches which he was in
the act of reading, and his contracted
brows and the whole expression of his
countenance were such as to discourage
any petition or pleading. At this mo¬
ment General von Tottleben was a true
Russian, and, thanks to General Eer-
more's dispatches, he had succeeded in
suppressing his German sympathy. At
least he flattered himself that he had,
and for that reason he avoided meet¬
ing Gotzkowsky's clear, bright eye.
Without taking any notice, he fin-
THE RUSSIAN GENERAL
AND THE GERMAN MAN
129
ished reading the papers, and then rose
and walked about the room. After a
while he seemed as if by accident to
perceive Gotzkowsky's presence, and
stopped short. " Have you come back
already ?" he asked, in a sullen, grum¬
bling tone. "I know very weU that
you have returned to beg for all sorts
of useless trash; I can't bear such
eternal begging and whining—a piti¬
ful rabble that is all the time creeping
to our feet ! "
" Yes, your excellency, it is nothing
but a poor„pitíful rabble," said Gotz-
kowsky, with a smile ; " and for this
very reason the Russians are despised
all over Europe. Toward the high
and mighty they behave like fawning
hounds, and toward the low and hum¬
ble they are rude and arrogant."
" I am not speaking of the Russians,"
cried the general, as he turned his
lowering countenance toward Gotzkow-
sky, " I am speaking of you. All day
long you have done nothing but beg
and demand."
But Gotzkowsky met him with qui¬
et and smiling composure. " Pardon,
your excellency, it is you who demand ;
and because you are aU the time de¬
manding, I must aU the time be beg¬
ging. And, in fact, I am only begging
for yourself."
Tottleben looked at him m inquir¬
ing astonishment, but in silence. "I
am not begging for favor," continued
Gotzkowsky, " but for justice ; and if
you grant this, why, it is so much
gained for you. Then, indeed, the
world wiU esteem you as not only
brave, but just; and then only will
history honor you as truly great—
9
the equitable and humane conqueror.
The Vandals, too, conquered by the
sword; and if it only depended on
mere brute strength, wüd bulls would
be the greatest generals."
Tottleben cast a fierce, angry look
toward him. " For that reason," cried
he, threateningly, "he is a fool who
irritates a wild bull."
Gotzkowsky bowed and smiled. " It
is true one should never show him a
red cloak. A firm, unterrified counte¬
nance is the only way to tame him.
The buU is powerless against the mind
which beams out of the human eye."
It was probably the very boldness
of this answer which pleased the gen¬
eral, accustomed as he was to Russian
servility. His features assumed a softer
expression, and he said, in a milder
tone : " You are an extraordinary man,
and there is no use in contending with
you. One is obliged to do whatever
you wish. Well, now — quick — out
with it—what do you want of me ? "
" Justice," said Gotzkowsky. "You
gave me your word that your soldiers
should not roh or plunder, and, not¬
withstanding, they do it."
" That is not true ! " thundered the
general.
"It is true," replied Gotzkowsky,
cahnly.
" Who dares to contradict me ? "
cried Tottleben, trembling with rage,
and striding toward Gotzkowsky.
"I dare," answered the latter, "if
you call that ' to dare ' which is only
convincing you of your error. I, my¬
self, have seen your soldiers striking
down the flying women with the butts
of their muskets, robbing and plunder-
130 THE MERCHA
ing the houses. Your orders have been
but poorly obeyed; and your soldiers
almost equal the Austrians in rudeness
and violence."
A light smUe spread over Tottleben's
countenance. Gotzkowsky had under¬
stood how to soften his anger. Al¬
most—only," said he; "woe be to my
soldiers if they equal the Austrians in
rudeness ! " "With hasty steps he trav¬
ersed the apartment, and called his
adjutant. "Send patrols through the
whole town," was his order to the offi¬
cer as he entered, " and give orders to
all the soldiers to maintain strict disci¬
pline. "Whosoever dares to plunder, is
guilty of disobedience to military or¬
ders, and shall be tried by military law.
The gallows for thieves and marauders
—say so to my men ; they know that
General Tottleben keeps his word.
Are you satisfied now ? " he asked Gotz-
kowsky, as the adjutant left the room.
"I thank your excellency," said
Gotzkowsky, hesitating.
" Thank God that at last you are
satisfied, and have nothing more to
ask ! " cried Tottleben, almost cheer¬
fully.
" But indeed I have a great deal yet
to ask, and if you will allow me I vdll
ask your excellency a question. You
have just issued an order. How high
up does this order reach ? "
" How high up ? " asked the general,
surprised.
" I mean does this order which for¬
bids the soldiers ftom robbing and
plundering under pain of death, affect
only the common private, or must the
higher officers also obey it ? ""
" I would advise every one to do so,"
T OF BERLIN.
cried Tottleben, with a harsh lauglu
" The order is for all."
" Even the highest officers ? "
"Not even the generals are except¬
ed."
" Then, sir," said Gotzkowsky, draw¬
ing himself up and advancing a step
toward the general, " I accuse before
you an officer who has had the pre¬
sumption to disobey your general order.
You forbid, under severe penalty, rob¬
bery and plundering, and yet he- is
intent on them. You have strictly
ordered the army to preserye discipline,
and not to Ul-treat nor abuse the de¬
fenceless, and yet a general is about to
do it."
"Who dares that? Give me the
name of this general 1 "
"It is Generál von Tottleben," an¬
swered Gotzkowsky, quietly.
Count Tottleben stepped back and
gazed at him in amazement.
Gotzkowsky did not lower his eyes,
but met his flashing glance firmly.
"Are you beside yourself?" asked the
general, after a long pause. " Is your
life such a burden to you that you are
determined to lose it ? "
" If my head were to fall, it would
only be a confirmation of what I have
asserted—^that General von Tottleben
issues an order, and does not respect it
himself ; that while he forbids his sol¬
diers to rob and steal, under penalty
of death, even Tie commits those very
offences."
The excess of this boldness had the
effect upon the general on which Gotz¬
kowsky had calculated. He had spec¬
ulated somewhat on the leonine nature
of Tottleben's character.
THK RUSSIAN GENERAL AND THE GERMAN MAN.
131
The general, instead of annihilating
his foolhardy antagonist, found pleasure
in his presumption, and it flattered him
that he was esteemed too magnanimous
to revenge himself for a few words of
insult.
" Look here, my friend, you are so out¬
rageously bold that you make me laugh.
For the sake of its rarity, I will hear
you out, and try to remain cool.
Speak on, then. Accuse me—^but woe
to you if I justify myself I Fail not to
prove what you say."
" The proverb says, ' Small thieves
are hung,' while great ones go free,' "
replied Gotzkowsky, shrugging his
shoulders. "Tou wish to prove the
truth of this proverb. The soldier
who enters a house for theft and plun¬
der, you condemn ; but you acquit the
general who devastates a whole town,
and in the arrogance of his victory
wishes to make himself, like Erostratos,
immortal by incendiarism and arson."
" Do not presume too much on my
forbearance," interrupted Tottleben,
stretching his arm out threateningly
toward the bold speaker. " Erostratos
was a violator of temples."
" You are not less one ! " cried Gotz-
kowsky; "you mean, with impious
hand, to cast a firebrand into the holy
temple of labor. Erostratos only de¬
stroyed the temple of an imaginary
deity ; but you, sir, are worse—you
wish to destroy factories ! "
" Do you know what that means ? "
" It means to deprive the poor man
of the morsel of bread which, by the
sweat of his brow, he has earned for
his wife and children ! It means to
rob him who possesses nothing but the
craft of his hands and his body, cf his
only right—^the right to work. You
are going to destroy the gold and sil¬
ver manufactories, to bum the ware¬
house, to tear down the brass-works in
the New Town Eberswald ! And why
all this ? "Why do you intend to leave
behind you this memorial of yomr van¬
dalism Î Because your empress is angry
with our king ! "
"Because enemies wish to revenge
themselves on enemies," interrupted the
general.
" Do that I " exclaimed Gotzkowsky,
warmly. "Revenge yourself on your
enemy, if you consider the destruction
of his property a noble revenge. De¬
stroy the king's palaces ; rob him, if
you choose, of his most ennobling en¬
joyment 1 Rob him of his pictures ; do
like the Saxons, who yesterday de¬
stroyed Charlottenburg. Send your
soldiers to my house; there hang
splendid paintings bought by me in
Italy by the king's order. I know that
our noble king anticipates much pleas-
m-e in carrying them some day to Sans¬
souci. But revenge yourself, take
these pictures, set fire to these noble
works of art, but spare what belongs
to the poor man 1 "
He spoke with noble warmth, with
glowing eloquence,—and against his
will Tottleben's German heart was
touched, and moved him to clemency
and compassion. But he would not
listen to it. General Fermore's dis-
patehes lay before him, and compelled
him to be harsh.
"You think you speak wisely, and
yet you talk nothing but impudent
nonsense," said he, with assumed se-
132 ' THE merchant OF BERLIN.
verity. "Who thinks of destroying
the poor man's property Î The royal
property shall he destroyed, and noth¬
ing else."
" But the gold and silver manufacto¬
ries and the warehouse are not the prop¬
erty of the king," said Gotzkowsky,
quickly. "Not a penny goes thence
into the king's treasimy."
The general's coimtenance bright¬
ened up considerably. " Not into the
king's treasury ? " said he ; " where,
then, does it go ? "
" The money, your excellency, which
is earned at the gold and silver facto¬
ries and at the warehouse is devoted to
a praiseworthy and touching purpose.
Perhaps you are a father—^have chil¬
dren ; and when you go into battle you
think of them, and utter a silent
prayer, intrusting them to God's care,
and praying that they may not be left
orphans."
Count Tottleben muttered some un¬
intelligible words, and stretched out
his hand deprecatingly. His lips
trembled, and to conceal his agitation
he turned away.
Gotzkowsky cried out joyously : " Oh,
I see in your eyes that you are vainly
trying to compel yourself to look at
me in anger. Yes, you are a father.
Well, then, father, spare the orphans 1
From the proceeds of the gold and sil¬
ver factories, and the warehouse, the
new, large orphan-house in Potsdam is
supported. Oh, you cannot be so cruel
as to deprive the poor children, whom
the pitiless war has rendered fatherless,
of their last support, of their last ref¬
uge 1 "
The general stepped up to him, and
grasped his hand. " God be my wit¬
ness that I will not! But is this so,
of a certainty? Do you speak the
truth ? "
" Yes, it is the truth I "
" Can you swear to it ? "
" Yes, with the most sacred oath."
The general paced the room in
silence several times, and then, paus¬
ing before Gotzkowsky, laid his hand
on his shoulder. " Listen," said he. " I
have often been reproached at home for
being too soft and pitiful. But never
mind ! I will once more follow my
own inclination, and act in spite of the
orders which I have received. You
must help me. Put all that you have
just stated down on paper. Write
down that these buildings are not the
property of the king, but of the or¬
phan-house. Swear to it with a sacred
oath, and affix your signature and seal.
Will you do this ? "
" Gladly will I do it," cried Gotz¬
kowsky, his face radiant. " Never have
I signed my name with a happier
heart than I will have when I sign it
to this affidavit, which will procure for
both of us the heaxt-felt blessings of so
many children."
He stepped to the general's writing-
table, and, following his direction,
seated himself and wrote".
Tottleben in the mean while walked
up and down pensively, his arms folded.
His features wore a thoughtful and
müd expression. No trace of the late
angry storm was visible. Once he
stopped, and murmxired, in a low
voice : " Orphans one dare not plun¬
der. Elizabeth has a tender heart, and
if she learns the "reason of my disobe
THE RUSSIAN GENERAL
dience, she will be content. Tes, my
course is the right one."
" I have finished, sir," said Gotzkow-
sky, standing up and handing him the
paper on which he had written.
Tottleben read it over carefully, and
laid it alongside of the dispatches to his
empress. He then called to his adju¬
tant, and ordered him immediately to
place strong safeguards over the gold
and silver manufactories and the ware¬
house, and to protect these against any
attack.
Gotzkowsky clasped his hands and
directed his eyes to heaven with joyful
gratitude, and in the deep emotion of
his heart he did not perceive that the
general again stood before him, and
was looking at him with inquiring
sympathy. His voice first awakened
him from his reverie. " Are you con¬
tented now ? " asked Tottleben, in a
friendly tone.
" Content, general," said Gotzkow¬
sky, shaking his head, " only belongs to
him who lies jn his coffin."
Again the general's brow grew dark.
" What is troubling you now ? Don't
hesitate—"
"To speak on, your excellency?"
inquired Gotzkowsky, with a gentle
smile.
" No—to put yourself in your coffin,"
answered the other, rudely.
" I have not time for that, as yet,"
replied Gotzkowsky, sadly. " Both of
us, general, have still too much to do.
You have to add fresh laurels to your
old ones—I have to clear thistles and
thorns from the path of my fellow-
men."
"Ah ! there are more thorns, then ? "
AND THE GERMAN MAN. I33
asked Tottleben, as he sank down into a
chair, and regarded Gotzkowsky with
evident benevolence.
" A great many yet, sir," answered
Gotzkowsky, sighing. " Our whole
body is bloody from them."
" Then call on the regimental surgeon
to cure you," said Tottleben, with a
coarse laugh.
"You only can cure us,"said Gotz¬
kowsky, seriously, " for only you are
able to inflict such severe wounds. You
are not satisfied with having conquered
and humiliated us, but you wish to
tread us in the dust, and make our
cheeks, which were pale with sadness,
now redden with shame. You have
ordered that the citizens of Berlin
should be disarmed. You are a brave
soldier, sir, and honor courage above
aU things. Now, let me ask you, how
could you bear to exhibit the certificate
of your cowardice ? Could you sur¬
vive it? You look at me in anger—
the very question makes you indignant ;
and if that is your feeling, why would
you subject the citizens of Berlin to such
disgrace ? "With our weapons we have
fought for our just rights and our lib¬
erty. God has willed that we should
be subdued nevertheless, and that you
should be the conquerors. But me-
thinks it would redound more to your
honor to be the conquerors of honor¬
able men than of cowardly slaves ! And
when you require of us, the conquered,
that we shall give up our manly honor,
our weapons, you convert us into ab¬
ject cowards, and deprive yourselves of
all honor in having conquered us. Let
us then, sir, keep our weapons ; leave
us this one consolation, that on our
134
THE MERCHAlíT OF BERLIN.
tombstones can be inscribed: 'Freedom
died, but with arms in her hand 1 ' "
And Gotzkowsky, quite overcome by
his painful emotions, leaned back
against the waU, -breathless, his implor¬
ing looks fixed upon the general.
But the latter avoided meeting his
eyes, and directed his own darkly tow¬
ard the ground.
Gotzkowsky perceived the indeci¬
sion, the wavering of the general, and
felt that he must now risk every thing
to overconje his resistance. " Leave us
our weapons. Oh, you are a German !
spare your German brethren."
Tottleben sjjrang from his seat as if a
venomous snake had stung him. Dark
and terrible were his features, his eyes
flashed fire, and raising his right hand
threateningly, he cried out: "Tou re¬
mind me in an evil hour that I am a
German. Germany drove me out to
find in a foreign land the appreciation
which my own country refused me !
Had I been a foreigner, Germany would
long ago have proclaimed my fame;
but, being the son of the family, the
mother drives me out among strangers
—and that they call German good-na¬
ture ! " and he broke out into a bitter,
scornful laugh.
" It is but too true," said Gotzkow¬
sky, sadly. " Our mother Germany is
fond of sending her greatest sons out
from home on their pilgrimage to fame.
For her great men she has but the cra¬
dle and the grave. But show your un¬
feeling mother that you are better than
she is ; prove to her how unjust she has
been. Be magnanimous, and leave us
our weapons ! "
" I cannot, by Heaven ! I cannot do
it," said Tottleben sadly, in a low tone.
"I must obey the higher authorities
above me—the empress, and the com¬
mander-in-chief, General Fermore. My
orders are very strict, and I have
already yielded too much. It is -writ¬
ten in these dispatches that the arms
must be given up."
" The arms ? " said Gotzkowsky, has¬
tily. " Yes, but not all arms. Take
some of them—we have three hundred
inferior rifles—^take them, sir, and fulfil
the letter of your orders, and save our
honor."
General von Tottleben did not an¬
swer immediately. Again he paced the
room, from time to time casting sharp,
piercing glances-at Gotzkowsky, whose
firmness and animation seemed to please
him. He stopped suddenly, and asked
in a voice so low that Gotzkowsky was
scarcely able to distinguish the words
—"Do you think the Germans wiU
praise me if 1 do this thing 1 "
" All Germany will say, ' He was
great in -victory, still greater in his
clemency toward the conquered,' " cried
Gotzkowsky, warmly.
The general dropped his head upon
his breast in deep meditation. When
he raised it again, there was a pleasant
smile upon his face. "Well, then, 1
will do it. I wül once more remember
that I am a German. Wkere are the
three hundred rifles ? "
" In the armory, sir."
The general made no reply, but
stepped toward his -writing-table hasti¬
ly. He wrote off a few lines, and then
with a loud voice called his adjutant
again to him. As the latter entered,
he handed him the writing. ' Let thf
THE RUSSIAN GENERAL AND THE GERMAN MAN. 135
disarming take place. There are not
more than three hundred muskets.
Let the citizens bring them to the Pal¬
ace Square. There they will be broken
up, and thrown into the river."
" O general 1 " cried Gotzkowsky, his
countenance radiant with delight, when
the adjutant had left the room, " how I
do wish at this moment that you were
a woman I "
"la woman 1" cried Count Tottle¬
ben, laughing, " why should I be a wo¬
man ? "
" That I might kiss your hand. Be¬
lieve me, I never thanked any man so
truly and sincerely as I now do you I I
am so proud to be able to say, ' Berlin
is conquered, but not dishonored 1 ' "
Tottleben bowed amicably toward
him. "Now, after this proof of my
generosity, the town will hasten to pay
its war-tax, wiU it not ? " Then seeing
the dark cloud which gathered on
Gotzkowsky's brow, he continued with
more vehemence, "Ton are very dilato¬
ry in paying. Be careful how you ex¬
haust my patience."
"Pray let me know, sir, when it is
exhausted," said Gotzkowsky. "It is
cruel to drive an exhausted animal be¬
yond his strength. Do you not think
so?"
The general nodded his assent in si¬
lence.
"You are of my opinion," cried
Gotzkowsky. "Well, then, you will
be just, and not exact of this exhausted
city, wearied unto death, more than she
can perform."
With glowing words and persuasive
eloquence he explained to the general
how impossible it was for the city to
pay the demanded war contribution of'
four millions.
Tottleben let himself again be per¬
suaded. In the presence of this ardent
eloquent German patriot, his German
heart resmned its power, and compelled
him to mercy and charitableness. He
consented to reduce the tax to two
millions of dollars, if Gotzkowsky
would guarantee the punctual payment
of the bonds given by the body of mer¬
chants, and give two hundred thousand
of it in cash down, as hush-money to
the Austrians.
The latter declared himself gladly
willing to accept the orders, and to
stand security -with his whole fortune
for their payment. Both then re¬
mained silent, as if fatigued by the
long and severe war of words, from
which Gotzkowsky had always come
out victorious.
The general stood at the window,
looking into the street. Perhaps he was
waiting for Gotzkowsky to give vent to
his warm and delighted gratitude be¬
fore he took leave. But Gotzkowsky
did neither the one nor the other. He
remained ■with folded arms, his counte¬
nance full of earnest courage and bold
determination.
"I will finish what I have com¬
menced," said he to himself. " I wHl
keep my word, and not move from the
spot before I have pleaded for all those
to whom I promised my assistance.
The general is at liberty to curse my
importunity, if I only do my duty tow¬
ard my fellow-citizens." As he still re¬
mained silent, Tottleben turned toward
him laughingly.
" What," said he, " are you dumb !
136 TEE MERCHA;
Is your eloquence exhausted ? Indeed,
when I think of all that you hare got
out of me to-day, it almost makes me
smile." And he broke out into a mer¬
ry, good-natured laugh.
"Well, laugh, sir," said Gotzkowsky,
" I know you are fond of a laugh. For
example, you have just played a little
joke on the Jews, and made them be¬
lieve that they had to pay an imposi¬
tion—"
" Made believe ? " interrupted Tottle¬
ben, hastily. "Man! be satisfied that
I have remitted two millions to the cit¬
izens. Don't speak up now for the
Jews."
" But the Jews are a part of the citi¬
zens."
"Are you crazy, man?" cried Tot¬
tleben, violently. "Is the Jew a citi¬
zen with you ? "
" Yes," answered Gotzkowsky, " as
far as paying goes. The Jew is obliged
honestly to contribute his proportion
of the war-tax. How can you, with
any semblance of justice, require of him
another further tax, when he has al¬
ready, in common vidth uS, given up
all he possesses ? "
" Sir," cried Tottleben, with sup¬
pressed vexation, " this is enough, and
more than enough I "
" No," said Gotzkowsky, smiling.
"It is too much. The Jews are not
able to pay it—"
"I will remit their contribution,"
cried the general, stamping violently
on the fioor, "to please you—just to
get rid of you—but now—"
" But now," interrupted Gotzkowsky,
insinuatingly, " one more favor."
The general stepped back astounded.
T OF BERLIN.
and looked at Gotzkowsky with a
species of comical terror. "Do you
know that I am almost afraid of you,
and win thank God when you are
gone ?"
" Then you think of me as the whole
town of Berlin thinks of you," said
Gotzkowsky.
The general laughed. "Your im¬
pudence is astonishing. Well, quick !
what is your last request ? "
"They are preparing, at the New
Market, a rare and an unheard-of spec¬
tacle—a spectacle, general, as yet un¬
known in Germany. Y ou have brought
it with you from Russia. You are go¬
ing to make two men run the gantlet
of rods—^not two soldiers convicted of
crime, but two writers, who have only
shmed in spirit against you, who have
only exercised the free and highest
right of man—the right to my what they
thirik. You are going to have two
newspaper writers scourged, because
they drew their quills against you. Is
not that taking a barbarous revenge
for a small offence ? "
" A small offence ! " cried the general,
whose countenance had resumed its
dark, fierce expression. " Come, that's
enough. Stop, if you do not wish me
to take back all that I have granted
you. Do you caE that a small offence ?
Why, sir, the editor of Spener''» Jour¬
nal called me an adventurer, a rene¬
gade. Ah! he at least shall feel that
I have the power of punishing."
"Why," said Gotzkowsky, calmly,
" that would only prove to him that he
had hit you on a tender spot."
"And the scribbler of the Vossian
Gazette, did he not venture even to at
THE RUSSIAN GENERAL
AND THE GERMAN MAN. 137
tack my gracious empress Î " continued
Tottleben, perfectly carried away by
his indignation. " He wrote a conyer-
sation between peasants, and in it he
made fun of the empress. He even
went so far as to make his own king
join in the dirty talk, in the character
of a peasant. Sir, I am very much sur¬
prised that you should defend a man
who carries his impudence so far as to
canvass and scandalize the conduct of
his own king in such a disrespectful
aud audacious manner."
" The king is great enough to be
able to bear this calumny of little
minds. Whosoever is truly great, is
not afraid of free speaking nor of cal¬
umny. Have you never heard the story
of how the king was riding by, where
the people were collected at the corner
of a street, stretching out their necks to
read a pasquinade which had been
hung on the wall, and was directed
against the king himself? The king
reined in his horse, and read the hand¬
bill. The people stood in silent terror,
for the paper contained a sharp abuse
of the king, and a libel on him in verse.
What does your excellency think the
king did when he had read this most
treasonable placard ? "
" He had the mob cut it down, as it
deserved to be, and the author strung
up on the gallows," cried Tottleben, ve¬
hemently.
"Not at aU, sir," replied Gotzkow-
sky. " He said, ' Let the paper be
hung lower; the people can't see to
read it up so high.' He then saluted
the crowd, and rode off, laughing."
" Did the great Fritz do that ? " said
Tottleben, unconsciously using the
epithet which the Prussian people had
applied to their king.
" He did it tecauie he is great," re¬
plied Gotzkowsky.
" Strange, hard to believe I " mut¬
tered the general, folding his arms, and
striding up and down. After a pause,
Gotzkowsky inquired, " Would you not
like to emulate the great king, gen¬
eral ? "
Count Tottleben awoke from his
reverie. Approaching Gotzkowsky, he
laid his hand upon his shoulder; his
expression was indescribably mild and
gentle, and a melancholy smile played
around his lips. " Hark'ee, I believe
it would do me good if we could be
always together. Come with me. Set¬
tle in Russia. The empress has heard
of you, and I know that she would be
rejoiced if you came to Petersburg.
Do it. Tou can make a large fortune
there. The empress's favor will elevate
you, and she wUl not let you want for
orders or a title."
Gotzkowsky could hardly suppress a
smile of contempt. " Orders for me !
A title ! What would I do with them ?
Sir, I am more powerful than aU your
counts, for the greatness of nobility lies
in the past, in mouldering ancestors;
but the greatness of the manufacturer
lies in the future, and the future be¬
longs to industry. I foimded the first
large factories here in Berlin, and the
manufacturers who come after me call
me their ancestor. No other nobility
do I desire, count."
" You would then be capable of re¬
fusing a count's title ? " asked Tottle¬
ben, in astonishment.
Gotzkowsky shrugged his shouldersL
138
THE MERCHANT OF BERLIN.
** If I had wished for nobility I could
long ago have bought a countship of
the holy German empire, for such things
are for sale, and thirty thousand ducats
is the highest price for a count's title ;
and as for the orders, my own ribbon-
factory turns out the ribbons for them."
General Tottleben looked at him for
a long time in mild astonishment.
" Ton are a wonderful man, and I wish-
I were like you. If I had thought as
you do, my life would have been a less
stormy one, and less tossed by care and
restlessness. I would have—"
The general was interrupted by the
hasty entrance of the adjutant. He
was the bearer of dispatches brought
by a courier who had just arrived.
The courier, he said, had ridden so
hard, that his horse had Êtllen dead on
his arrival.
Tottleben tore open the dispatches
and read them rapidly. His counte¬
nance immediately lost its former ex¬
pression of mildness and gentleness.
His German heart was silenced by the
will of the Russian generah
He seemed to forget Gotzkowsky's
presence, and turning to his adjutant,
with proud military bearing, he said :
"These dispatches contain important
and surprising information. They an¬
nounce that the Prussian army is draw¬
ing on in forced marches, with the
king at its head. We cannot give him
battle here, and must, in consequence,
arrange for a rapid retreat from Berlin.
Call aU the generals and staff-ofiBcers
together. Let the alarm be sounded.
In three hours the whole army must
have left the city. And, further, sum¬
mon the Town Council to the New
Market, that we may take our leave,
for we must not leave Berlin as fugi¬
tives, but as conquerors, who are pro¬
ceeding on their march."
"And the poor editors who are to
be flogged ? " asked Gotzkowsky, when
the adjutant had left.
The general smüed, as he took Gotz¬
kowsky amicably by the hand. " We
will hang them a little lower," said he,
significantly. " Come, accompany us
to the market-place ? "
Nora.—Coimt von Tottleben expiated hia clem-
encj toward Berlin very dearly. A few months
later he was sent to Fetershnrg nnder arrest, ao-
ensed principally of having behaved too leniently
and too much in the German interest for a Rus¬
sian general.
CHAPTER XIH.
the execution,
The morning was cold and rainy,
the wind howled down the empty
streets, rattling the windows, and
slamming the open house-doors. Sure¬
ly the weather was but little suit¬
ed for going out, and yet the Ber¬
lin citizens were to be seen flocking
toward the New Market in crowds,
regardless of wind and rain.
The Berliners have, from time imme¬
morial, been an inquisitive race, and
where any thing is to be seen, thither
they rush. But this day there was
to be a rare spectacle at the New
Market.
The editors of the two newspapers
were to run the gantlet : and besides,
General von Tottleben had sununoned
the Town Council and Jews thither
to receive his last orders and résolu
THE EXECUTION.
139
tions before he left Berlin. People
were, therefore, very much excited,
and curious to witness this double
show, and in their eagerness they for¬
gave the hostile general, who had pre¬
pared such a delightful entertainment
for them, all the terrors of the last
few days. Two gentlemen — two
learned men—were to be flogged.
That, was, indeed, a precious and de¬
lightful sight for cold, hungry, ragged
poverty, which always takes delight in
seeing those whom fortune has favored,
suffer and smart.
How often had these shoemakers and
tailors worried and fretted themselves
over their pot of beer, that the news¬
paper writers should have had the
hardihood and- stupidity to write so
violently against the Eussians, without
taking into account that the Eussians
would one day occupy Berlin, and
take revenge on its innocent citizens !
It served these newspaper writers quite
right that they should be punished for
their arrogance. And, besides, the
good people would see the Eussian
general and his staff, and the grand Town
Council and the chief magistrate, who,
in his golden chain and his robes of
office, was to hand over to the hos¬
tile general a present of ten thousand
ducats. The Berliners were, therefore,
quite happy, and delighted to hear the
hollow sound of the drums, the bray¬
ing of the trumpets, and the Eussian
word of command.
A regiment of Eussian soldiers
marched past the comer of the Bishop
Street, toward the market-place. They
ranged themselves in two long lines,
leaving a lane between them just wide
enough for a man to pass tlirough.
Then came two provost-marshals, and
walked slowly down the lane, deliver¬
ing to each soldier one of the long
slender rods they carried under their
arms.
The Eussian soldiers were now
armed, and awaited the victims they
were to chastise. These were dragged
out of the guard-house. First came
tottering the gray-headed Mr. Krause,
slowly and sadly ; then came Mr.
Kretschmer, formerly the brave, tm-
daunted hero of the quill—^now a poor,
trembling, crushed piece of humanity.
They stood in the middle of the square,
and, bewildered with terror, their help-
imploring looks swept over the gap¬
ing, silent multitude, who gazed at
them with eager countenances and ma¬
licious joy, and would have been out¬
rageously mad if they had been denied
the enjoyment of seeing two of their
brother-citizens scourged by the ene¬
my's soldiers.
" I cannot believe it ! " whimpered
Mr. Krause ; " it is impossible that this
is meant in earnest. They cannot in¬
tend to execute so cruel a sentence.
What would the world, what would
mankind say, if two writers were
scourged for the articles they had
written ? WiH the town of Berlin suf¬
fer it ? Will no one take pity on oui
distress ? "
"No one," said Mr. Kretschmer,
mournfully. " Look at the crowd
which is staring at us with pitiless cu¬
riosity. They would sooner have pity
on a murderer than on a writer who is
going to be flogged. The whole town
has enjoyed and laughed over our arti-
140
FHE MERCHANT GE BERLIN.
cíes, and now there is not one who
would dare to beg for us."
At this moment another solemn pro¬
cession came down the Bishop Street
toward the square. This was the
Town Council of Berlin. Foremost
came the chief burgomaster Von Kir¬
cheisen, who had recovered his speech
and his mind, and was memorizing the
well-set speech in which he was to offer
to the general the thanks of the town
and the ten-thousand ducats, which a
page bore alongside of him on a silken
pillow.
Behind the Council tottered trem¬
bling and broken-hearted the elders of
the Jews, including those of the mint,
in order to receive their final condem¬
nation or release from General Tottle¬
ben.
The people took no notice of the
Council or the Jews. They were busy
staring with cruel delight at the jour¬
nalists, who were being stripped by the
provost-marshals of their outer cloth¬
ing, and prepared for the bloody exhi¬
bition. With a species of barbarous
pleasure they listened to the loud wail¬
ing of the trembling, weeping Krause,
who was wringing his hands and im¬
ploring the Russian officer who had
charge of the execution, for pity, for
mercy.
The Russian officer was touched by
the tears of sorrow of the editor ; he
did have pity on the gray hairs and
bowed form of the old man, or perhaps
he only acted on instructions received
from General Tottleben. He motioned
to the provosts to lead the other edi¬
tor to the lane first, and to spare Mr.
Krause until Mr. Kretschmer had been
chastised. The provosts seized hold
of Mr. Kretschmer and dragged him to
the terrible lane ; they pushed him in
between the rows of soldiers, who,
with rude laughter, were flourishing
the rods in their hands.
Already the first, the second, the
third blow has faUen on the back of
the editor of the Yossmn Gazette, when
suddenly there sounds a powerful
" Halt ! " and General Count von Tot¬
tleben appears, with Got2k;owsky at
his side, and followed by his brilliant
staff.
With a wild scream Kretschmer
tears himself loose from the hands of
the provost-marshals, and rushes tow¬
ard the general, crying out aloud ; Mr.
Krause awakens from his heavy de¬
spairing brooding, and both editors
sink down before the Russian general.
With a mischievous smile, Tottleben
looked at Mr. Kretschmer's bleeding
back, and asked, "Who are you ? "
" I am the Vossian Gazette,^'' whined
out Mr. Kretschmer, " whom you have
accused of such cruel things. Ah I we
have suffered great injustice, and we
have been represented as worse than
we really are. Oh, believe me, your
exceUency, I have been belied. I have
never hated Russia !"
"Tou are both accused of libel,"
said Tottleben, sternly.
"If we are guilty of libel it is
without our knowledge," said Mr.
Krause. " Besides, we are very will¬
ing to recall every thing. I confess
we were in error. We did not know
you and your army, and we spoke
ignorantly, as the blind man does
about colors. Now we are better able
THE EX
.0 judge. You are the noblest among
noble men, and finer soldiers than the
Russians, and a chaster woman than
the Empress Elizabeth, is not to he
found anywhere. Oh, yes, your ex¬
cellency, Spener's Journal is ready to
eat its "words. Only don't let me he
flogged, sir, and I will sing your
praises everlastingly, and proclaim to
all the world that the Prussian has no
better friend than the Russian, and
that God has ordained them to be
brothers."
" Only don't let us be flogged," im¬
plored Mr. Kretschmer, rubbing his
sore baek, " I promise your excel-
leuey that the Vossian Gazette shall be
as tame as a new-born infant. It
shall never indulge in bold, outspoken
language ; never have any deeided
color. I swear, for myself and my
heirs, that we will draw its fangs.
Have, therefore, merey on us 1 "
The general turned away with a
smile of contempt. "Enough, gentle¬
men," said he, roughly, and laying his
hand on Gotzkowsky's shoulder, he con¬
tinued ; " I pardon you, not in conse¬
quence of your idle talk, but for the sake
of this noble gentleman, who has begged
for you. You are free, sirs 1 " As the
two editors were about to break out
into expressions of gratefulness, Tot¬
tleben said to them, "It is Gotzkow-
sky alone that you have to thank for
your liberty."
They threw themselves into Gotz¬
kowsky's arms ; with solemn oaths they
vowed him eternal, inviolable grati¬
tude ; they called him their savior,
their liberator from shame and dis¬
grace.
:CUTION. 141
Gotzkowsky smiled at their glowing
protestations of friendship, and with¬
drew himself gently from their ardent
embraces. "I did not do it for the
sake of your thanks, and personally
you owe me therefore no gratitude."
" Gotzkowsky, have you entirely for¬
gotten us ? " said a plaintive voice near
him. It was Itzig, one of the rich
Jews of the mint, to whom Gotzkow¬
sky had promised assistance.
" Ask the general," said the latter,
smiling.
" He has spoken for you, and his in¬
tercession has freed you from the spe¬
cial tax," said Count Tottleben.
" He has saved us, the great Gotz¬
kowsky has had pity on our wretched¬
ness," cried the Jews, crowding around
Gotzkowsky to press his hand, to em¬
brace him, and with tears of grateful
emotion to promise him their unal¬
terable attachment.
"You have saved my life," said
Itzig, "for I had determined to die
rather than pay any more money.
For what is life to me without money ?
If the Jew has not money, he is no¬
body. In saving my money you saved
my life. If ever you should be with¬
out money, Gotzkowsky, come to me ;
I wiU lend you some at very low inter¬
est."
" I will lend it to you gratis," said
Ephraim, pressing his hand affection¬
ately in his own.
Gotzkowsky answered sadly : " If it
ever came to pass that I were obliged
to borrow, you would not remember
this day, and I would not be the man
to remind you of it."
" Remind us of it," protested Ephra-
142
THE MERCHANT OF BERLIN.
im, " and you shall see that we keep our
word. Come to us and say, 'Remem¬
ber the tax that I freed you from,' and
you shall see all that you desire shall
be fulfilled."
" God grant that I may never have
need to remind you of it I " said Gotz-
kowsky, pressing back the excited
Jews, and approaching General Tottle¬
ben.
" You forget, sir, that you summoned
the honorable Council of Berlin hither,
and that these gentlemen are awaiting
your orders."
The general seemed to awaken out of
a deep reverie. " Yes," said he, as if
to himself, " the German dream is fin¬
ished, and now I must be a Russian
again." He then turned quickly to
Gotzkowsky and oflfered him his hand.
" Gotzkowsky," said he, gently and
persuasively, "consider it once more
—come with me and be my teacher."
" What I can teach you is but little.
It is an easy lesson for him who has a
heart, an impossible one for him who
has none. Leam to love mankind.
That is all my wisdom, and my fare¬
well."
The general sighed. " You will not
go with me? Well, then, fareweUl"
And as if to disperse the painful and
bitter feelings which assailed his Ger¬
man heart, he turned away and called,
in Russian, to his adjutant : " Let us
break up, gentlemen. To horse, to
horse ! "
But in the midst of the confusion of
the soldiers, and the trampling of
horses, the chief burgomaster made a
way for himself. He had to sustain
the honor of the CouncU. and pro¬
nounce the beautifully-worded oration
which had cost him two sleepless
nights to compose ; he had to place in
the hands of the general the oflTering of
Berlin gratitude.
At last he succeeded in reaching
the general, and he began his speech.
Full and powerful did his voice sound
through the Hew Market, and the de¬
lighted people rejoiced over the ora¬
torical talent of their chief magis¬
trate, and gazed with pride and ad¬
miration at his golden chain of office
—^that chain which had gone through
so much, had endured so much, with¬
out growing pale or dim.
But General Tottleben did not ac¬
cept the present which the city of Ber-
liu offered him. He said: "If the
town believes that its fate was rendered
more tolerable by my discipline than
it otherwise would have been, let it
thank the express orders of my em¬
press. The honor of having been
commander of Berlin for three days
is sufficient reward for me."
Three hours later Berlin was freed
from Russians and Austrians. Gotz¬
kowsky, who had finally succeeded
in freeing himself from the tumultuous
expressions of gratitude of the Council,
the editors, and the Jews, returned to
his home, of which he himself says :
"My house resembled more a cow¬
house than a dwelling, having been
filled for a while, night and day, with
Russians."
BRIDE HID
DAUGHTER.
143
CHAPTER XIV
bride and daughter.
At the mere announcement of the
approach of the king toward Berlin,
the Russian army had left the city
and withdrawn to Frspikfort. But no
inconsiderable number of oflScers had
stayed behind ; some of them to organ¬
ize the withdrawal of the troops, while
others, detained by personal affairs,
had merely obtained short leave of ab¬
sence. To the latter belonged Colonel-
Feodor von Brenda. General Bach-
mann had given him two days' leave,
under the impression that he would
avail himself of the time to enjoy, un¬
disturbed, the society of his bride, the
Countess Lodoiska von Sandomir.
The general knew nothing of the
difference between the colonel and his
betrothed. He did not know that,
according to her agreement with Ber¬
tram, Lodoiska had not informed Feo-
dor of her arrival in Berlin. But,
nevertheless, Feodor had heard of it.
The countess's own chambermaid,
knowing the liberality of the young
count, had gone to him, and for a golden
bribe had betrayed to him her pres¬
ence, and communicated all that she
knew of her plans and intentions.
This news detained the colonel in
Berlin. The unexpected arrival of his
aflSanced pressed upon him the neces¬
sity of a decision, for he was aware of
the impossibility of tearing asunder the
firm and heart-felt bond which attached
him to Elise, to unite himself to a wife
to whom he was only engaged by a
given promise, a pledged word.
Feodor would probably have given
up his whole fortune to pay a debt of
honor ; would have unhesitatingly
thrown his life into the scale if it had
been necessary to redeem his word.
But he was not ashamed to break the
vow of fidelity which he had made
to a woman, and to desert her to whom
he had promised eternal love. Besides,
his pride was wounded by the advent
of the countess, which appeared to him
as a restraint on his liberty and an es¬
pionage on his actions.
She had concealed her arrival from
him, and he consequently concluded
that she was acquainted with his faith¬
lessness, and nursed some plan of re¬
moving the obstacles which lay between
her and her lover. His pride was ir¬
ritated by the thought that he should
be compelled to maintain an engage¬
ment which he could no longer fulfil
from love, but only from a sense of
duty. Such a restraint on his free will
seemed to him an unparalleled hardship.
He felt a burning hatred toward the
woman who thus forcibly insisted on
fastening herself upon him, and an
equally ardent love toward the young
girl of whom they wished to deprive
him.
Doubly charming and desirable did
this young, innocent, lovely girl appear
to him when he compared her with the
mature, self-possessed, worldly woman,
of whom he could only hope that he
might be her last love, while he knew
that he was Elise's first.
" If I must positively be chained, and
my hands bound," said he to himself,
" let it be at least with this fresh young
girl, who can conceal a thorny crown
of wedlock under freshly-blown rose-
144
THE MERCHANT OF BERLIN.
buds. My heart has nothing more to
do with this old love; it has grown
young again under the influence of new
feelings, and I will not let this youth-
fulness be destroyed by the icy-cold
smiles of duty. Elise has promised to
be mine, and she must redeem her
promise."
Still full of the passionate and defiant
thoughts which the yiciuity of his
aflBanced bride had provoked, he had
gone out to seek Elise. But to find her
had become not only dilficult, but al¬
most impossible.
Bertram, who had not thought fit to
reveal to Gotzkowsky the forcible ab¬
duction of his daughter, had yet
quietly arranged his precautions that
a repetition of the attempt from any
quarter, or at any time, should be im¬
possible.
• Under the pretence that the with¬
drawal of the troops rendered the city
unsafe, and filled it with marauders
and plundering stragglers, Bertram,
secure of Gotzkowsky's approval be¬
forehand, had armed a number of
the factory workmen, and placed them
as sentinels on the wall, in the court,
and on the ground-floor. These had
orders not to let any one enter who was
not able to tell the object and purpose
of his coming. By this precaution Ber¬
tram prevented any attempt of Eeodor
to climb the waR ; and, furthermore, he
obtained the advantage that Elise, to
whom the presence of the sentinels was
impleasant and objectionable, not only
did not visit the dangerous, solitary
parts of the garden, but withdrew in¬
to her own room. In this manner Ber¬
tram had rendered any meeting between
Feodor and Elise impossible, but he
could not prevent his servant, Petrow-
itsch, from meeting his sweetheart,
Elise's chambermaid, on the street.
By means of these a letter of Feodor
reached Elise's hand. In this Feodor
reminded her solemnly and earnestly
of her promise ; he now called upon her
to fulfil her vow, and to follow him
from the house of her father. He ad¬
jured her to tmite herself to him at the
altar as his wife, and to give him the
right to carry her abroad with him as
his own.
Elise received this letter of her be¬
loved, and her heart during its peru¬
sal was moved by xmfamiliar emotions.
She could not herself determine whether
it was joy or dread which caused it to
beat so convulsively, and almost de¬
prived her of consciousness. She could
have screamed aloud with joy, that at
last she would be united to her lover,
wholly, sacredly as his own ; and yet she
was filled with deep grief that the path
to the altar would not be hallowed by
her father's blessing. Even love,
which spoke so loudly and powerfully
in her heart, could not silence the warn¬
ing voice of conscience — that voice
which again and again threatened her
with sin and sorrow, disgrace and
shame. Tet Elise, in the warmth and
passion of her heart, sought to excuse
herself, and in the pride of her wound¬
ed filial love said to herself: "My fa¬
ther does not regard me ; he will not
weep for my loss, for 1 am superfluous
here, and he will hardly perceive that
1 am gone. He has his millions and his
friends, and the whole multitude of
those to whom he does good. He is so
BRIDE AND
DAUGHTER.
145
rich—^he has so much on which his
heart hangs I But I am quite poor ; I
h aye nothing but the heart of my be¬
loved. His love is my only possession.
Would it not be wicked in me to cast
this away, and lead here a lonesome,
desolate life, without pity or sympathy Î
If my father loved me, would he have
left me during these days so full of dan¬
ger 2 After the terrible scene in which
I, in the desperation of my heart of¬
fended him, he would at least have given
me some opportunity of asking his par¬
don, of begging him for forbearance and
pity. But he seems purposely to have
secluded himself, and avoided any meet¬
ing with me. He has shut me out
from his heart, and withdrawn his love
from me forever. And so I am forced
to carry my heart full of boundless
affection over to my lover. He will
never repulse, neglect, or forget me ; he
will adore me, and I wUl be his most
cherished possession."
As these thoughts passed through
her mind, she pressed his note to her
lips, each word seeming to greet her,
and with Feodor's imploring looks to
entreat her to fulfil the vow she had
made him. There was no longer any
hesitation or wavering in her, for she
had come to a determined resolution,
and with glowing cheeks and panting
breast she hastened to the writing-table,
in order to clothe it in words, and an¬
swer Feodor's note.
"You remind me of my pledged
word," she wrote. "I am ready to re¬
deem it. Come, then, and lead me
from my father's house to the altar, and
I will be your wife ; and wherever you
go I will be with you. Henceforth I
IQ
wUl have no other home than your
heart. But whUe I cheerfully elect
this home, at the same time I am shut>
ing myself out from my father's heart
forever. May God forgive the sins
that love causes me to commit 1 "
But when this note had been sent,
when she knew that her lover had re¬
ceived it, and that her decision was
irrevocable, she was seized with trem¬
bling faintness, with the oppression of
conscious guilt ; and it seemed to her as
if a new spring of love had suddenly
burst forth in her heart, and as if she
had never loved her father so sincerely,
so devotedly, so tenderly, as now that
she was on the point of leaving him.
But it was too late to draw back;
for in the mean time she had received
a second let'ter from Feodor, imparting
the details of a plan for their joint
flight, and she had approved of this
plan.
Every thing was prepared, and aU
that she had to do was to remain in her
room, and await the concerted signal
with which Feodor was to summon
her.
As soon as she heard this signal she
was to leave the house with her maid,
who had determined to accompany her,
come out into the street, where Feodor
would be in waiting with his carriage,
and drive in the first place to the
church. There a priest, heavily bribed,
would meet them, and, with the bless¬
ing of the Church, justify Feodor in
carrying his young wife out into the
world, and Elise in " leaving father and
home, and clinging only unto her hus¬
band."
Some hours were yet wanting to the
f
THE MERCHANT OP BERLIN.
146
appointed time. Elise, condemned to
the idleness of waiting, experienced all
the anxiety and pains which the ex¬
pectation of the decisive moment usually
carries with it.
With painful desire she thought of
her father, and, although she repeated
to herself that he would not miss her,
that her absence would not be noticed,
yet her excited imagination kept paint¬
ing to her melancholy fancy, pictures
of his astonishment, his anxiety, his
painful seareh after her.
She seemed, for the first time, to re¬
member that she was about to leave
him, without having been reconciled to
him; that she was to part fi-om him
forever, without having begged his for¬
giveness, without even having felt his
fatherly kiss on her brow. At least she
would write to him, at least send him
one loving word of farewell. This de¬
termination she now carried out, and
poured out all her love, her suffering,
her suppressed tenderness, the reproaches
of her conscience, in burning and elo¬
quent words, on the paper which she
offered to her father as the olive-branch
Ol peace.
When she had written this letter, she
folded it, and hid it carefully in her
bosom, in order to carry it unnoticed
to her father's room. He would not
be there—for two days he had not been
at home ; she could, therefore, venture
to go there without fear of meeting
him. She felt as if she would not be
able to bear his gaze—^the full, bright
look ot his eye.
Carefully and softly, with the secret
fear of meeting Bertram, whose sad, re-
prcachful looks she dreaded even more.
perhaps, than the eye of her father,
she crept along the corridor, and final¬
ly reached the antechamber, breathing
more freely, and glad to have met no
one. Every thing here was quiet and
silent; her father, therefore, had not
yet returned, and she was quite safe
from any surprise by him.
She now entered his private room,
and crossing this, was in the act of
opening the desk of his writing-table,
in order to deposit the letter therein,
when she heard the door of the ante¬
chamber open. It was too late for
fiight, and she had only time to con¬
ceal the letter in her bosom, when the
door of the room itself was opened.
It was her father who now entered
the apartment. Speechless and mo¬
tionless they both stood, confounded
at this unexpected meeting, each wait¬
ing for a word of greeting of reconcili¬
ation from the other. But however
earnestly their hearts yearned toward
each other, their lips remained silent,
and their looks avoided one another.
" She shuns me. This is my recep¬
tion after so many toilsome days of
absence," thought Gotzkowsky, and
his heart was full of sadness and sor¬
row.
■ " He will not look at me, his eye
avoids me, he has not yet forgiven me,"
thought Élise, as she regarded her fa¬
ther's pale, careworn countenance.
" No, he does not wish to see me. For
the last time, therefore, I will show
him obedience, and leave the room."
Sadly and softly, with her looks cast
on the groimd, she took her way to the
door on the opposite side.
Gotzkowsky followed her with his
BRIDE AND
DAUGHTER.
14Ï
eyes. If she had only yentured to
raise her looks once more to Tiim, she
would have perceived aU his love, all
the forgiving affection of a father, iu his
face. But she did not, and Gotzkow-
sky said to himself, in the bitterness of
his heart ; " Why should I speak to
her ?—she would only misunderstand
me. I will lie down and sleep, to for¬
get my cares and my sorrows. I will
not speak to her, for I am exhausted,
and tired to death. I must have rest
and composure, to be able to come to
an understanding with her."
And yet he regarded her with long¬
ing looks as she directed her sad steps
toward the door. Now she stands on
the threshold ; now her trembling hand
clasps the bright handle of the lock,
but still she hesitates to open it ; she
still hopes for a word, if even an angry
one, from her father.
And now she hears it. Like an
angel's voice does it sound in her ear.
He calls her name, he reaches his hand
to her, and says with infinite, touching
gentleness, " Give me your hand, Elise.
Come here to mCj my child—^it is so
long since I have seen you ! "
She turned to him, and yet she dared
not look upon him. Seizing his offered
hand, she pressed it to her lips. " And
do you remember that you have been
so long absent Î You have not then
forgotten me ? "
" Forgot you 1 " cried her father ten¬
derly ; and ' then immediately, as if
ashamed of this outburst of fatherly
love, he added calmly and almost stern¬
ly—" I have much to talk of with you,
Elise. ■ You have accused me."
Elise interrupted him with anxious
haste : " I was beside myself," said she,
confused and bashfully. " Forgive me,
my father ; passion made me unjust."
"No, it only developed what lay
hidden in your heart," said Gotzkow-
sky; and the recollection of that un-
happy hour roughened his voice and
filled his heart with sadness. " For the
first time, you were candid with me. I
may have been guilty of it all, but
still ^it hurts I " For a moment he was
silent, and sank his head on his breast,
completely overpowered by painful
reminiscences.
Elise answered nothing, but the sight
of his pale and visibly exhausted coun¬
tenance moved her to tears.
When Gotzkowsky raised his head
again, his face had resumed its usual
determination and energy. "We wül
talk over these things another time,"
said he, seriously. " Only this one
thing, remember. I will not restrain
you in any way, and I have never done
so. You are mistress of every thing
that belongs to me except my honor.
This I myself must keep imsullied. As
a German gentleman I cannot bring
the dishonor upon me of seeing my
daughter unite herself to the enemy of
my country — to a Kussian. Choose
some German man : whoever he may
be, I wül welcome him whom you love
as my son, and renounce the wishes
and plans I have so long entertained.
But never will I give my consent to the
union of my only child with a Rus¬
sian."
While he spoke, the expression of
the countenances of both changed sur¬
prisingly. Both evinced determina¬
tion, defiance, and anger, and the charm
148
THE MERCHANT OP BERLIN.
which love had laid for a moment on
their antagonistic souls was destroyed.
Gotzkowsky was no longer the tender
father, easily appeased by a word, but
the patriot injured in his holiest right,
his most delicate sense of honor. Elise
was no longer the humble, penitent
daughter, but a bride threatened with
the loss of her lover.
"Tou would, then, never give your
consent ? " asked she, passionately.
" But if this war were ended, if Russia
were no longer the enemy of Germany ;
if—"
"Russia remains ever the enemy of
Germany, even if she does not appear
against her in the open field._ It is the
antagonism of despotic power against
culture and civilization. Never can
the firee German be the Mend of the
barbarous Sclavonian. Let us hear
nothing more of this—^you know my
mind ; I cannot change it, even if you
should, for that reason, doubt my love.
True love does not consist only in
granting, but still more in denying."
Elise stood with bowed head, and
murmured some low, unintelligible
words. Gotzkowsky felt that it would be
better for both to break off this conver¬
sation before it had reached a point of
bitterness and irritation. At the same
time he felt that, after so much excite¬
ment, his body needed rest. He, there¬
fore, approached his daughter and ex¬
tended his hand toward her for a Mend-
ly farewell. Elise seized it, and pressed
it with passionate feeling to her lips.
He then turned round and traversed
the room on the way to his bedcham¬
ber.
Elise looked after him with painful
longing, which increased with each step
he took. As he was in the act of leav¬
ing the room she rushed after him and
uttered in a tone of gentle pleading, the
single word, " Father ! "
Gotzkowsky felt the innermost chord
of his heart touched. He ftumed round
and opened his arms to her. With a
loud cry of joy she threw herself on his
breast, and rested there for a moment
in happy, self-forgetting delight. They
looked at one another, and smilingly
bade each other good-by. Again Gotz¬
kowsky turned his steps toward his
bedroom. And now he was gone ; she
saw him no more. Father and daugh¬
ter were separated.
But Elise felt an unutterable grief in
her heart, a boundless terror seized her.
It seemed as if she could not leave her
father ; as if it would be a disgrace for
her, so secretly like a criminal, to sneak
out of her father's house, were it even to
follow her lover to the altar. She felt
as if she must call her father back, cling
to his knees, and implore him to save,
to save her fi'om her own desires. Al¬
ready had she opened her lips and
stretched forth her arms, when she sud¬
denly let them fall with a shudder.
She had heard the loud rolling of a
carriage, and she knew what it meant.
This carriage which stopped at her
door—could it be the one in which
Feodor had come to take her ? " It is
too late—I cannot go back ! " muttered
she low, and with drooping head she
slowly left her father's room in order
to repair to her own chamber.
THE RIVALS.
CHAPTER XV.
the rivals.
Elise, immediately on reaching her
room, hurried to the window and
looked into the street, already darkened
by the shades of evening. She was not
mistaken—a carriage stood at the door ;
but to her surprise, she did not perceive
the signal agreed on, she did not hear
the post-horn blow the Russian air,
" Lovely Minka, I must leave thee."
Nor was it the appointed hour ; neither
did her chambermaid, who waited in
the lower story, come to seek her. She
still stood at the window, and involun¬
tarily she felt herself worried by this
equipage. A sharp knocking at the
door was heard. Before she had time
to come to any determination, it was
hastily opened, and Bertram entered
with a lady, deeply veiled, on his arm.
" Bertram ! " cried Elise, drawing
back shyly. "What do you wish
here ? "
" WLat do I wish here ? " answered
Bertram, earnestly. " I come to ask a
favor of my sister. I have promised
this lady that she shall see and speak
with you. Will my sister fulfil her
brother's promise ? "
"What does the lady wish with
me ? " asked Elise, casting a timid look
toward the mysterious veiled figure.
" She will herself tell you. She re¬
quested me, with tears, to bring her to
Elise Gotzkowsky, for, she assured me,
the happiness of her life depended on
it"
Elise felt an icy shudder run through
her. She laid her hand on her heart,
as if to protect it against the terrible
149
danger which she felt threatened her,
and with trembling lips she repeated,
" WTiat does the lady wish with me ? "
Bertram did not answer her, but let¬
ting go the arm of the unknown, he
bowed low. "Countess," said he, "this
is Mademoiselle Elise Gotzkowsky. I
have fulfilled my promise : allow me
now to leave you, and may God impart
convincing power to your words ! "
He greeted the ladies respectfully,
and left the room quickly. The two
ladies were now alone together. A
pause ensued. Both trembled, and
neither ventured to break the sUence.
"You desired to speak to me," said
Elise, finally, in a low, languid voice.
" May I now beg of you—"
The lady threw back her veil, and
allowed EHse to see a handsome coun¬
tenance, moistened with tears. " It is
I who have to beg," said she, with a
touching foreign accent, while seizing
Elise's hand, she pressed it warmly to
her breast. " Forgive me ; since I have
seen you, I have forgotten what I had
to say. At sight of you, all my words;
and even my anger have left me. You
are very beautiful. Be as noble as you
are beautiful. My fate lies in your hands.
You can restore me to happiness."
" God alone can do that," said Elise,
solemnly.
" At this moment you are the divin¬
ity who has the disposal of my fate.
You alone can restore me to happiness,
for you have deprived me of it—yes,
you, so young, so handsome, and appar¬
ently so innocent. You are the mur¬
deress of my happiness." Her eyes
sparkled, and a bright blush suffused
her hitherto pale cheeks. " Yes," cried
150
THE MERCHANT OF BERLIN.
she, with a triumphant laugh, " now I
am myself again. My hesitation has
vanished, and anger is again supreme.
I am once more the lioness, and ready
to defend the happiness of my life."
Elise drew herself up, and she, too,
felt a change in her heart. With the
instinct of love, she felt that this hand¬
some woman who stood opposite to her
was her rival, her enemy with whom
she had to struggle for her most pre¬
cious property. Passion filled her
whole being, and she vowed to herself
not to yield a single step to this proud
beauty. With an expression of un¬
speakable disdain, she fixed her eyes
upon the countess. Their flashing
looks crossed each other like the bright
blades of two combatants in a duel.
"I do not understand you," said
Elise, with angry coldness. "Tou
must speak more plainly, if you wish
to be understood."
"You do not wish to understand
me," cried the countess. "Tou wish
to avoid me, but I will not let you. I
have sufifered so much that I will not
suffer any longer. We stand here op¬
posite each other as two women en¬
gaged in a combat for life and death."
Elise suppressed the cry of pain
which rose in her breast, and compelled
herself to assume a proud and impassi¬
ble composure. " I still do not under¬
stand you, nor do I desire to contend
with an unknown person. But if you
wiU not leave my room, you will allow
me to do so."
She turned to go, but the countess
seized her hand and held her back.
" No, you cannot go ! " cried she, pas-
fflonately. " You cannot go, for I know
that you are going to him, to him
whom I love, and I come to demand
this man of you."
These half-threatening, half-com¬
manding words, at last drove Elise
ôom the assumed tranquillity she had
maintained with so much difficulty.
"I know not of whom you speak,"
cried she, in a loud voice.
But the countess was tired of dealing
in these half-concealed meanings, these
mysterious allusions. "You know of
whom I speak," cried she, vehemently.
" You know that I have come to de¬
mand the restoration of my holiest pos¬
session, the heart of my beloved. Oh 1
give bim back to me, give me back my
betrothed, for he belongs to me, and
cannot be another's. Let my tears per¬
suade you. You are young, rich, hand¬
some ; you have every thing that makes
life happy. I have nothing but him.
Leave him to me."
Elise felt furious. Like a tigress,
she could have strangled this woman,
who came to destroy her happiness.
A wHd, angry laugh rang from her
lips: "You say that you love him,"
exclaimed she. "Well, then, go to
bim and ask him for his heart. Why
do you demand it of me ? Win it from
him if you can."
■ " In order to be able to win it, you
must flrst release him from the fet¬
ters with which you have bound him."
An angry flush overspread Elise's
pale face. "You become insulting,"
she said.
The countess paid no attention to
these words, but continued still more
vehemently: "Make him free. Loose
the bands which fetter him, and then,
THE RIVALS.
151
I am sure, he Tvill return to me and be
mine again."
Elise stared terrified at the face of the
coimtess, excited and streaming with
tears. She had heard but one little
word, but this word had pierced her
heart like a dagger.
'■'■Return to you ? " asked she breath¬
lessly. "Be yours again? He was
then once yours ? "
"I yielded to him what is most
sacred in life, and yet you ask if he was
mine I " said the countess, smiling sadly.
Elise uttered a loud, piercing shriek,
and covered her face with her hands.
Her emotion was so expressive and
painful, that it touched the heart
even of her rival. Almost lovingly she
passed her arm aroimd Elise's waist,
and drew her down gently to her on
the sofa. " Come," said she, " let us
sit by each other like two sisters.
Come, and listen to me. I will disclose
a picture which will malie your soul
shudder ! "
Elise yielded to her mechanically.
She let herself involuntarily glide down
on the sofa, and suffered the countess
to take her hand. " Feodor once be¬
longed to her," she murmured. " His
heart was once given to another."
" Will you listen to me ? " asked the
countess ; and, seeing Elise stUl lost in
silent reverie, she continued: "I will
relate to you the history of Feodor von
Brenda, and his unhappy, forsaken
bride." Elise shuddered, and cast a
wandering, despairing look around.
" WiU you listen to me ? " repeated
the countess.
" Speak—I am listening," whispered
Elise, languidly. And then, the Count¬
ess Lodoiska von Sandomir, often in¬
terrupted by Elise's plaintive sighs, her
outbursts of heart-felt sympathy, related
to the young girl the sad and painful
story of her love and her betrayal.
She was a young girl, scarcely six¬
teen, the daughter of a prince, im¬
poverished by his own fault and prod¬
igality, when she became the victim
of her father's avarice. Without com¬
passion for her tears, her timid youth,
he had sold her for a million. With
the cruel selfishness of a spendthrift-
miser, he had sold his young, fresh,
beautiful daughter for dead, shining
metal, to a man of sixty years, fit to be
her grandfather, and who persecuted
the innocent girl with the ardent pas¬
sion of a stripling. She had been
dragged to the altar, and the priest
had been deaf to the " No ! " she had
uttered, when falling unconscious at
his feet. Thus she had become the
wife of the rich Count Sandomir—a
miserable woman who stood, amidst
the splendor of life, without hope,
without joy, as in a desert.
But one day this desert had changed,
and spring blooined in her soul, for
love had come to warm her chilled
heart with the sunbeam of happiness.
She did not reproach herself, nor did
she feel any scruples of conscience that
it was not her husband whom she
loved. What respect could she have
for marriage, when for her it had
been only a matter of sale and pur¬
chase ? She had been traded off like
a slave, and with happy exultation
she said to herself, "Love has come
to make me free, and, as a free and
happy woman, I will tear this contract
152
THE MERCHANT OF BERLIN.
by ■which I have been sold." And
she had torn it. She had had no com¬
passion on the gray hairs and devoted
heart of her noble husband. She had
been sacrificed, and now pitilessly did
she sacrifice her husband to her lover.
She saw but one duty before her—
to reward the love of the man she
adored with boundless devotion. No
concealment, no disguise would she
allow. Any attempt at equivocation
she regarded as an act of treason to
the great and holy feeling which pos¬
sessed her whole soul.
Usually all the world is acquainted
with the treachery and infidelity of a
woman, while it is yet a secret to her
husband. But the coimtess took care
that her husband should be the first
to leam of his injured honor, her
broken faith. She had hoped that
he would turn fi-om her in anger, and
break the marriage-bond which united
her to him. But her husband did not
liberate her. He chaUenged the be¬
trayer of his honor, whose treachery was
the blacker, because the count himself
had introduced him into his house, as
the. son of the fiieùd of his youth.
They fought. It was a deadly com¬
bat, and the old man of sixty, already
bowed do-wn by rage and grief, could
not stand against the strength of his
young and practised adversary. He
was overcome. The dying husband
had been brought to Countess Lodo-
iska, his head supported by his mur¬
derer, her lover. Even in this terrible
moment she felt no anger against him,
and as the eyes of her husband grew
dull in death, she culd only remem¬
ber that she was now firee to become
his wife. She had thrown herself at
the feet of the empress to implore her
consent to this marriage, on which de¬
pended the hope and happiness, the
honor and atonement of her life. The
empress had not refused her consent,
had herself appointed the wedding-
day which should unite her favorite
with the young countess.
But a short time before the arrival of
this day, so ardently longed for, looked
forward to •with so many prayers, such
secret anxiety and gnawing self-re¬
proaches, the war broke out, andLodo-
iska did not dare to keep back her
lover, as ■with glowing zeal he hastened
to his colors. He had sworn to her
never to forget her ; to return faithful
to her, and she had believed him.
CHAPTEK XVL
THE PUNISHMENT.
Elise had foUowed the countess in
her narration with intense attention
and warm sympathy. Her face had
become pale as marble, her counte¬
nance sad, and her eyes filled with
tears. A fearful anticipation da^wned
in her heart, but she turned away from
it. She would not listen to this
secret voice which whispered to her
that this sad tale of the countess had
reference to her o^wn fate.
"Tour lover did not deceive your
trust?" asked she. "With such a
bloody seal upon your love he dare
not break his faith."
"He did break it," answered the
THE PUNISHMENT.
153
countess, painfully. "I was nothing
more to him than a guilty woman, and
he went forth to seek an angel. He
forgot his vows, his obligations, and
cast me away, for I was a burden to
him."
Both were silent in the bitterness of
their sorrow. The countess fastened
her large, bright eyes upon the young
girl, who stared before her, pale, mo¬
tionless, absorbed in her own grief.
This anxious silence was finally bro¬
ken by the countess. " I have not yet
told you the name of my lover. Shall
I name him to you ? "
Elise awoke as if from a heavy
dream. " No," cried she, eagerly,
" no, do not name him. "What have I
to do with him ? I do not know him.
What do I care to hear the name of a
man who has committed so great a
crime ? "
" You must hear it," said the count¬
ess, solemnly. "You must learn the
name of the man who chained me to
him by a bloody, guilt-stained past,
and then deserted me. It is Colonel
Count Teodor von Brenda 1 "
Elise uttered a cry, and sank, half
fainting, back on the cushions of the
sofa. But this dejection did not last
long. Her heart, which for a moment
seemed to stop, resumed again its
tumultuous beating ; her blood coursed
wildly through her veins, and her soul,
unused to the despair of sorrow, re¬
solved to make one last effort to free
itself from the fetters with which her
evil fate wished to encompass her. She
drew herself up with glowing cheeks
and fiashing eyes. " This is false," she
cried; "a miserable invention, con¬
cocted to separate me from Teodor.
Oh I I see through it all. I understand
now my father's solemn asseverations,
and why Bertram brought you to me.
But you are all mistaken in me. Go,
countess, and teU yo\ir friends, 'Elise
offers up every thing and gives every
thing to him whom she loves, in whom
she believes, even if the whole world
testifies against him.' " And with a
triumphant smile, throwing back her
head, she stood up and was about to
leave the room. _ •
The countess shrugged her shoulders
as if in pity. " You do not believe me,
then?" said she; "but wül you be¬
lieve this witness ? " and she drew a let¬
ter from her bosom and handed it to
Elise.
"It is his handwriting," cried the
young girl, terrified, as she took the
letter.
" Ah ! you know his handwriting,
then ! He has written to you, too ? "
sighed the countess. " Well, then, read
it. It is a letter he wrote me from Ber¬
lin at the commencement of his captiv¬
ity. Bead it 1 "
"Yes, I wUl read it," murmured
Elise. "These written words pierce
my eyes like daggers, but I wiU not
mind the pain. I will read it."
She read the letter, which annihilated
her whole happiness, slowly and with
terrible composure. Drop by drop did
she let the poison of these words of
love, directed to another, fall into her
soul. When she had finished reading
it, she repeated to herself the last cruel
words, the warm protestations, with
which Teodor assured his bride of his
unalterable love and fidelity, with which
154
THE MERCHANT OF BERLIN.
he swore to her that he looked upon
his love to her not only as a happiness,
but as a sacred obligation; that he
owed her not only his heart but his
honor. Then long and carefully she
considered the signature of his name,
and folding up the paper, she handed
it back, with a slight inclination to the
countess.
"Oh, my God! I have loved him
beyond bounds," muttered ^e, low;
and then, unable to restrain her tears,
she put her hands to her face and wept
aloud.
" Poor, unhappy girl 1 " exclaimed
the countess, laying her arm tenderly
around her neck.
Elise drew back violently, and re¬
garded her almost in anger. " Do not
commiserate me. I will not be pitied
by you I I—"
She suddenly stopped, and an elec¬
tric shock passed through her whole
frame. She heard the concerted sig¬
nal; and the tones of the post-hom,
which slowly and heavily sounded the
notes of the sad Eussian melody, grated
on her ear like a terrible message of
misfortune.
The two women stood for a moment
silent and motionless. They both lis¬
tened to the dirge of their love and
their happiness, and this simple, hearty
song sounded to them horrible and
awful in the boundless desolation of
their hearts. At last the song ceased,
and a voice, too well known and loved,
cried, " Elise ¡ Elise 1 "
The maiden started up, shuddering
and terrified. " His voice fiightens
me."
But still she seemed not to be able
to withstand the call; for she ap¬
proached the window, and looked
down hesitatingly.
The countess observed her jealously,
and a fearful thought suddenly entered
her mind. How, if this young girl
loved him as much as she did ! If she
were ready to forgive him every thing,
to blot out the whole past "with the
hand of love and commence a new ex
istence with him ? If she felt no com¬
passion for Feodor's forsaken bride,
and were willing to trample trium¬
phantly on her broken heart at the call
of her lover, and follow him to the al¬
tar ? Her whole soul writhed in pain.
"Follow his call," cried she, with a
derisive smile. "Leave your father,
whom you have betrayed, for the sake
of a traitor 1 You have vowed to love
him. Go and keep your vow."
Outside Feodor's voice called Elise's
name louder and more pressingly. A
moment she listened, then rushed to
the window, threw it open, and called
out, " I come, I come ! "
Lodoiska flew to her; drew back
the young girl violently from the win¬
dow, and throwing both arms firmly
around her, said, almost breathlessly:
" Traitress I You shall not cross this
threshold I I will call your father. I
wiU call the whole household together I
I WÜ1—"
" You will call no one," interrupted
Elise, and her proud, cold composure
awed even the countess. "You wiU
call no one, for I stay, and you—^you
go in my stead."
" What say you ? " asked Lodoiska.
Elise raised her arm and pointed sol¬
emnly to the window. " I say," cried
THE PUNISHMENT.
155
she, " that your bridegroom ia waiting
down there for you. Go then."
With an exclamation of joy the
countess pressed her in her arms. "You
renounce him, then ? "
" I hare no part in him," said Elise,
coldly. " He belongs to you ; he is
bound to you by your disgrace and his
crime. Go to him. Go to him," cried
she, more violently, as she saw that the
countess looked at her doubtingly.
" Hasten, for he is waiting for you."
" But he wUl recognize me : he will
drive me from him."
Elise pointed to her clothes, which
were placed ready for her departure.
" There lie my hat and cloak," said she,
haughtily. " Take them ; drop the veü.
He knows this dress, and he will think
it is I."
At this moment the door was torn
open, and Bertram burst in. "Make
haste," he cried, " or all may be lost.
Count Teodor is becoming impatient,
and may himself venture to come for
Elise. Gotzkowsky, too, has been
awakened by the unaccustomed sound
of the post-horn."
" Help the countess to prepare for
the journey," cried Elise, standing still,
motionless, and as if paralyzed.
Bertram looked at her, astonished
and inquiringly; but in a few rapid
words the countess explained to him
Elise's intention and determination, to
allow her to take the journey in her
stead, and with her clothes.
Bertram cast on Elise a look which
mirrored forth the admiration he felt
for this young girl, who had so hero¬
ically gained the victory over herself.
His reliance on her maiden pride, her
sense of right and honor, had not been
deceived.
The countess had now finished her
toilet, and donned Elise's hat and cloak.
Dertram called on her to hasten, and
she approached Elise to bid her fare¬
well, and express her gratitude for the
sacrifice she had made for her. But
Elise waved her back proudly and
coldly, and seemed to shudder at her
touch.
" Go to yomr husband, countess ! "
cried she, and her voice was hoarse and
cold.
Lodoiska's eyes filled with tears.
Once more she attempted to take Elise's
hand, but the latter firmly crossed her
arms and looked at her, almost threat¬
eningly. " Go ! " said she, in a loud,
commanding voice.
Bertram took the arm of the countess
and drew her to the door. " Hasten ! "
said he ; " there is no time to lose."
The door closed behind them. Elise
was alone. She stood and listened to
their departing steps; she heard the
house door open ; she heard the post-
hom once more sound out merrily,
and then cease. " I am alone 1 " she
screamed, with a heart-rending cry.
" They are gone ; I am alone ! " And
stretching her arms despairingly to
heaven, and almost beside herself, she
cried out, " O God ! wiU no one have
compassion on me ? will no one pity
me ? "
"Elise," said her father, opening the
room door.
She sprang toward him with a loud
exclamation, she rushed into his arms,
embraced him, and, nestling in his
bosom, she exclaimed faintly, "Have
156
THE MEHCHANT OP BERLIN.
pily on me, my father; do not drive
me from you I You are my only refuge
in this world."
Gotzkowsky pressed her firmly to
his breast and looked gratefifily to
heaven. " Oh 11 well knew my daugh¬
ter's heart would return to her fa¬
ther."
He kissed ardently her beautiful
glossy hair, and her head that was
resting on his breast. " Do not weep,
my child, do not weep," whispered he,
tenderly.
"Let me weep," she answered, lan¬
guidly ; " you do not know how much
sorrow and grief pass off with these
tears."
The sound of the post-hom was now
heard from the street below, and then
the rapid rolling of a carriage.
Elise clung still more closely to her
father. " Save me," she cried. " Press
me firmly to your heart. I am quite
forsaken in this world."
The door was thrown open and Ber¬
tram rushed in, out of breath, exclaim¬
ing : " She is gone I he did not recog¬
nize her, and took her, for yoa The
countess—"
He stopped suddenly and looked at
Gotzkowsky, of whose presence he
had just become aware.
Gotzkowsky inquired in astonish¬
ment, " Who is gone ? What does
all this mean ? " ~
Elise raised herself from his arms
and gazed at him with flashing eyes.
" It means," she answered, " that the
happiness of my life is broken, that all
is deception and falsehood where I
looked for love, and faith, and happi¬
ness ! " With a touching cry of suffer¬
ing, she fell fainting in her father's
arms.
"Do not rouse her, father," said
Bertram, bending over her; "grant
her this short respite, for she has a
great sorrow to overcome. WTien she
comes to herself again, she will love
none but you, her father."
Gotzkowsky pressed his lips on her
brow, and blessed her in his thoughts.
" She will find in me a father," said he,
with deep emotion, " who, if necessary,
can weep with her. My eyes are un¬
used to tears, but a father may be al¬
lowed to weep with his daughter when
she is suffering."
CHAPTER XVH.
THE BAHQUET OP GRATITUDE.
Berlin had recovered from the ter¬
rors it had undergone. It was eight
days since the enemy had left, and
every thing was quiet and calm. But
on this day the quiet was to be inter¬
rupted by a public merry-making.
Berlin, which had suffered so much,
was to rejoice again.
The festival which was to be cele¬
brated, was intended for none else than
John Gotzkowsky, the Merchant of
Berlin, the man whom all looked upon
as their guardian angel and savior.*
He had cheerfully borne hardship and
toil, danger and injustice, for the good
♦ Gotzkowsky himself relates (" Life of a Patriotic
Merchant," p. 51) ; "For a fortnight I received from
all quarters, both in the town, and from foreign
countries, the originals being still in mj posses¬
sion, the greatest and most emphatic praises, and
am called therein the savior of thousands of
men."
THE BANQUET
OF GRATITUDE.
157
of Lis fellow-men; he -had always
been found helping and ready to serve,
unselfish and considerate. The whole
town was under obligation to him ; he
had served all classes of society, and
they all wished to evince their grati¬
tude to him.
Gotzkowsky had been requested to
remain at home on the morning of the
festal day, but to hold himself in read¬
iness to receive several deputations.
They were to be succeeded by a grand
dinner, given by the citizens of Berlin
in his honor. They were to eat and
drink, be merry, and enjoy themselves
to his glorification ; they were to drink
his health in foaming glasses of cham¬
pagne, and Gotzkowsky was to look
upon it all as a grand festival with
which the good citizens of Berlin were
glorifying him, while they themselves
were enjoying the luscious viands and
fragrant wines.
In vain did Gotzkowsky refuse to
accept the proffered festival. At first
he tried to excuse himself on the plea of
his daughter's illness, alleging that he
could not leave her bedside. But in¬
formation had been obtained from her
physician, who reported her out of
danger, and that Gotzkowsky might
leave her for several hours without
risk. Gotzkowsky being able to find
no other excuse, was obliged to accept.
Elise was indeed sick. The grief and
despair of her betrayed and deceived
heart had prostrated her : and her wild
fever-dreams, her desponding com¬
plaints, the reproachful conversations
she carried on with her lover—unseen
but nevertheless present in her delir¬
ium—had betrayed her secret to her
father. Full of emotion, she thanked
God for her happy escape, and felt no
resentment against this poor, mis¬
guided child, who had taken refuge
from the loneliness of her heart, in his
love, as in a haven of shelter. He only
reproached his own want of discern¬
ment as he said to himself: "Elise had
cause to be angry with me and to
doubt my affection. I bore solitude
and the constant separation from my
daughter because I thought I was
working for her, but I forgot that at
the same time she was solitary and
alone, that she missed a father's tender¬
ness as I did my child's love. I wished
to make her rich, and I have only made
her poor and wretched."
He kissed her burning, feverish fore¬
head, he bedewed it with tears, and
forgave her, from the bottom of his
heart, her misplaced love, her errors
and transgressions. She was with
him; she had returned to his heart.
In her despair she had fled to the
bosom of her- father, and sought sup¬
port and assistance from him.
The dark clouds had all rolled over,
and the heavens were again bright
and clear. Berlin was freed from the
enemy. Elise was convalescent, and
the town of Berlin was preparing for her
noblest citizen a banquet of gratitude.
The appointed hour had arrived for
Gotzkowsky to receive the deputa¬
tions, and he betook himself to the
hall next the garden. A thundering
hurrah received him. It proceeded
from his workmen, who had come in
procession through the garden, and
were waving their hats and caps.
They were followed by a multitude of
158
THE MERCHAKT OF BERLIN.
women in black. This day they had
laid aside the tears and griefe for their
husbands and sons fallen in battle, in
order to thank Gotzkowsky with a
smile, for the magnanimous kindness
with which he had taken their part
and secured their future.
Following these women came the
poor orphans, with mourning-crape on
their arms. They rushed forward joy¬
ously toward Gotzkowsky, stretching
out their little hands to him, and at a
word from the head operative, Baltha¬
zar, they stretched open their small
mouths, and gave out such a shrill and
crashing hurrah that the windows rat¬
tled, and many a stout workman stopped
his ears and felt a ringing in his head.
" One more hurrah ! " cried the
enthusiastic Balthazar ; and " hurrah 1 "
screamed and squeaked the children.
"And now for a third—"
But Gotzkowsky seized hold of
Balthazar's arm which he was about
to move again, and with a look of
comical terror, exclaimed : " But, man,
don't you know that I have further
use for my ears to-day? You deafen
me with your screaming I That's
enough."
Balthazar struggled himself free
from the strong grasp of his master,
and placed himself in a theatrical po¬
sition opposite to him. He was able
this day to indulge in his passion for
eloquence, for the workmen had
chosen him for their orator, and he
had a right to speak. As he spoke, it
could be seen by his sparkling eyes,
and by his fiery enthusiasm, that his
words had not been learned by rote,
but proceeded from his heart.
" Sir, allow me to speak and express
my joy, for it is a joy to have a noble
master. Look at these children, dear
master. Three weeks ago they had
fathers who could work and care for
them. But the cannon-balls deprived
them of their fathers, and God sent
them a father, and you are he. You
adopted these children when they were
forsaken by all else. You said: 'God
forbid that the children of these brave
men, who had fiiUen in defence of the
liberty of Berlin, should be orphans !
I will be their father.' Yes, sir, that
is what you said, and all the weeping
mothers and all your workmen heard
it, and wrote it down in their hearts.
Ask these widows for whom they
pray to God. Ask the poor who were
without bread and whom you fed. Ask
the whole town who it is whom they
bless and praise. They will all name
the name of Gotzkowsky ; with one
voice will they all cry out : ' Long
live our friend and father ! Long
live Gotzkowsky ! ' "
Unanimously did all join in this
cry, shouting out, "Long live Gotz¬
kowsky ! "
Deeply moved, Gotzkowsky stretched
out his hands to the workmen, and
accepted, with cordial gratification,
the flowers offered by the children.
" Thank you, thank you," cried he, in
a voice of deep emotion. " You have
richly recompensed me, for. I per¬
ceive that you love me, and nothing
can be more beautiful than love."
" Diamonds ! " cried out Ephraim,
as he made his way through the
crowd with Itzig and a deputation
of the Jews, toward the hero ot the
THE BANQUET
OP GRATITUDE.
159
day—"diamonds are more valuable
than love, Gotzkowsky. ' Look at this
brilliant, which sparkles and shines
more brightly than ever did a look
of love from any human eye."
He presented to Gotzkowsky a
costly solitaire diamond, and contin¬
ued ; " Be so kind and grant us the
favor of accepting this present. It is a
diamond of the first water."
" It is a petrified tear of joy," inter¬
rupted Itzig, " shed by us on our deliv¬
ery by you from taxation. You have
proved yourself the savior of the Jews,
for you freed us from the tax, and
saved us what is more precious than
honor, and rank, and happiness—our
money; for, without money, the Jew
is nobody. Accept, therefore the ring,
and wear it for our sakes."
"Accept it, we pray you," cried
Ephraim, and the Jews took up the
cry.
Gotzkowsky took the ring, and
placed it on his finger, thanking the
givers for the costly present, and assur¬
ing them he would wear it with pleas-
lue in honor of them.
Itzig's brow was clouded with a
slight frown, and stepping back to
Ephraim and his friends, he muttered,
"He accepts it. I was in hopes he
would refuse it, for it cost much money,
and we could have made very good
use of it."
The solemn advance of the honorable
gentlemen of the Berlin Town Council
interrupted Itzig's private soliloquy,
and drew his attention toward the
chief burgomaster, Herr von Kircheisen,
who, in all the splendor and dignity of
bis golden chain and of his ofiice, ac¬
companied by the senators and town
officers, strode pompously through the
crowd, and presented his hand to Gotz¬
kowsky, who was respectfully advan¬
cing to meet him.
" The Council of Berlin has come to
thank you. For it is an unparalleled
example for a man to undertake and go
through what you have done for us,
without any interest, without any ul¬
terior object."
" You make me out better than I am,'-
replied Gotzkowsky, smiling at Herr
von Kircheisen's pompous words. "I
had an ulterior obj ect. I wished to gain
the love of my fellow-citizens. If I
have succeeded, I am more than re¬
warded, and, I pray you, say no more
on the subject."
The chief burgomaster shook his
head majestically. "You have exer¬
cised toward us the virtue of philan¬
thropy. Allow us to exercise toward
you in return the -virtue of gratitude."
He took from the hands of the assistant
burgomaster a dark-red étui, from
which he drew a wreath of oak-leaves,
worked in silver, which he presented
to Gotzkowsky. " John Gotzkowsky,"
said he, solemnly, "the Council and
citizens of Berlin request you, through
me, to accept this memorial of their
love and gratitude. It is the civic
crown of your magnanimity. Receive
it from our hands, and accept also our
vow that we -will never forget what
you have done for the town of Berlin."
Tears of delight, of heart-felt joy
stood in Gotzkowsky's eyes as he took
the oaken crown from his hands, and
glowing words of gratitude poured
from his lips.
160
THE MERCHANT OF BERLIN.
Not far o£^ in a niclie of a window
of the hall, stood Messrs. Krause and
Ejetschmer, with sullen looks witness¬
ing the homage paid to Gotzkowsky,
their souls filled with envy and rage.
They, too, had come to thank him, but
with unwilling hearts, because they
could not be well absent firom the fes¬
tivities which the whole town ofiered
him. But they were vexed to see this
man, whom they hated from the bot¬
tom of their hearts, because of their
obligations to him, so universally
honored and beloved. It annoyed
them to see the pleasant and.affable
smile with which the otherwise proud
burgomaster conversed with him ; to see
with what cordial friendship the sena¬
tors and councilmen surrounded him.
"I came hither," said Mr. Krause,
softly, " to thank Gotzkowsky for sav-*
ing us, but I must confess it worries me
to see him so glorified."
Mr. Kretschmer shrugged his shoul¬
ders contemptuously. " Let them praise
him," said he; "the Vossian Gazette
wiU not notice it, and I will not write
the smallest article on this occasion.
As for the service he renders us—well,
certainly, it would have been unpleas¬
ant to have been flogged, but then we
would have been martyrs to omr liberal
opinions ; the whole world would have
admired and pitied us, and the king
would not have refused us a pension."
"Certainly," whispered Mr. Krause,
" he would have granted us a pension,
and the whipping would have made
us famous. It has never been forgotten
/)i the English poet, Payne, that King
Charles the First had his ears cut off^
because he wrote against him. He is
not celebrated for his writings, but for
his cropped ears. We, too, might
have become famous if this Gotzkow¬
sky had not, in the most uncalled-for
manner, interfered, and—^but look 1 "
cried he, interrupting himself, " the in¬
terview with the Council is finished,
and it is now our turn to thank him."
The two editors hastened toward
him in. order, in well-arranged speech,
and with assurances of eternal grati¬
tude, to offer their thanks.
CHAPTER XVIII.
A BOTAI, LETTEB.
Mb. Kbause had not yet fimsue^x
the declamation of the poem which his
inspiration had produced in honor of
Gotzkowsky, when a loud noise was
heard at the door of the haU, and
Gotzkowsky's body-servant rushed in.
A messenger of tlm Council was with¬
out, he announced; a letter had jusi'
arrived from the king, and, as he was
to deliver it to the burgomaster in per¬
son, the messenger had brought him
here. He handed Herr von Kircheisen
a letter, and the latter broke the sea.
with majestic composure.
A pause of anxious expectation en
sued. Each one inquired of himself
with trembling heart what could be
the meaning of this royal letter.
The countenance of the chief magis¬
trate grew more and more cheerful, and
suddenly he called aloud ; " This is in¬
deed a message of gladness for our
poor town. The king, our gracious
lord, releases us from our obligation to
A ROYAL LETTER.
161
pay the promised war-tax of a million
and a hal£ He wishes to retaliate for
the Wurzburg and Bamberg bonds
captured from the Aulic CouncD, For
which reason his majesty's order is,
that we do not pay."
A single cry of joy resounded from
the lips of all present. Gotzkowsky
alone was silent, with downcast eyes,
and his earnest, pensive expression con¬
trasted strongly with the bright, joy¬
ous countenances which were illumi¬
nated by the order of the king to keep
their money.
Among the happiest and most ra¬
diant, however, were the rich mint
farmers Ephraim and Itzig, and the
chief burgomaster.
" The royal deeree relieves our town
of a horrible burden," said Herr von
Kircheisen, with a happy smUe.
" The whole mercantile community
must be grateful to the king," cried
Ephraim. " Berlin saves a million and
a hal^ and the Russian is sold."
Suddenly Gotzkowsky drew himself
up erect, and his eagle eye ran over the
whole assembly with a bold, beaming
glance. " The Russian is not sold,"
cried he, " for Berlin will pay him the
balance of a million and a half. Berlin
has pledged her word, and she wiU
redeem it."
The countenances of those around
grew dark again, and here and there
were heard words of anger and wild
resentment.
" How I " cried Itzig, " do you re¬
quire of the merchants to pay what
they can keep for themselves? The
king has said, ' You shall not pay ! ' "
" And I say we will pay," cried Gotz-
11
kowsky. " What is written is written,
and what is promised must be per¬
formed, for this our honor requires.
The king possesses not the power of
annulling a promise or revoking an
oath I He who does not fulfil his word
of honor is not a man of honor, were
he even a king."
"But," said Herr von Kircheisen,
pathetically, "there are nevertheless
circumstances which render impossible
the fulfilment of an obligation."
Gotzkowsky answered ardehtly : " If
such do occur, the man of honor dies
when he cannot fulfil his word. But
you—^you do not wish to die. Oh no I
You wish to break your word in order
to live pleasantly. You wish to profit
by your breach of promise. You wish
to declare yourselves insolvent and
cheat your creditors of their money,
and thereby amass wealth."
A general storm of indignation in¬
terrupted Gotzkowsky, and the very
men who had come for the purpose of
making a formal demonstration of their
gratitude now approached him with
angry gestures and threatening words.
" A million and a half is no child's
play I " screamed Ephraim. " Money is
more precious than honor."
" I say money is honor," cried Itzig.
" As long as we keep our millions, we
keep our honor."
"You are very generous," sneered
Kretschmer. "Like a gentleman, you
pay your debts out of other people's
pockets, and the citizens will have to
pay millions to enable you to keep
your word."
Gotzkowsky cast one look of con¬
temptuous pity on him, and replied:
162
THE MERCHANT OF BERLIN.
" You forget, sir, that I did not act in
my own name, but in that of the mag¬
istracy and merchants of Berlin. Not
I alone would be faithless to my word,
but the whole town of Berlin."
" But I repeat," said the chief burgo¬
master, " that the king has released us
from the obligation of keeping our
word."
" No king can do that," interrupted
Gotzkowsky. " A man of honor must
keep his word, and no one, not even a
king, can absolve him from it."
"Let us not quarrel about matters
of opinion," said Kircheisen, shrugging
his shoulders. "My opinion is, that
we do not pay this sum."
" No, we will not pay it ! " cried all,
in tumultuous excitement, as they sur¬
rounded the burgomaster, discussing
in cheerful conversation the advantages
of non-payment.
Gotzkowsky stood listening to them
alone, unobserved, and forgotten. His
heart was heavy vyith sadness, and
painftdly did he reflect : " This is the
unholy influence of money, hardening
the heart and silencing the voice of
honor. For a few millions of dollars
do they sell their good name. One
flnal attempt let me make. I will see
what their abject fear and cowardice
wiU do."
Again did he enter their midst, and
with convincing words and ardent elo¬
quence portray the danger whieh would
ensue from the non-payment of the
bonds.
The Eussian was not very far from
Berlin : if he had retired in forced
marches, he could return thither with
equal rapidity, in order, in the wanton¬
ness of his wrath, to take vengeance on
the faithless town.
"In an unlucky moment," said he,
"the Eussian might gain a victory
over our king. He would then return
and rend us like a tiger. I would then
no longer have the power of protecting
you, for General Tottleben's anger
would be turned principally against
me, who guaranteed the payment of
the contribution. God himself does
not protect him who breaks his word.
He is an outlaw."
A deep silence followed Gotzkow-
sky's speech. AU the faces were again
overcast, and in the contracted brow
and anxious countenances could be
read the fact that his words had pain¬
fully convinced them that it was neces¬
sary to pay.
Even Herr von Kircheisen, in his
fear of the return of the Eussians, for¬
got the enormous amount of the sums
to be paid, and said, with a melancholy
sigh: "Gotzkowsky is, I am afraid,
right. It is very hard to pay the
money, but it is very dangerous not to
do it."
" It might cost us our heads," con¬
firmed the furst councilman.
Ephraim stood with his head cast
down, and muttered to himself,—
" Money is very dear, but life is still
dearer."
Itzig cried out in despair: "Let us
keep our money. Without money the
Jew is nobody."
But the chief burgomaster, who had
consulted the councilmen, now ap
proached Gotzkowsky, and, with a
smile, offered him his hand. "We
thank you," said he, "for you have
A ROYAL
LETTER.
163
spoken wisely, and your advice shall be
followed. "We will pay, for we cannot
help ourselves. But we must beg you
to do us another important service.
Go to the king and beg him not to be
angry with us if we do not obey his
order."
"Yes, do so, do so, Gotzkowsky!"
cried all the others ; " go to the king,
he is friendly toward you—^beg for us."
Gotzkowsky's countenance beamed
with generous satisfaction. " Yery
well," said he; "I will go to the
king and beg him to allow the town
of Berlin to preserve its honor immac¬
ulate, and pay the promised sum."
"Use aU your eloquence, that the
king may remain favorably inelined
toward us, and not be angry with us
for acting this once against his or¬
ders," admonished the chief burgo¬
master.
"The king "is a high-minded and
noble man," said Gotzkowsky, enthu¬
siastically. "He looks upon a man's
word as sacred, and will imderstand
us and honor us for not wishing to
break ours."
An hour later the chief citizens and
merchants of Berlin repaired to the
spaeious town-hall, where an elegant
banquet had been prepared, and mer¬
riment prevailed, and glasses sounded ;
and Berlin, rescued, celebrated the
first day of joy and happiness.
But John Gotzkowsky, to whom
this feast was given, whom Berlin
called her deliverer and benefactor,
was not present at this banquet. Deeply
buried in furs he had just entered his
carriage, and braving danger and toil,
in the cold and darkness he drove away
toward Meissen, where the king had
established his headquarters.
BOOK III.
CHAPTER L
fredekick the great at meissen.
The great battle of Torgau bad been
fougbt, and the Prussian army, after
BO many combats and such a bloody
victory, was contemplating with live¬
ly satisfaction the going into winter-
quarters, which, it hoped, this time
would be in Saxony. The Prussian
headquarters were, for the time beiug,
in Meissen, and in the palace there, for
a short resting-speU, dwelt the king
who, for many years had only experi¬
enced the troubles and dangers of his
position ; the king who had often
struggled with hunger and care, daily
privation and mortal danger, and who
one day, wearied out by sleeping night
after night on the cold ground, com¬
missioned his adjutant to provide a
bundle of straw for the comfort of his
royal person. The king had for a long
time spared Saxony. He was sorry
for this beautiful, afflicted land. But
Saxony was finally to be treated as an
enemy's country, as she would not ap¬
preciate Frederick's noble forbearance
and clemency, and had allied herself
to his enemies with fanatical zeal. And
now her devastated fields, her par¬
alyzed factories, her impoverished
towns and deserted villages, testified
to her distress and the calamities of
war. But at this time quiet and tran¬
quillity reigned in the hostile camps.
On both sides they were too tired to be
able to carry on a fresh conflict, and
the strength of both parties being ex¬
hausted, they were obliged to allow
each other time for rest. Besides, the
winter had set in early with unusual
severity, and, to all appearances, put an
end to the campaign of 1760,
The only contest now was for win¬
ter-quarters ; and it had been there¬
fore, after the victory of Torgau, the
king's first endeavor to cut off the
retreat of the Austrians to Dresden, or
at least to drive them out of this town.
But, as the king wrote to Countess
Camas, " They laughed at us from the
tops of the hüls—I withdrew immedi¬
ately, and, like a little boy, have stuck
myself down in pure disgust in one of
the accursed Saxon villages. I assure
you I lead a perfect dog's life, such as
no one else, except Don Quixote, has
ever led."
In the meanwhile Frederick had
left this "accursed Saxon village"
(Neustadt) and had gone to Meissen,
and his " dog's life " had given place to
FREDERICK THE GREAT AT MEISSEN.
165
ease and comfort. He had, therefore,
for some quiet weeks laid aside the
sword, and the general had become
again the royal poet and samnt, who
divided his time between music and
poetry, between serious studies and
writing to his friends, to whom he
sent letters, in which his great and
elevated manner of thinking, his soul
above prejudice, were displayed in all
their beauty and power.
The king was alone in his study. He
had just finished a letter to the Marquis
d'Argens, calling upon him to give
some news of his gallery at Sans-Souci,
and to inform him of its progress. The
king laid down his pen, and leaned
back in his chair for a moment. His
usually sharp, bright eye had now a
soft, gentle expression, and a light
smile played around his thin, nobly-
formed lips. He has forgotten for the
time the care and bustle of war, and
fancied himself in his beloved paradise,
his Sans-Souci, where it was allowed
the hero to be a poet, and where he
could for some genial hours put aside
his dignity, and, instead of the en¬
throned ruler, be the cheerful sage, the
smiling son of the Muses.
The Mng, pleased by these memo¬
ries of happy days, rose and seized his
flute, which, by his express orders,
always lay on his writing-table He
put it to his lips, and bejçan an ada¬
gio, in the execution of which he was
acknowledged to be one of the first
■eirtuosos of his day, and the sounds as
they poured forth, rose plaintively, and
floated around him in bewitching mel¬
ody. No one could listen to this beau-
ïfully-executed, deeply-felt music of
the royal performer, without being im¬
pressed in his inmost soul, and feeling
his heart swell with varied and power¬
ful emotions.
Outside, in the antechamber, were
standing the stern generals, the hero¬
ic warriors, Zeithen, and the brave
Schwerin, and General von Saldern;
and their scarred, austere features as¬
sumed a soft, touching expression, as
they leaned against the wall and lis¬
tened in breathless silence to the per¬
formance of the Mng. But suddenly
the playing ceased.
To these brave warriors, imaccus-
tomed to music, the execution had
seemed superb ; but the Mng was not
satisfied with it. He, who had in his
memory the royal artiste of Sans-Souci,
exacted of the Mng, driven about by
the hardsHps and necessities- of war,
that he should have lost nothing of the
fulness of tone or the power and en¬
ergy of execution. It worried him that
the notes no longer flowed so clearly, it
vexed him to hear a sharp, whistling
sound, that seemed to accompany the
melody as with a painful sigh. He
threw aside the flute, and stepped to a
looking-glass, which he took up with
evident unwillingness.
It Was very seldom that the king
held it worth his while to consult the
mirror about Ms personal appearance,
and when he did so, it was usually to
inquire for some failing or evidence of
frailty, wMch restricted him in the
freedom of Ms being. And while he
thus looked at himself, his features
assumed a sad expression, and his
eyebrows became contracted.
What was it, which thus put out of
166
THE MERCHANT OF BERLIN.
humor the brave hero, the victory-
crowned Mhg Î
He became aware that his second
front tooth had broken off. The gap
thus caused was the natural explanation
of the want of clearness in his playing.
He threw the mirror angrily aside, and
with a frown on his brow paced rap¬
idly up and down the room two or
three times.
But gradually another expression suc¬
ceeded, and a sarcastic smile played
around his mouth. Again he stepped
to the writing-table, on which lay sev¬
eral unfinished letters. Looking for
the one he had commenced to the
Countess Camas, he said to himself:
" The good countess inquires after my
personal appearance. Well, now that I
am in the humor, I will draw my por¬
trait for- her."
Again he took up the hand-glass and
regarded himself long and attentively ;
but this time not with vexation or ill-
humor, but with the cheerful smUe and
dignified calm of a philosopher. He
then applied himself to his writing.
" Ton ask how I look, dear mother.
The disorder of war has made me so
old, that you would hardly recognize
me. My hair is quite gray on the
right side of my head; my teeth
break off and fall out ; my face is as full
of wrinkles as the fiirbelow of a wo¬
man's frock ; my back as bent as that
of a monk of La Trappe. Only my
heart is unchanged; and, as long as I
have breath, wiU preserve feelings of
esteem and the most tender friendship
toward you, good mamma." *
♦ " Lettres inédites, ou Correspondance de Fré¬
déric II.," &c., p. 120.
As the king read over this descrip
tion of his appearance once more, he
broke into a loud, merry laugh. He
then pushed the letter aside, and took
up another piece of paper, and a draw¬
ing-pencil.
Silence prevailed now in the cabinet
of the king.. Outside was heard the
monotonous tread of the sentinel, some¬
times the sound of a trumpet, the
neighing of a horse, or the order of
some officer. The king paid no atten¬
tion to all this. His ear was so accus¬
tomed to these noises, that it seemed
like perfect silence to him. He was so
buried in his work, that even the
imwonted tumult which now arose
was unperceived by him; nor did he
notice that a carriage drove into the
palace-yard, its post-horn sounding
loud and merrily. The generals and
courtiers, who were in the antechamber,
noticed it all the more, because any
thing was welcome to them which
broke in upon the prevailing quiet ; for
so accustomed were they to the varied
business of war, that any thing which
departed from it was insupportably
tedious. They drew to the window
and looked with pleasure on the dusty,
dirty travelling-carriage, which, with
its four panting post-horses, had drawn
up at the entrance to the palace, and
out of which descended a tall, manly
figure, who «Went in at the palace door.
The gentlemen in the antechamber
amused themselves guessing who the
stranger who had just arrived could
be; and they had all arrived at the
unanimous conclusion that it must be
the Marquis d'Argens, as the door
opened, and the stranger entered. He
FREDERICK THE GREAT AT MEISSEN.
167
asked for the adjutant on duty, and as
the latter was pointed out to him, he
stepped toward him with an air of
quiet dignity.
"I pray you announce me immedi¬
ately to his majesty. Have the kind¬
ness to say to him, that I have not
come hither on my private affairs, but as
a delegate from the city of Berlin, with
full powers from the Council and citi¬
zens, to request the honor of an audience
with the king, and that I am obliged
to return as speedily as possible to the
capital."
" Your name, sir ? "
" I am the merchant, John Gotzkow-
sky."
The serious and proud features of the
aristocratic adjutant immediately re¬
laxed, and assumed a more polite and
obliging expression.
"Ah! Gotzkowsky, the rich an(^
magnanimous merchant of Berlin—the
special protégé of the king. I will an¬
nounce you immediately to his majesty."
And the adjutant hurried through the
haUs and entered the boudoir of the
king.
In the mean while, the generals drew
near Gotzkowsky, who related to them
all about the siege of Berlin, and the
cruel and relentless conduct of the
enemy; pressing him with questions,
whether on his journey thither he had
encountered or come into the vicinity
of any portion of the enemy.
" You will find the king very much
out of humor," said General von Sal-
dem ; " he has not left his study to-day,
and doubtless he is occupied with very
eerious plans."
"Perhaps even with the plan of a
battle," said another of the gentlemen,
" for it is said that Lacy has advanced
his army, and even that Landen has left
Dresden. A battle is therefore immi¬
nent, and the king is evidently drawing
up his plan."
At this moment the door of the
study was opened, and the adjutant
motioned to Gotzkowsky to enter. As
the latter was traversing the hall, the
generals cast an eager glance through
the open door, anxious to see the
countenance of the king, and find out
from its expression whether this intol¬
erable armistice was to be interrupted
by the violent clash of arms.
In the mean time, Gotzkowsky
entered the chamber of the king, and
the door closed after him. He was
now alone in the presence of the mon¬
arch, who was still sitting at his
writing-table, making rapid strokes
with his drawing-pencil on the paper
before him.
" He is writing," said Gotzkowsky to
himself, " and is perhaps in the act of
drawing out the plan of the battle
which the generals out there are await¬
ing with such joyous impatience. Yes,
he is writing, and perhaps each stroke
of the pen may cost the lives of hun¬
dreds of human beings." And he did
not venture by a single word or a loud
breath to draw attention to his pres¬
ence. On his entrance, the king had
cast on him one of his sharp, penetrat¬
ing glances, before whose commanding
power many a general and many a
brave man had quailed, and had then
bent his head again over the paper.
Absolute silence prevailed for a while.
Suddenly the king interrupted it, and
168
THE MERCHANT OF BERLIN,
motioned to Gotzkowsky with his hand
to draw near. "Just look and see
whether that pleases you," said he, in a
friendly tone. "Ton are known as a
connoisseur in art, and you have proved
to me that you understand painting.
Look at that, and tell me whether you
like it."
What was it that the king had
drawn on the paper ? Was it really as
his brave generals wished, the plan of a
battle soon to be fought, was it a phil¬
osophical treatise, or one of those witty
and piquant epistles to which the
king treated his friends ? None of aU
these.
" A nosegay ! " cried Gotzkowsky, as
with unconcealed astonishment he
looked now on the paper, now on the
king. "Your majesty is drawing a
bouquet of flowers, and out there the
gentlemen have just told me in confi¬
dence that you were busied with a plan
of battle, and that the Austrians were
approaching."
"Nonsense!" said the king, shrug¬
ging his shoulders, " that rough set out
there are always anxious for war, and
to be cutting and slashing at each other.
Don't you listen to them, but rather tell
me how you like this drawing. Don't
you think these roses mixed with lilies
look well ? But I gee you wish to know
what it is intended for. Well, it is for
a set of porcelain which I wish to have
painted for the Marquis d'Argens."
And, as he met Gotzkowsky's looks, he
continued, with a friendly smile : "Yes,
you see, you are rich; you can make
others presents. But the King of Prus¬
sia is a poor man ; he has only his coat,
bis sword, and his porcelain. And this
last even," continued he, with a slight
fr-own, " I am obliged to get frrom Meis¬
sen."
" That your majesty need not do in
future. Please God, your majesty shall
make your porcelain in your own do¬
minions ! "
"Will you guarantee that? Will
you undertake it?" asked the king,
kindly.
" I will"
" And look ye, you are just the man
to carry out what you wish. I am well
satisfied with you. You have justified
the confidence I placed in you when I
was crown prince. You have redeemed
the vow you made me then."
"I swore to your majesty that I
would be faithful to the fatherland with
life and property," cried Gotzkowsky,
with noble ardor.
" And you have kept your word. It
is not difficult in easy and prosperous
times to find people to serve the state.
Those are good citizens who serve her
when she is in difficulty and danger.*
You are a good citizen." And handing
Gotzkowsky an open letter which lay
on the writing-table, he said : " Bead, it
is a letter from the Marquis d'Argens.
Read it aloud, I would like to hear it
again."
And Gotzkowsky read with a trem¬
bling voice, and cheeks reddened with i
noble modesty, the following passage
from a letter of the marquis, which the
king pointed out to him with his fin¬
ger : " Gotzkowsky is, indeed, an excel
lent man and a worthy citizen. I wish
you had many such as he. The great-
• The king's own words.
FREDERICK THE GREAT AT MEISSEN.
169
est gift which fortune can make a state
is a citizen full of zeal for the welfare
of his country and his prince. And in
this respect I must say, to the credit of
Berlin, that in these trying times I have
met many of her citizens, Gotzkowsky
the foremost among them, whose vir¬
tues, the old historians of Rome, had
they lived at the present day, would
have immortalized." *
" Are you satisfied ? " asked the king,
as Gotzkowsky, having finished, handed
him the paper. " Oh, I see you are a
modest man, and blush like a young
girl. But tell "me, now, what brings
you here ? What does the city of Ber¬
lin wish Î "
"Her rights, your majesty," said
Gotzkowsky, seriously.
" And who is troubling her rights ? "
" Your majesty."
The king frowned, and cast an angry
glance on the bold jester.
Gotzkowsky continued, calmly :—
" Your majesty is depriving us of our
good rights, in so far as you wish to
prevent us from being honest people,
and keeping our word sacred."
"Oh, now I understand you," said
the king, laughing. " You are speak¬
ing of the Russian war-tax. Berlin
shall not pay it."
" Berlin will pay it in order that your
majesty may retain her in your gracious
favor ; in order that the great Freder¬
ick may not have to blush for his faith¬
less and dishonest town, which would
not then deserve to be the residence of
a king. How I would your majesty
trust the men who refused to redeem
♦ "Correspondance entre Fred, et M. d'Argens,"
vi., p. 228.
their openly-pledged word ? who look
upon sworn contracts as a mouse-trap,
to be escaped from as soon as the op¬
portunity ofiers, and when the danger¬
ous cat is no longer sitting at the door ?
Berlin wül pay—that our sons may not
have to blush for their fathers; that
posterity may not say that Berlin had
stamped herself with the brand of dis¬
honor. We have pledged our word,
and we must keep it."
" You must not, for I do not wish you
to do so," cried Frederick, with anger-
fiashing eyes. " I will institute repris¬
als. The imperial court has refused
the payment of the Bamberg and
Wurzhurg bonds."
"And your majesty considers that
proceeding highly dishonest and un¬
just," interrupted Gotzkowsky; "and
while you wish to punish the empire
for its breach of faith, you punish
doubly the town of Berlin by depriving
her of the last thing that remained to
her in her day of need and misfortune
—her honorable name. You cannot be
in earnest, sire ? Punish, if you choose,
the imperial judge, but do not make
Berlin the dishonored Jack Ketch to
carry out your sentence."
" But are you so anxious to get rid oí
your money ? What is the amount that
you still owe ? "
" A million and a half, sire."
The king stepped back and looked at
Gotzkowsky with astonishment. ' ' And
the people of Berlin insist upon paying
it?"
" Yes, because their word is pledged."
The king shook his head thoughtful¬
ly. " Hark ye," said he, " you seem to
me to be a dangerous agitator, who
170
THE MERCHANT OP BERLIN.
wishes to turn my peaceful citizens of
Berlin into true children of Haman.
Some weeks ago, after the unfortunate
fight of Kuimersdorf, when I sent an
express courier to Berlin and ordered
the Town Council to advise the rich and
well-to-do to retire from the city with
their portable property, my recommen¬
dation was not followed : you yomself
excited the Council to disobedience.
In your self-willed obstinacy you had
the impudent assurance to make your
way through a country infested by the
enemy ; and if my colonel. Von Pritt-
witz, had not found you in those woods,
and brought you to me in the village,
your obstinate head would have adorned
the lance of some Cossack or other.
And what did you come for but to as¬
sure me that the well-to-do citizens of
Berlin would prefer staying at home,
and did not wish to run away ? Yes,
truly you are a queer diplomatist, and
rush headlong into danger and trouble
only to assure your king that his citizens
will not obey him 1 "
The king had spoken with apparent
displeasure, but aroimd his lips there
piayed a slight smUe, and his large
blue eyes were directed toward Gotz-
kowsky with an expression of indescrib¬
able kindness.
" In this case they do not wish to
obey your majesty, because they wish
to remain worthy of the name of your
majesty's citizens and most faithful
subjects."
The king paced up and down several
times, with folded arms, and then
stopped before Gotzkowsky, looking
steadily in his eyes. "Now, tell me,
how did you manage to make the Ber¬
liners so obstinate and so lavish of then
means ? "
Gotzkowsky smiled. "Please youi
majesty, the Berliners prize their honoi
above their life."
The king shook his head impatient¬
ly. "Ton may tell that to some one
else. Tell me, how did you bring my
Berliners up to that ? But the truth-
mind, you teU me the truth."
" Well, then, your majesty shall know
the truth," said Gotzkowsky, after a
pause.
" Yes, yes, the truth," cried the king,
nodding his head violently. " I wish
to know how you inspired the citizens
of Berlin with such bold assurance."
"The truth is, sire, that this was
only the courage of cowardice, and
that the prudent magistracy and mer¬
chants were perfectly delighted with
your majesty's orders not to pay these
bonds, and that I gave myself an im¬
mense amount of trouble in vain to re¬
mind them of their pledged word and
their compromised honor."
" Oh 1 I know it," said the king.
" My good Berliners love money as well
as any other of the good-for-nothing
children of men. Proceed ! " f
" Well, when I found them deaf to
the voice of honor, I let them hear the
words of cowardly prudence. I painted
to them the horrors awaiting them if
the enemy perchance should return as
conquerors, and what a fearful revenge
they would take on the perjured city.
I reminded them that the enemy would
immediately attack all our property in
Courland, Dantzic, and Livonia, and
that at the Eussian headquarters they
had threatened me that they would
FREDERICK THE GREAT AT MEISSEH.
publish us in all the open commercial
marts as issuers of false bonds."
"Tou were then in the Russian
camp ? "
" A fortnight ago, sire. The Council
of Berlin requested me to undertake
this joum% to complete the transac¬
tions left unfinished by the rapid re¬
treat of General von Tottleben."
" And did you finish them ? "
" I was obliged to give General Tot¬
tleben a written agreement that I would
return in four weeks to the Russian
camp to carry out the transactions in
the name of these merchants."
" I have been told that the Russian
general would not accept the bonds for
the war-tax unless you indorsed them.
Is that true, too Î "
" It is true."
" And what did you do ? "
" I indorsed them."
The king's eye lighted up with
fnendship and kindness. "D'Argens
is right," said he. " Cornelius Nepos
and Livy would have mentioned you
in their writings." And he paced up
and down the room in deep thought.
A long pause ensued. Finally, Gotz-
kowsky was bold enough to break it.
"And the tax, your majesty, may we
pay it ? "
The king stopped in fi:ont of him.
'• The tax shaU be paid," said he curt-
•y ; but, as Gotzkowsky was about to
break out in loud expressions of grati¬
tude, the king waved him off with his
hand. " That is," said he, " I myself
will pay it, if it cannot be otherwise.
Go back into the Russian camp, as you
have promised. Endeavor to get some
abatement of the amount, or some other
profitable terms ; but if you do not suc¬
ceed, well, I will have to pay this mil¬
lion and a half for Berlin. But in re¬
turn you must grant me a favor."
" What, sire ? "Whatever it may be,"
cried Gotzkowsky, ardently, "I am
ready to perform any service for yom:
majesty, even to the sacrifice of my
life."
The king smiled. " Oh, no 1 not
quite so bad as that, although the ser¬
vice I ask of you is more difficult to
most men than dying—^I mean Iceeping
»ilenceP And as he laid his hand af¬
fectionately on Gotzkowsky's shoulder,
he continued : " Betray to no one what
I have said to you, and only at the
very last moment, if it is absolutely
necessary, take the Council into your
confidence."
" How, sire Î " said Gotzkowsky,
painfully. " You wish to deprive your
Berlin citizens of the gratification of
expressing to you their gratitude, their
infinite affection. Berlin may not even
know how kind, how gi-acious yom-
majesty has been to her I "
" I don't like the jingling of words,
nor the throwing of wreaths. Tlie
very people who throw laurel-wreaths
would be only too glad if the laurels
were hard enough to break our heads.
Tou pay the contribution, that is to
say, you advance it, and I'U return it
to you.* That's all, and now don't say
another word about it." At the same
time, as if fearful that Gotzkowsky
might yet venture to act contrary to
♦ " Life of a Patriotic Merchant, " pp. 85-254.
" The king paid the contribution in fact so quietly,
one hardly knew when, where, or how.'-Preíwa'í
History c(f Frederick.
172
THE MERCHANT OF BERLIN.
his wishes, he continued more rapidly :
"Now tell me a little about Berlin,
and above all things about our gallery
at Sans-Souci. How does it fare ? "
" It is finished, sire, and the people
flock to see it.",
"I only, like a fugitive or a Don
Quixote, am driven about," said the
king to himself, "and cannot even
enter my own house, and they call that
royal happiness 1 " Turning to Gotz-
kowsky, he remarked aloud : " Have
you seen the gallery since the enemy
took up his quarters in it ? "
" Tes, sire ! Prince Esterhazy was
this noble enemy. He protected Sans-
Souci like something sacred. When
he left the palace he only took one sin¬
gle small picture with him, as a souve¬
nir."
The king gave a fiñendly nod. " I
know it," said he, " and that is the
only pleasure I have had for a long
time. Once more I will see my Titians
and Correggios, my Rubenses and Van-
dycks, which you bought for me. Now
teU me about Charlottenburg. But
mind, give me the truth. I have no¬
ticed that no one will speak out about
it, nobody will tell the truth. They
are afraid of my anger. But you are a
brave man, you are not even afraid of
the Cossacks. You will have the cour¬
age to let your king know the facts.
How is it with Charlottenburg ? The
Saxons were quartered there — what
did they do ? "
And now Gotzkowsky, often inter¬
rupted by the violent and angry ex¬
clamations of the king, told of the bar¬
barous and cruel vandalism committed
by the Saxons at Charlottenburg, their
unbridled destructiveness and unspar¬
ing barbarity.
" And the Polignac collection ? "
asked the king, breathlessly.
" Almost entirely destroyed."
The king started up from his easy-
chair, his eyes flashing wit# rage. He
was no longer the philosopher of Sans-
Souci, no longer the poet ; he was now
the warrior panting for battle and
bloody vengeance. " Tell me, tell me 1
I wish to know all," said the king,
laboring out each word, and taking
long strides up and down.
But as Gotzkowsky gave him a more
detailed account, and related the sac¬
rilegious barbarity which did not spare
even the sacred art-treasures, the king's
brow became more darkened, and for
a moment a burning flush of anger
shot across his pale cheek. At one
time he raised his arm threateningly,
as if he would bring down the thunder¬
bolts of heaven upon such wickedness
and ruthlessness.
As Gotzkowsky finished, the king
said, curtly and vehemently, "Good,
very good ! " and traversing the room
with hasty steps, he threw open the
door which led into the antechamber,
and called out, " Saldern ! "
Immediately General von Saldem
appeared at the open door. The king
commanded him to enter and shut the
door ; then, addressing him in a short,
decisive tone : " Go to-morrow, qui¬
etly, with a detachment of infantry and
cavalry, to Hubertsburg, take possession
of the castle, and have all the valuable
furniture carefuUy inventoried and
packed up. I wiU have none of it.
The money obtained from its ransom
>
FREDERICK THE G
.vill be turned over to the Lazaretto,
and I will not forget you."
There was a pause. General von
Saldem remained at the door motion¬
less, in stiff military attitude.
The king looked at him with as-
tonishmenii " Well ! did you hear ? "
"Yes, your majesty, I heard. But
may it please your majesty, this is
against my honor and my oath."
The king compelled himself to he
composed, for he loved General Sal¬
dem as a brave and noble officer.
" You would be right," said he, " if I
did not use this desperate means to a
good object. But let me tell you, the
head of the great lord does not feel it
if you tear out the hair of his subjects.
You must hit, then, where it hurts him ;
and that I intend to do. The Elector
of Saxony shall find out how it feels
when one's most cherished possession
is destroyed. We wiU teach him to be
humane, and behave himself. Go,
therefore, to Hubertsburg, and do as I
told you."
General von Saldem tumed pale, and
his countenance was expressive of deep
suffering, as he answered gravely and
firmly: "Your majesty may send me
right off to attack the enemy and his
batteries, and I will obey with my
whole heart; but against my honor,
my oath, and my duty, I cannot, dare
not act."
The king stamped with his foot,
and his eye flashed with threatening
anger.
"You must obey, as is your duty;
you are bound to obey no other voice
than that of your king who commands
you," said he with a voice of thunder.
lEAT AT MEISSEN. 173
General Saldem answered, calmly:
" But, sire, I must obey the voice of
my honor! Your majesty can easily
transfer this commission to another."
The king tumed from him with an
involuntary frown, and, walking up
and down hastily, he stopped near
Saldem, and laid his hand gently on
his shoulder. " Look ye, Saldern,
obey—go to Hubertsburg."
" I cannot, sire ! "
" You do not desire to enrich your¬
self?" said the king, as he tumed
away. " Do you wish your discharge ?
I have no use for soldiers who do not
consider obedience their first duty."
"I herewith ask for my discharge,
sire 1 "
"You have it—go !"*
Without saying a word. General von
Saldem made a military obeisance,
and left the room.
"You go too I '' said the king to
Gotzkowsky, who had been a silent,
involuntary spectator of this scene—
"go and tell my adjutant to send
Quintus Icüius to me."
In a few minutes Major Quintus
IcUius entered. "Go to Hubertsburg
with a detachment of infantry and
cavalry, and clear out the castle."
Major Quintus Icilius took good heed
not to contradict the king. He had
already, in the antechamber, heard of
General von Saldem's fate, and he was
not indisposed to execute the king's
commission.
" Only a hundred thousand dollars
♦ This interview is historical and literal Gener¬
al von Saldem left the army, but after the peace
entered it again, with high honor and distinction.—
KuBTBE, " Traits of Saldem," p. 89.
174
THE MERCHANT OF BERLIN,
you hand over to the Lazaretto, the
rest you can keep for yourself,"
"As you command, sire! Shall I
proceed at once ? "
The king east a look of disgust on
him, "Are you in such a hurry to be
rich ? " said he, " Go—I will appoint
the time and the hour more particu¬
larly," *
When the king was alone again, he
paced up and down the room in deep
thought. At one time he stopped at
the window, and his bright blue eyes
were turned mournfully toward heaven,
" Poor fools that we are ? " said he,
with a sigh, " We have only a mo¬
ment to live, and we make this moment
as bitter as possible to each other. We
take pleasiu-e in destroying the master¬
pieces of industry and art, at the same
time we are erecting an accursed mon¬
ument to our own devastation and our
cruelty," t
CHAPTER n,
THE WINTEB-QUAHTEES IN LEEPSIC.
The TTiug of Prussia had left Meis¬
sen, and taken up his winter-quarters
in Leipsic, The choice of this town
arose from a particular need of the
king. He wished to pass the winter
in a university town, and, instead of
the rough companions of war, to sur-
♦ Not till May, 1761, was the king's order car¬
ried into esecntion by Major Q. Icilins, in a most
barbarons manner. The king was apparently sat¬
isfied ; bnt when Q. Icilins in 1764 applied for re¬
payment of moneys spent ifi executing the royal
command, the king indorsed on the application—
"My ofdcers steal like crows. They get noth¬
ing."
t His own words.
round himself with learned men and
artists, poets and musicians. He had
his band brought from Berlin, and in¬
vited the professors of the Leipsic
University to his table. Thus Leipsic,
the rich and luxurious commercial
town, found itself, for a few months,
converted into a royal residence. But
not willingly did she undergo this
transformation ; and it was against her
wish that she received the Prussian
king in Ueu of the troops of the allies,
within her walls, Frederick knew
this, and therefore exercised no mercy
on this city, so rich in money and
professions, whose unwelcome guest he
was.
Had Leipsic welcomed the Prussian
army in a ready and friendly manner, she
would certainly have met with indul¬
gence ; but her defiant and sullen behav¬
ior, her warm partizanship of Austria,
whose ally Saxony was, naturally only
tended to increase the animosity of the
king, and aggravate his ill-humor. If
Leipsic insisted upon regarding the
Prussians as enemies, his duty was to
consider her as an enemy, and treat her
as such.
Enormous contributions were laid
upon the town, and in spite of the
previous written promise of the king
that her assessment should not, at the
utmost, exceed five htmdred thousand
dollars, new demands were now con¬
stantly being made, and new contribu¬
tions levied. In vain did the Council
beg and plead for mercy and justice ;
in vain did the merchants protest that
their means were exhausted, and that
they were not able to meet any further
payments. The enormous demands de-
THE WINTER-QUARTERS IN LEIPSIC.
175
termined on were firmly and with iron
obstinacy insisted upon; and as the
refractory town did not cease to oppose
them, recourse was had to threats to
intimidate her. Tarred rings were
hung against the houses, and it was
sworn to lay the town in ashes if Leip-
sic did not immediately pay the mil¬
lion of dollars demanded. But the
unfortunate inhabitants had already
reached that pitch of desperation at
which people are prepared for any
thing, and fear nothing further because
there is nothing more to lose. They
declared that they could pay no more,
and offered to seal their word with
their death.
The tarred rings were indeed taken
down from the houses, but the richest
and most respectable inhabitants were
seized and incarcerated. Even the au¬
thorities were not spared, and the offi¬
cers of the Council were thrown into
the prisons of the towns. In the most
degrading manner, like a fiock of sheep,
they were shut up in spaces hardly able
to contain them ; damp straw was their
bed, bread and water their only nom-ish-
ment, and this was brought to them
with words of cruel insult by the Prus¬
sian jailers. But to these latter the
burden soon became too heavy ; they
were weary of their cruel service, and
sought to lighten it.
At first they had one hundred and
twenty prisoners, but, after a fortnight
of useless torment, the greater number
had been set free, and only seventeen
retained. To be sure, these consisted
of the richest and most respectable citi¬
zens of Leipsic. And these rmfortunate
hostages, these spoilt sons of wealth
and luxury, were now forced to bear
the whole weight of misfortune, the
entire anger of the victorious enemy.
They, whose whole life had been one
of indulgence and effeminacy, had now
to undergo the greatest deprivations,
and hardest sufferings. The cold earth
was their bed, a piece of bread thrown
to them their nourishment ; and it was a
feast to them when one of the gentle¬
women of Leipsic succeeded in obtaining
permission to visit a brother or hus¬
band, and was able to smuggle in
under her silk dress a piece of meat or
a little bowl of soup for the Martyrs.
These cruelties would doubtless have
been lessened or abolished if the king
had had positive knowledge of them,
or if he had believed that the city's in¬
ability to pay was real, and not a mere
pretext. But the king, vexed by the
continually repeated complaints, out of
humor at the obstinate conduct of Leip¬
sic, and mindful of the vandal behavior
of the Saxons at Charlottenburg, had
issued strict orders not to trouble him
with this business, and not to report to
bim about them until they could at the
same time show that the sura de¬
manded had been paid. And there¬
with sentence had been passed upon the
unfortunate citizens of Leipsic. No one
dared to mention to the king the tor¬
ments and tortures to which the
hostages of the pitiable town were
subjected. No one had the courage to
beg for mercy for those whose only
crime was, that their riches were ex¬
hausted, their coffers empty, and that
they did not possess the means to pay
the inordinate sums demanded of
them.
176
THE MERCHANT OF BERLIN.
But while the population of Leipsic
was undergoing this grief, this hard
time of trial, an uninterrupted quiet
and precious peace prevailed in the
house inhabited by the King of Prussia.
Music was performed, readings were
held, and in the midst of these gentle
diversions and this pleasant rest Fred¬
erick drew up the plans of fresh battles
and new and great undertakings.
Fasch and Quanz had been brought
from Berlin to play music for him, the
Marquis d'Argens to philosophize for
him, his dogs to amuse him. The King,
who knew enough of men to despise
the wavering, erring, sinful creatures,
was also a sufficient coimoisseur of dogs
to love the faithful, obedient, submis¬
sive animals with his whole heart, and
devoted a great part of his time to
them. He who was deaf to the wail¬
ing and lamentations of a whole city,
had his ears open to the least whine of
Biche, or his favorite Psyche, and never
would have forgiven him who had
dared to treat one of his dogs as so
many of the noble and distinguished
citizens of Leipsic were being treated in
his name.
CHAPTER m.
THE FBIEHD IN NEED.
No one would have dared to speak
a word for the refractory citizens and
authorities of Leipsic to the king, nor
act in direct contravention to his ex¬
press orders. Even the Marquis d'Ar¬
gens, his intimate friend and confidant,
had refused to be the advocate of the
unfortunate town. It seemed to be
lost, without hope of redemption, and
already it had been threatened with
the extreme of severity. It had been
announced to the chief men, the ffithers
and heads of families who were pining
in the prisons, that they would be
transported on foot to Magdeburg as
recruits, with knapsacks on their backs.
But at this moment the rescuer in
need, of the affiicted city, made his ap¬
pearance.
A tall, proud, manly form crossed
the antechamber of the king. Power
and energy were visible in his counte¬
nance, and his eyes sparkled with no¬
ble excitement. He was going to per¬
form that duty from which courtiers
and flatterers shrank with trembling ;
and what the bravest generals did not
dare, he was going to undertake. John
Gotzkowsky was going to tell the king
the truth. John Gotzkowsky was not
afraid to rouse the anger of a king,
when it came to helping the unfortu¬
nate or protecting the oppressed. He
had a more noble mission to perform
than to sue for the smiles of a king, or
the favor of the great. It was the higher
mission of humanity, which impelled
him, and, as usual, his resolution was
firm and imwavering. With bold de¬
cision he reached the door which led
into the king's chamber. He had the
privilege of entering imannounced, for
the king expected him.
He had summoned Gotzkowsky
from Berlin, to obtain information as to
the progress of the Berlin industrial
works, and the faithful patriot had, in
obedience to the call of his king, come
to Leipsic. He had seen the misery
THE FRIEND IN NEED.
17Ï
and sufifering of this poor, down-trod¬
den town, and, as he traversed the
antechamber, he said to himself, with
an imperceptible smile, " I brought the
Russian general to clemency, and the
king will not be harder than he wa.s."
. But before he threw off his cloak, he
drew out of it a small package, which
he examined carefully. Being satisfied
with its appearance, he took it with
him to the cabinet of the king. Fred¬
erick did not look at him at fijst. He
was reclining on thé floor, and around
him, on silken cushions, lay his dogs,
their bright eyes fixed on a dish which
was placed in the midst of them. The
king, with an ivory stick, was carefully
dividing the portion for each dog, or¬
dering the growling, discontented ones
to be quiet, and comforting the pai-
tieUtly waiting ones with a light jest
concerning' the next piece. Suddenly
he raised his eyes, and his quick glance
rested on Gotzkowsky's smUing, placid
face.- " Ah, you laugh," said he, " and
in your human conceit you find it quite
beneath one's dignity to occupy one's
self with dogs, when there are so many
human beings. Let me tell you, you
don't understand any thing about itl
You don't know dogs at all, and per¬
haps you don't know men.—Quiet,
Biche ! leave that piece for Apollo. I
gave it to him, and therefore it belongs
TO him. One would suppose you had
been learning from men, and, in the
true spirit of a Christian and brother¬
ly love, grudged each other a piece
of bread. Quiet, Biche, and don't be
vexed that I compare you to human
beings. I did not mean you were quite
as bad as that."
u
And gently stroking and caressing
the offended Biche, he rose and seated
himself in his velvet-covered/aMiewiZ.
His bright eye turned toward Gotz-
kowsky, and rested on the package
the latter had in his hand. "What
have you there i "
" A plate and a cup," said Gotz-
kowsky, seriously—" the first two
pieces from my porcelain factory in
Berlin."
The king now rose from his seat and
strode hastily toward Gotzkowsky.
" Give them here. I want to see what
sort of potters'-ware you are going to
impose upon me for porcelain." With
impatient hands he tore off the paper
coverings, and so eagerly was he en¬
gaged with them, that he did not per¬
ceive that Biche and Apollo were
already fighting for a scrap of paper
which he had thrown directly on
Biche's nOse, and which she conse¬
quently mistook for a delicate morsel,
a prize worth a fight with Apollo.
" Forsooth it is porcelain I " cried the
king, as he drew out the gold-rimmed
plate and the beautifully painted cup
from their wrappings, and looked at
them attentively ; and as his eye rested
on the painting of the cup, his features
assumed a soft and sad expression.
"My house in Rheinsberg,""muttered
he softly to himself—" a greeting from
my happy days."
" In the castle Rheinsberg I first en¬
joyed the favor of being presented to
your majesty," said Gotzkowsky. " Cas¬
tle Rheinsberg is, therefore, to me a
happy recollection, and it was for that
reason selected to adorn the proof pieces
of my porcelain factory."
IÏ8 THE MERCHA
The king fastened a penetrating look
on him. " You are playing me a trick
—don't like tricks, you must know.
Therefore tell me the truth. Where
did you get this porcelain ? It is not
from Meissen. The mark is wanting,
and it is whiter and stronger. Where
did you get it Î "
" From Berlin, sire. I promised you,
when you were in Meissen, that in
future you should procure your porce¬
lain from your own dominions, and I
dare not forfeit my word."
" And so you imitated the Almighty,
and created a porcelain factory with
the breath of your mouth ? "
" Not with the breath of my mouth,
but the breath of my money."
" Tell me about it, and all the par¬
ticulars," said the king, still holding
the cup in his hand, and looking at
it attentively.
And Gotzkowsky related how, on
his return from Meissen, he had acci¬
dentally made the acquaintance of a
young man, who was passing through
Berlin on his way to Gotha, the duke
having offered to advance him the cap¬
ital necessary to found a factory for
the making of porcelain according to a
process of his own invention. The
specimens exhibited convinced Gotz¬
kowsky that this young man was fully
acquainted with the secret of porcelain-
making, and he had therefore immedi¬
ately determined to forestall the Duke
of Gotha.
Money had in this instance, as usual,
exercised its charm, and nothing more
was necessary than to outbid the terms
agreed on with the duke. A few
thousand dollars more offered, and
T OF BERLIN
double purchase-money, had secured
the secret of porcelain-making to
Gotzkowsky, and bound the inventor
down in Berlin for life.*
The arrangements necessary for the
first attempt were made in one of the
out-buildings of his house, and the
articles offered to the king were the
first-fruits of his factory. The king
listened to him with intense interest,
and when Gotzkowsky had finished he
nodded to him with a smile.
" The Marquis d'Argens is right. I
wish myself I had many such citizens as
you are. It would be a fine thing to
'be a king if all one's subjects were
true men, and made it worth one's
while to be to them a kind father and
lord. Ton have fulfilled a favorite
wish of mine ; and let me tell you, I do
not think you will call the porcelain
factory yours long. I think it will
soon be a royal factory."
" I founded it for your majesty."
" Good, good I you have given me a
pleasure, I will give you one in return.
Ask some favor for yourself. You are
silent. Do you know of nothing to ask
for ? "
"Oh, yes, indeed," said Gotzkowsky,
ardently, " I have a great favor to ask
—have pity on the poor inhabitants of
this town ! "
The king frowned and pressed his
lips angrily together. "Do you know
that I have generally forbidden any
♦ Porcelain-making was then a great secret in
Germany, only known in Meissen ; the process
being condncted with closed doors, and the fore¬
man bonnd by oattu Gotzkowsky paid ten
thousand dollars down, a life income of a thousand
dollars, and house and firewood free.—" Life of a
Patriotic Merchant," p. 87.
THE FRIEND IN NEED.
ttnc to trouble me with these Leipsic
jeremiades ? "
'' I know it, sire."
The king looked at him with aston¬
ishment, " And yet you do it ? "
"Yes, sire, I do it because 1 relied
on the kind, noble heart of my king,
and because humanity bade me not to
fear your majesty's anger, when it be¬
came a question of mercy to the op¬
pressed."
" And for this reason you wanted to
bribe me with your bits of porcelain.
Oh, you are a reckoner, but this time
you have reckoned without your host.
No pity for these obstinate Leipsigers.
They must pay the eleven hundred
thousand dollars, or—
" Or what ? " asked Gotzkowsky, as
he hesitated.
The king looked angrily at him.
" You are very bold," said he, " to inter¬
rupt me. The Leipsigers must pay, for
I need the money for my soldiers, and
they are rich ; they are able to pay I "
" They are not able to pay, sire !
They are as little able to pay as Berlin
is if Eussia insists upon her demands,
and her magnanimous king does not
come to her assistance. But your ma¬
jesty certainly does not wish that the
world and history shall say that Russia
acted with more forbearance and clem¬
ency toward Berlin than Prussia did
toward LeipSic ? To be sure, the Rus¬
sians carried off the Jewish elders into
captivity because they could not pay,
but then, they treated these poor vic¬
tims of their avarice like human be¬
ings. They did not make them sleep
on rotten straw ; they did not let them
starve, and die of misery and filth;
they did not have them scourged and
tortured until they wet with their tears
the bit of bread thrown to them."
" Who does that ? " cried the king,
with thundering voice and flashing
eye.
Gotzkowsky bowed low. " Your
majesty, the King of Prussia does
that 1 "
Frederick uttered a cry of anger, and
advanced with his arm raised on Gotz¬
kowsky, who looked at him quietly
and firmly. " You lie 1 retract ! " thun¬
dered the king.
" I have, as -long as I have lived,
spoken the truth, sire—the truth, with¬
out fear or dread of man. Your ma¬
jesty is the first man who has accused
me of a lie. I have seen with my
own eyes your majesty's oflScials treat¬
ing the poor captive Leipsic merchants
like dogs. What do I say—like dogs ?
Oh, how would the poor down-trodden
men envy those dogs the delicacies
contained in that dish ! It may be
right to compel and humble the re¬
fractory, but it is not right to tread
out the human soul, and even in the
conquered you should honor God's im¬
age."
The king looked at him with ludi¬
crous surprise. " Do you wish to give
me a lesson ? Well, IwiU forgive you
this time, and as you express it, honor
God's image in the owner of the Berlin
porcelain factory. But hush about these
hard-hearted Leipsigers. They must
pay. My soldiers cannot live on air,
and my coffers are empty."
" The Leipsigers are very willing to
contribute, but the demand must not
èxceed their powers."
ISO
THE MERCHANT OF BERLIN.
" How do you know that ? "
" The magistracy and merchant
guild of Leipsic sent a deputation to
me, and entreated my mediation."
"You have then already the repu¬
tation of one who knows how to use
his tongue well, and goes about tattling
with it."
" Sire," said Gotzkowsky, smiling,
" we only follow the example of our
hero-king. We all are anxious to
fight, and those who have no swords
must fight with the tongue. I have
latterly been compelled to fight a
great deal with it, and the Leipsic
merchants may have heard something
about that. They knew that I had
some exercise with my tongue, and
gained a little victory with it over the
Eussians in Berlin."
" How much do you think the city
of Leipsic can pay ? " asked the king,
after a pause.
"If your majesty wiU remit them
a few hundred thousand dollars, and
allow the merchants time, they are
willing to bind themselves in joint
bonds."
"■Parllm! are they willing to do
that ? " asked the king, derisively.
" The bonds of the Leipsic merchants
would be no security to me." And
turning quickly on Gotzkowsky, he
asKcd him, " Are you willing to guar¬
antee the payment ? "
" If your majesty orders it, the
bonds shall be drawn out with my
guaranty."
" I look to you, then, for their pay¬
ment."
" At your orders, sire."
" Well, then, for your sake I wiU re¬
mit the Leipsigers three hundred thou¬
sand dollars ; but for the rest of the
million you are answerable."
" I will be answerable for it."
" I will let these gentlemen of Leip
sic know that it is to your intercession
and your guaranty that they are in¬
debted for the mitigation of their con¬
tributions; and then you can, if it
gives you pleasure, bargain with the
rich town for some reward for yoiu
services rendered."
" That would give me no pleasure,
sire ! " cried Gotzkowsky, with noble
indignation. "Your majesty must not
think so meanly of me as to suppose
that I would make a profit out of the
misfortunes of others, and that I have
interceded for the poor Leipsigers in
order to make a trade out of them ! "
" I think that you are a hard-headed,
obstinate fellow, who must be allowed
to have his own way," said the king,
with an affable smile. "But I must
bear you witness that, in your own
way, you have rendered me many a
good service. For that reason, you will
always find me well affected toward
you, and in the Sans-Souci gallery you
have created- a beautiful memorial to
yourself."
"If your majesty would come there
now, you would find the Con-eggio about
which you -wrote to the Marquis d'Ar
gens."
The king's eyes sparkled. "The
Correggio is mine ! " said he, walking
up and down slowly, with his hands
behind his back. "Ah," added he,
after a long pause, in a low tone, as if
speaking to himself, " when -will this
nomadic life cease, and the world be
GKATITÜDE AND RECOMPENSE.
181
at peace, to allow this poor, badgered
king a few hours of leisure and recrea¬
tion, to enjoy the contemplation of his
house and his pictures ? The wander¬
ing Jew, if he ever existed, did not
lead such a rambling life as I do. We
get at last to be like the roving play¬
actors, who have neither hearth nor
home, and thus we pass through the
world, playing our bloody tragedies,
with the wailings of our subjects for
chorus.* When will it end ? "
"When your majesty has subdued
all your enemies."
The king looked around with sur¬
prise—he had quite forgotten Gotz-
kowsky. " Ah ! are you still there ?
and you prophesy me victory Î Well,
that will be as good to me as the Leip-
sic money. Go back home, and tell
the Leipsigers to hurry with the
money. And, hark ye ! when you get
to Potsdam, greet the Correggio, and
tell him I yearn for him as a lover does
for his mistress. Adieu ! "
CHAPTER rv.
gbatitudb and recompense.
Thus did Gotzkowsky save unfortu¬
nate Leipsic from the heavy burden
which weighed her down. The pris¬
oners were released, and the merchants
gave a bond, for whose punctual and
prompt payment Gotzkowsky guar¬
anteed with his signature.
He did not do this from a selfish or
vain ambition to have the praise of his
• " Correspondance de Frédéric IL avec le
Comte Algarottis."
name sounded, nor to increase the num¬
ber of his addresses of gratitude, or
written asseverations of afiection. He
did it from love of mankind ; because
he desired to fulfil the vow he had
made to God and himself on the high¬
way, as a shivering, starving lad : that
if he should ever become rich, he would
be to every unfortunate and needy one
the hand which had appeared out of
the dust-cloud to his relief. He did it
because, as he tells us naively and sim¬
ply in his Life, " I knew from my own
experience how difficult it was for a
community to collect such a sum, and
because the idea of profiting by such
misfortune was abhorrent to me."
And now again there was a brilliant
banquet, and no end to the words of
gratitude and tears of emotion. This
banquet was given by the Leipsic mer¬
chants in honor of him who had so
magnanimously taken their part, saved
them three hundred thousand dollars,
and guaranteed their bonds. And
they devoured the delicate viands and
emptied the beakers to his honor, and
praised him in high-sounding speeches.
When Gotzkowsky, wearied and
bored by this festival, returned home,
he found on his table three letters.
The one which bore on its seal the
arms of Prussia he opened first. It
was a cabinet order from the king to
his private secretary, Leinning, to pay
to the merchant, John Gotzkowsky,
one hundred and fifty thousand dolla^.
" Ah," said he, smiling, " paying on ac¬
count; I bought a hundred thousand
ducats' worth of paintings for the king,
and he does not wish to remain always
in my debt." With a slight shrug of
182
THE MERCHANT OF BERLIN.
the shoulders he opened the second let¬
ter. Suddenly he burst into a loud
laugh, and his countenance assumed an
expression of derisive mirth. "The
Elector of Saxony, in consideration of
services rendered to the town of Leip-
sic, appoints me his commercial privy
councillor ! " cried he,. waving the
paper in the air ; " that is a good joke !
The little elector, who has been my
debtor for many long years, is gra¬
cious enough to throw me a bit of rank
~ -a title ! Much obliged I My name
sounds well enough. It is not neces¬
sary to have a title to be a man of
honor. Throw titles to numskulls, not
to me—away with it ! "
He then threw the paper aside with
scorn, and took up the third letter. As
he read it his noble countenance bright¬
ened up with proud pleasure, and his
eyes sparkled. It was a document
from the town of Leipsic, an address
of thanks from the magistracy, the con¬
cluding words of which ran thus :
"In our extreme need we had re¬
course to Herr Gotzkowsky, the re¬
spected merchant and banker of Berlin,
imploring the same to intercede for this
town and its merchants with the King
of Prussia ; affording them his credit
and valuable assistance, to accord to
said town some reasonable respite for
payment, with security. To this ear¬
nest pleading Herr Gotzkowsky yield¬
ed, and, as a true philanthropist, without
any ulterior views of profit to himsel:^
did in the most praiseworthy manner
assist us, and • averted this misfortune
from the town. These services we are
compelled to acknowledge. We there¬
fore offer our services in return on all
possible occasions, not doubting that
the mercantile community of this place
entertain the same sentiments, and feel
themselves equally bound to all im
aginable reciprocity.
[sipirf] " The Council op Leipsic.
" Leipsic, February 26,1761."
"This paper I will carry to my
daughter, as a souvenir," said Gotz¬
kowsky, folding it up carefully, and
then added thoughtfully : " Who
knows but what the time may come
when it will be necessary to remind
the merchants of Leipsic of this docu¬
ment ? The opinions and destinies of
men are very variable."
But Gotzkowsky himself was to have
occasion to remind unthankful Leipsic
of her professions of gratitude—not to
call on her to perform reciprocal favors,
but to protect himself against calumny
and unfriendly suspicions. For a day
came, when Leipsic forgot the affliction
and grief she had suffered, and only
remembered that John Gotzkowsky
was her creditor, and that she owed
him large sums of money. So, when
at last, weary of long waiting, he
pressed for payment, they accused him
of self-interest, and said that he had un¬
necessarily mixed himself up in their af¬
fairs, and that it would have been bet¬
ter if he had left them to their captivi¬
ty; for although they might have
had much to suffer in the hardships of
war, they would have had but little to
pay.
Gotzkowsky answered these accusa¬
tions in a manner characteristic of his
noble, proud self—he was silent about
them. But hard times and oppression
FOUR YEARS LATER.
183
came again upon the rich town of Leip-
sic.
The Prussian king exacted ftesh con¬
tributions— and now they recalled to
mind the services of Gotzkowsky ;
again they sent him humble letters,
begging him to have pity on them;
and now the cunning, calculating ma¬
gistracy of Leipsic saw fit to take notice
of these calumnies, which they had
shortly before so industriously circu¬
lated through the public newspapers,
and solemnly to declare in all the jour¬
nals: "We hereby certify, in compli¬
ance with truth, through these writ¬
ings, that the worshipful Herr Gotz¬
kowsky, as well in past years, as at the
late Leipsic fair, ont of unchanged and
innate love and friendly kindness to us,
this town, and its inhabitants, has given
just cause for gratitude."
Gotzkowsky forgot the insults, and
was again of assistance to them. A
second time he persuaded the king to
mitigate their contribution, and guar¬
anteed the new bonds issued by them.
A second time the magistrates and
merchants thanked him in the most
touching words for his noble and disin¬
terested assistance, and a second time
were they destined to forget their vows
of gratitude.
CHAPTER V.
fotm teaes latee.
Fode years of work, of industry, of
productive activity, had passed since
the stormy year of 1760. They had
produced but little alteration in the life
of Gotzkowsky and his daughter.
Gotzkowsky toiled and worked as he
always had done; his factories were
enlarged, his wealth increased, and his
fame as a merchant sounded through
the whole world.
But all this would he have given, if
he could have seen the light on the
lips, the rosy glow on the cheek of his
daughter, as in bygone days. But the
beautiful and impassioned young girl
had altered into the pale, serious, silent
young woman, who had learned to
throw the veü of quiet resignation over
the secret of her heart, and to suppress
any manifestation of pain.
EUse had grown old internally—old,
despite her two-and-twenty years ; she
looked upon the life before her as a joy¬
less, desert waste, which she had to
traverse with bleeding feet and broken
heart; and in the desolation of her
soul, she sometimes shuddered at the
death-like apathy and quiet of her feel¬
ings, broken by no sound, no note, not
even the wail of woe.
She was without a wish, without a
hope. Grief had spent itself in her.
She wept no more—she wrestled no
longer with her love, for she had con¬
quered it. But she could not rise again
to any new joys of life—she could only
be resigned. She had accepted life,
and she bore it as does the bhd shut
up in a gilded cage, robbed of fireedom
and firesh air, and given in return a
brilliant prison. She, too, was an im¬
prisoned bird ; and her wounded heart
lay in the cage of her breast, sorrowful
and infinitely wretched. She prayed
to God for peace, for resignation, no
longer for happiness, for she did not
believe happiness any more possible
184
THE MERCHANT OE BERLIN.
She had sunk into that apathy which
desires dothing more than a quiet,
dreamy fading away. Her grief was
deficient in the animating consolation
of the thought that "it came from
God." Keal and sacred suflFering,
which does come from God, and is im¬
posed upon us by fate, always carries
with it the divine power of healing;
and at the same time that it casts us
down and humbles us, raises us again,
steels our courage, and makes us strong
and proud to sufier and to bear. Quite
diflferent is that misfortune which
comes from man—^which is laid upon
us by the envy, hatred, and malice of
mankind. This carries with it no con¬
solation, no comfort—a misfortune full of
bitterness and murmuring—a misfor¬
tune which abases us without elevating
us again, which casts us down in the
mire, from the soil of which not all the
hot streams of our tears can purify and
cleanse us. Had she lost her lover, had
he been snatched away from her by
death, Elise, while she gave him back
to God, would have regarded this
heavy and sacred afifiiction as her great
and holy happiness; she would have
accepted it as a precious promise which
elevated her, and inspired her with a
blissful hope.
But she had lost him by his own
treachery, by worldly sin, and she had
given him up, not to God, but to his
own unrighteousness and disloyalty.
She had therefore lost him irretrievably
and for always—not for a short space
of time, but for aU eternity; and she
dared not even weep for him, for her
misfortune was at the same time her
disgrace, and even her tears fiUed her
with humiliation and shame. For that
reason she never spoke, either with her
father or with Bertram, about the sad
and painful past, about the errors and
disappointments of her youth; and
neither of them in their pure and in¬
dulgent love ever trespassed on the si¬
lence which Elise had spread over her
sorrow. Toward her father she was a
careftd, attentive, and submissive daugh¬
ter; toward Bertram a confiding and
loving sister ; but to both she felt as if
she were only giving what was saved
from the shipwreck of her affections.
They both knew that Elise could no
longer offer them an entire, unbroken
heart. But they were both content to
rest on the embers of this ruined edifice,
to gather the leaves of this rose, broken
by the tempest, and to remember how
beautiful it was in its bloom.
Gotzkowsky only asked of his daugh¬
ter that she should live, and become
healthy and strong for new happiness.
Bertram, in the strength and fidelity
of his affections, had no other wish
than that he should some day see her
cheerful and content again, and once
more brightened by the beams which
only love and happiness can spread
over a human countenance ; and in his
great and self-sacrificing love he said to
himself : " If I only knew that her hap¬
piness lay in the remotest comer of the
world, thither would I go to fetch it
for her even if she thereby were lost to
me forever 1 "
And thus did four years pass away—
externally, bright and clear, surrounded
by all the brilliancy of wealth and hap¬
piness—inwardly, silent and desolate,
full of privation and deep sorrow.
DAYS OF MISFORTUNE
185
CHAPTER VI.
days of misfortdhb.
Gotzkowsky was alone in his rooin.
It was an elegant, brilliantly-ornament¬
ed apartment, which the greatest prince
might have envied. The most select
pictures by celebrated old masters hung
around on the walls; the most costly
Chinese vases stood on gilt tables; and
between the "windows, instead of mirrors,
were placed the most exquisite Greek
marble statues. The furniture of the
room was simple ; Gotzkowsky had but
one passion, on which he spent yearly
many thousands, and that was for art-
treasures, paintings, and antiques. His
house resembled a temple of art: it
contained the rarest and choicest treas¬
ures; and when Gotzkowsky passed
through the rooms on the arm of his
daughter, and contemplated the pic¬
tures, or dwelt with her on one of the
sublime statues of the gods, his eye
beamed with blissful satisfaction, and
his whole being breathed cheerfulness
and calm. But at this moment his
countenance was careworn and anxious,
and however pleasantly and cheerfully
the pictures looked down upon him
from the walls, his eye remained sad and
clouded, and deep grief was expressed
in his features.
He sat at his writing-table, and
turned over the papers which lay piled
up high before him. At times he
looked deeply shocked and anxious,
and his whole frame trembled, as with
hasty hand he transcribed some notes
from another sheet. Suddenly he let
the pen drop, and sank his head on his
breast.
«
" It is in vain," he muttered, in a low
voice—" yes, it is in vain. If I were to
exert all my power, if I were to coUect
all my means together, they would not
be sufficient to pay these enormous
sums."
Again he turned over the papers, and
pointing "with his finger to one of them,
he continued : " Yes, there it stands. I
am a rich man on paper. Leipsic owes
me more than a million. If she pays, and
De Neufville comes, I am saved. But
if not—^if Leipsic once more, as she has
already done three times, protests her
inability to pay—if De Neufville does
not come, what shall I do ? How can
I save myself from ruin and shame ? "
Deeper and deeper did he bury him¬
self silently in the papers. A terrible
anxiety oppressed him, and sent his
blood rushing to his heart and head.
He arose and paced up and down the
room, muttering occasionally a few
words, betraying the anguish and ter¬
ror which possessed him. Then, stand¬
ing still, he pressed his hands to his
temples, as if to crowd back the pain
which throbbed and ached there.
" Oh, it is terrible 1 " he uttered in a
subdued voice ; " with my eyes open, I
stand on the brink of a precipice. I
see it, and cannot draw back. If no
helping hand is stretched out to save
me, I must fall in, and my good name
must perish "with me ! And to be
obliged to confess that not my own
want of judgment, no rashness nor pre¬
sumption on my part, but only love of
mankind, love of my brethren, has
brought me to this 1 To each one who
held out his hand to me, I gave the
hand of a friend, every one in need I
TUE MERCHANT OF BERLIN.
helped. And for that reason, for the
good I have done, I stand on the verge
of an abyss."
He cast his looks toward heaven,
and tears shone in his eyes. " "Was it,
then, wrong ? O my God I was it,
then, culpable to trust men, and must
I atone with my honor for what I did
from love ? "
But this compunction, this depres¬
sion, did not last long. Gotzkowsky
soon rose above his grief, and bearing
his head aloft as if to shake off the
cares which lowered around it, he said
in a determined tone: "I must not
lose my courage. This day requires
aU my presence of mind, and the de¬
cisive moment shall not find me cowed
and pusillanimous."
He was about to set himself at work
again, when a repeated knocking at
the door interrupted him. At his re¬
luctant bidding it opened, and Ber¬
tram appeared on the threshold. " Par¬
don me," he said, almost timidly ; " I
knew that you wished to be alone,
but I could not bear it any longer. I
must see you. . Only think. Father
Gotzkowsky, it is a fortnight since I
arrived, and I have scarcely seen you
in this time ; therefore do not be angry
with me if I disobey your orders, and
come to you, although I know that you
are busy."
Gotzkowsky nodded to him with a
sad smile. " I thank you for it," said
he. "I had ordered Peter not to ad¬
mit any one. Ton are an exception, as
you know, my son."
A pause ensued, during which Ber¬
tram examined Gotzkowsky with a
searching look. The latter had seated
himself again at his writing-table, and
with troubled looks was examining his
papers.
Bertram had been absent for nearly a
year. The silent grief which day and
night gnawed at his heart had under¬
mined his health and exhausted his
physical strength. The physicians had
deemed a prolonged residence at Nice
necessary. If Bertram yielded to their
judgment and repaired to Nice, it was
because he thought, "Perhaps EUse
will think of me when I am no longer
near her. Perchance absence may
warm her heart, and she may forget
the brother, some day, to welcome the
husband."
Returning after a year's absence,
strengthened and restored to health, he
found Elise as he had left her. She
received him with the same quiet, cahn
look with which she had bid him fare¬
well. She placed her hand as coolly
and as friendly in his, and although
she inquired cordially and sympathiz-
ingly after his welfare, Bertram still
felt that her heart and her inmost soul
had no part in her questioning.
Elise had not altered—^but how little
was Gotzkowsky like himself ! "Where
was the ardent man, powerful of will,
whom Bertram had etnbraced at his
departure ? where was his clear, ring¬
ing voice, his proud bearing, his ener¬
gy, his burning eloquence—what had
become of all these ? "What diabolical,
dismal influence had succeeded in
breaking this iron vrill, in subduing
this vital power ?
Bertram felt that a deep grief was
corroding Gotzkowsky's life—a grief
whose destructive influence was greater
DAYS OP MISFORTUNE,
187
because he avoided the expression of
it, and sought no relief nor consolation
by communicating it to others. ."He
shall, at least, speak to me," said Ber¬
tram. " I will compel him to make
me the confidant of his grief, and to
lighten his heart by imparting a por¬
tion of his burden to mine." With
this determination he had entered
Gotzkowsky's room ; he now stood op¬
posite to him, and vrith gentle sympa¬
thy looked into his pale, sorrow-wom
countenance.
But Gotzkowsky avoided his eye.
He seemed entirely occupied with his
papers, and turned them over again
and again. Bertram could bear it no
longer; he hastened to him, and tak¬
ing his hand pressed it affectionately
to his lips. " My father," said he, " for¬
give me ; but when I look at you, I am
possessed by a vague fear which I can¬
not explain to myself. You know that
I love you as my father, and for that
reason can read your thoughts. Gotz¬
kowsky, since my return I have read
much care and sorrow in your face."
" Have you ? " said Gotzkowsky,
painfully; "yes, yes, sorrow does not
write in hieroglyphics. It is a writing
which he who runs can read."
"You confess, then, that you have
sorrow, and yet you hide it from me.
You do not let me share your cares.
Have I deserved that of you, father ? "
Gotzkowsky arose, and paced the
room, thoughtful and excited. For
the first time he felt that the sympathy
of a loving heart did good. Involun¬
tarily the crust which surrounded his
heart gave way, and he became gentle
and eager for syni2)atii •. lie held out
his hand to Bertram, and nodded to
him. "You are right, my son," said
he, gently, " I should not have kept my
sorrows from you. It is a comfort, per¬
haps, to imbosom one's self. Listen,
then—but no I first tell me what is said
of me in the city, and, above all, what
is said of me at the Bourse ? Ah 1 you
cast your eyes down—Bertram, I must
and will know all. Speak out freely.
I have courage to hear the utmost."
But his voice trembled as he spoke,
and his lips twitched convulsively.
Bertram answered, sadly : " What
do you care about the street gossip of
envious people ? You know that you
have enemies, because you are rich and
high-minded. You have long been en¬
vied because your house is the most ex¬
tensive and solid in all Europe, and be¬
cause your drafts stand at par in all
the markets. They are jealous of the
fame of your firm, and for that very
reason they whisper all sorts of things
that they do not dare to say aloud.
But why should you let such miserable
scandal worry you ? "
Bertram tried to smile, but it was a
sorrowful, anxious one, which did not
escape Gotzkowsky. " Ah ! " said he,
"these light whisperings of calumny
are like the single snow-flakes which
finally collect together and roll on and
on, and at last become an avalanche
which buries up our honor and our
good name. TeU me, then, Bertram,
what do they whisper ? "
Bertram answered in a low, timid
voice: "They pretend to know that
your house has suffered immense losses ;
that you were not able to meet your
drafts; that all your wealth is un-
188
THE HEßCHANT OF BERLIN.
founded ; and that—^but why should I
repeat all the old women's and news¬
paper stories ? "
"Even the newspapers talk about it,
then!" muttered Gotzkowsky to him¬
self.
"Yes, the Yoman Gazette" contin¬
ued Bertram, " has an article in which
it speaks mysteriously and sympathiz-
ingly of the impending failure of one
of our most eminent houses. This is
said to aim at you, father."
" And the other paper. Speller's Jour¬
nal?"
"Is sorry to, join in the statement,
and confirms it to-day."
Gotzkowsky broke out into a mock¬
ing laugh, his coimtenance bright¬
ened with indignation, and his fea¬
tures expressed their former energy
and decision. " O world I O men I "
he exclaimed, " how pitiful, how mean
you are! You know, Bertram, how
much good I have done these men. I
have protected them as a friend in the
time of their need and affliction. I
saved them from punishment and
shame. In return they trumpet forth
my misfortunes, and that which might
have been altered by the considerate
silence of my friends, they cry aloud to
all the world, and thereby precipitate
my falL"
"It is, then, really true?" asked
Bertram, turning pale. " You are in
danger ? "
" To-day is the last term for the pay¬
ment of the five hundred thousand dol¬
lars, which I have to pay om king, for
the town of Leipsic. Our largest bank¬
ing-houses have bought up these claims
of the king against me."
"But that is not your own debt,
You only stood good for Leipsic."
" 'îkat I did ; and as Leipsic cannot
pay, I must."
" But Leipsic can assume a portion
of the debt at least."
"Perhaps so," said Gotzkowsky.
" I have sent a courier to Leipsic, and
look for his return every hour. But
it is not that alone which troubles
me," continued he, after a pause. " It
would be easy to collect the five hun¬
dred thousand dollars. The new and
unexpected ordinance from the mint
which renders uncurrent the light
money, deprives me of another half
million. When I foresaw Leipsic's in¬
solvency, I had negotiated a loan with
Hamburg for half a million of light
money. But the spies of the Jews of
the mint discovered this, and when my
money was in the course of transmis¬
sion from Hamburg they managed to
obtain a decree from the king forbid¬
ding immediately the circulation of
this coin. In this way my five hun¬
dred thousand dollars became good
for nothing."
" Horrible ! " cried Bertram ; " have
you, then, not endeavored to save a
portion of this money ? "
"Yes, indeed," cried Gotzkowsky,
with a bitter laugh, " I have tried. I
wished to send fifty thousand dollars
of my money to the army of the
allies, to see if it would be current
there ; but Ephraim had foreseen this,
too, and obtained a decree forbidding
even the transit of this money through
the Prussian dominions. This new
and arbitrary law was only published
after my money had left Hamburg, and
CONFESSIONS.
189
I had grounds to hope that I would
not be prevented from bringing it
through the Prussian dominions, for it
was concealed in the double bottom of
a wagon. But avarice has sharp eyes,
and the spies who were set upon all my
actions succeeded in discovering this
too. The wagon was stopped at the
gates of Berlin, and the money was
discovered where they knew it was
beforehand, under this false bottom.
But who do you think it was, Bertram,
who denounced me in this affair ? You
would never guess it—^the chief burgo¬
master, President von Kircheisen I He
stood himself at the gate, watched for
the wagon, and searched until he found
the money."
" Kircheisen 1 The same, father,
whom you saved from death when the
Russians were here ? "
" The same, my son ; you shake your
head incredulously. Read for yom--
self." He took from his writing-table
a large paper provided with the official
seal, and handed it to Bertram. " Read
for yourself, my son. It is an order
from the minister Von Finkenstein."
It was written thus : " The half of
the sum is awarded by the king to
President von Kircheisen, as detective
and informer."
" A worthy title, ' detective and in¬
former,' " continued Gotzkowsky. " By
Heaven, I do not envy him it ! But
now you shall know all. It does me
good to confide to you my sorrows—it
lightens my poor heart. And now I
have another fear. You have heard
of my speculation in the Russian mag¬
azines ? "
" Of the magazines which you, with
De Neufville and the bankers Moses
and Samuel, bought?" asked Ber¬
tram.
" Yes, that is it. But Russia would
not enter into the bargain unless I
made myself responsible for the whole
sum."
" And you did so ? " asked Bertram,
trembling.
"I did. The purchase-money has
been due for four months. My fellow-
contractors have not paid. If Russia
insists upon the payment of this debt,
I am ruined."
" And why do not Samuel and
Moses pay their part ? "
Gotzkowsky did not answer immedi¬
ately, but when he did, his features ex¬
pressed scorn and contempt. " Moses
and Samuel are no longer' obliged ti
pay, because yesterday they declared
themselves insolvent."
Bertram suppressed with effort a cry
of anger, and covered his face with his
hands. " He is lost," he muttered to
himself, " lost beyond redemption, foi
he founds his hopes on De Neufvüle,
and he knows nothing of his unfortu¬
nate fate."
CHAPTER VII.
confessions.
When Bertram raised his head
again, Gotzkowsky was standing near
him, looking brightly and lovingly into
his sorrowful, twitching face. It was
now Gotzkowsky who had to console
Bertram, and smiling quietly and gen
tly, he told him of the hopes which still
remained to him.
190
THE MERCHANT OF BERLIN.
" De Neufville may return," he said.
" He has only gone to the opening of
the bank at Amsterdam, and if he
succeeds in collecting the necessary
sum there, and returns with it as rap¬
idly as possible to Berlin, I am saved."
" But if he does not come ? " asked
Bertram, with a trembling voice, fixing
his sad looks penetratingly on Gotz-
kowsky.
" Then I am irretrievably lost," an¬
swered Gotzkowsky, in a loud, firm
voice.
Bertram stepped quickly up to him,
and threw himself in his arms, folding
him to his breast as if to protect him
against all the danger which threat¬
ened him. " You must be saved 1 "
cried he, eagerly ; " it is not possible
that you should fall. You have never
deserved such a misfortune."
•
" For that very reason I fear that I
must suffer it. If I deserved this dis¬
grace, perhaps it never would have
happened to me. The world is so
fashioned, that what we deserve of
good or evil never happens to us."
" But you have friends ; thousands
are indebted to your generosity, and
to your ever - ready, helping hand.
There is scarcely a merchant in Ber¬
lin to whom, some time or other, you
have not been of assistance in his
need 1 "
Gotzkowsky laid his hand on his
shoulder, and replied with a proud
air : "My friend, it is precisely those
who owe me gratitude, who are now
trying to ruin me. The very fact of
having obliged them, makes them my
bitter enemies. Gratitude is so disa¬
greeable a virtue, that men become im¬
placably hostile to those who impose
it on them."
" When you speak thus, my father,"
said Bertram, glowing -with noble in¬
dignation, "you condemn me too.
You have boimd me to everlasting
gratitude, and yet I love you inex¬
pressibly for it."
"You are a rare exception, my
son," replied Gotzkowsky, sadly, " and
I thank God, who has taught me to
know you."
" You believe then, in me ? " asked
Bertram, looking earnestly in his eyes.
" I believe in you," said Gotzkowsky,
solemnly, offering him his hand.
"Well, then, my father," cried Ber¬
tram, quickly and gladly, " in this im¬
portant moment let me make an ur¬
gent request of you. You call me your
son ; give me, then, the rights of a son.
Allow me the happiness of offering
you the little that I can call mine.
My fortime is not, to be sure, sufficient
to save you, but it can at least be of
service to you. Father, I owe you
every thing. It is yours—take it
back."
" Never ! " interrupted Gotzkowsky.
But Bertram continued more ur¬
gently : " At least consider of it.
When you founded the porcelain fac¬
tory, you made me a partner in this
business, and I accepted it, although I
had nothing but what belonged to you.
When the king, a year ago, bought the
factory from you, you paid me a fourth
of the purchase-money, and gave me
thirty thousand dollars. I accepted it,
although T had not contributed any
part of the capital."
"You are mistaken, my son. You
CONFESSIONS.
191
forget that you contributed the capital
of your knowledge and genius."
" One cannot live on genius," cried
Bertram, impatiently; "and with aU
my knowledge I might have starved,
if you had not taken me by the
hand."
Gotzkowsky would have denied this,
but Bertram continued still more press-
ingly : " Father, if I were, indeed, your
son, could you then deny me the right
of falling and being ruined with you ?
Can you deny your son the right of di¬
viding with you what is his ? "
" No ! " cried Gotzkowsky, " from
my son I could demand the sacrifice,
but it is not only a question of earthly
possessions, it is a question of my most
sacred spiritual good ; it is the honor
of my name. Had I a son, I would
exact of him that he should follow me
unto death, so that the honor of my
name might be saved."
" Well, then, let me be, indeed, your
son. Give me your daughter 1 "
Gotzkowsky stepped back in aston¬
ishment and gazed at Bertram's noble,
excited countenance. " Ah I " cried he,
" I thank you, Bertram ; you are a no¬
ble man! I understand you. You
have found out the sorrow which
gnaws most painfully at my heart ; that
Elise, by my failure, becomes a beggar.
You wish most nobly to assist her and.
protect her from want."
" No, father, I desire her for her own
sake—^because I love her ! I would
wish to be your son, in order to have
the right to give up aU for you, and to
work for you. During your whole Ufe
you have done so much for others;
now grant me the privilege of doing
something for you. Give me your
daughter ; let me be your son."
Gotzkowsky was silent for some
minutes, then looked at Bertram sadly
and sorrowfully. "You know that
this has always been the wish of my
heart. But what I have longed for,
for so many years, that I must now re
fuse. I dare not drag you down in
my misfortune, and even if I were
weak enough to yield to your request,
I cannot sacrifice the happiness of my
daughter to my welfare. Do you be¬
lieve, Bertram, that Elise loves you ? "
" She is kind to me, and is anxious
for my welfare—that is enough," said
Bertram, sadly. "I have learned for
many a long year to renounce all claim
to her love."
"But if she loves another? I fear
her heart is but too true, and has not
forgotten the trifier who destroyed her
happiness. Ah I when I think of this
man, my heart trembles with anger
and grief. In the hour of death I
could forgive all my enemies, but the
hatred toward this man, who has so
wantonly trifled with the faith and
love of my child, that hatred I will
take with me into the grave—and yet,
I fear, EUse has not forgotten him."
" This dead love does not give me
any uneasiness," said Bertram. " Four
years have passed since that unlucky
day."
"And for four years have I been
faithful in my hatred to him. May
not Elise have been as constant in her
love ? "
Bertram sighed and drooped nis
head. " It is too true, love does not
die so easily." Then after a pause he
102
THE MERCHANT OF BERLIN.
added in a determined voice : " I re¬
peat my request—give me your daugh¬
ter ! "
"You know that she does not love
you, and yet you still desire her
hand ? "
" 1 do. I have confidence enough in
her and in myself to believe Elise will
not refuse it to me, but will freely make
this sacrifice, when she leams that you
will only allow me, as your son, the
privilege of sharing my little fortune
with you. For her love to you, she
WÜ1 give me her hand, and invest
me with the rights of a son toward
you."
" Never ! " cried Gotzkowsky, vehe¬
mently. " She must never be informed
of that of which we have been speak¬
ing. She does not forebode the mis¬
fortune which threatens her. I have
not the courage to teU her, and why
should I ? When the terrible event
happens, she wiU learn it soon enough,
and if it can be averted, why then I
can spare her this unhappiness. For
my child I wish a clear, imclouded
sky ; let me bear the clouds and storms.
That has always been the object of my
life, and I will remain faithful to it to
the last."
"You refuse me, then?" asked Ber¬
tram, pained.
"No, my son. I accept you, and
that which you have given me in this
hour, the treasure of your love ; that I
can never lose. That remains mine,
even if they deprive me of all else."
He opened his arms, and Bertram
threw himself weeping on his breast.
Long did they thus remain, heart to
heart, in silence; but soul spoke to
soul without words and without ex¬
pressions of love.
When Gotzkowsky raised himself
from Bertram's embrace, his counte¬
nance was calm, and almost cheerfnl.
" I thank you, my son ; you have given
me new courage and strength. Now
I will preserve all my composure. I
will humble my pride, and apply to
those who in former times professed
gratitude toward me. The Council of
Berlin have owed me twenty thousand
ducats since the time that the Bus-
sians were here, and I had to travel
twice in the service of the town to Pe¬
tersburg and Warsaw. These accounts
have never been asked for. I will
make it my business to remind the
Council of them, as in the days of
their need they swore eternal gratitude
to me. Come, Bertram, let us see
whether these worshipful magistrates
are any better than other men, and
whether they have any recollection of
those sacred promises which they made
mè in the days when they needed help,
and when misfortune threatened them."
CHAPTER Vm.
THE EUSSIAN PEINCE.
Befohe the door of the first hotel
in Berlin stood a travelling-carriage
covered with dust. The team of six
post-horses, and the two servants on
the coach-box, showed that it was a
personage of quality who now honored
the hotel with a visit; and it was
therefore very natural that the host
THE RUSSIAN PRINCE.
193
should hurry out and open the car¬
riage door with a most respectful bow.
A very tall, thin man descended
from the carriage with slow and sol¬
emn dignity, and as he entered the
house gravely and in silence, his
Freneh valet asked the host whether
he had rooms elegant enough to suit
the Prince StratimojefiF.
The countenanee of the host ex¬
panded into a glowing smile ; he
snatched the candlestick hastily from
the hands of the head butler, and flew
up the steps himself to prepare the
room of state for the prince.
The French valet examined the
rooms with a critical eye, and declared
that, though they were not worthy of
his highness, yet he would coudeseend
to occupy them.
The prince still remained silent, his
travelling-cap drawn deep down over
his face, and his whole figure concealed
in the ample robe of sable fur, which
reached to his feet. He motioned to
the host with his hand to leave the
room ; then, in a few short words, he
ordered his valet to see to supper, and
to have it served up iu an adjoining
room, and as at that moment a car¬
riage drove up to the house, he com¬
missioned him to see whether it was
his suite. The yalet stated that it was
his highness's private secretary, his
man of business, and his chaplain.
"I will not see them to-day—^they
may seek their own pleasure," said the
prince, authoritatively. " Tell them
that our buáness begins to-morrow.
But for you, Guillaume, I have an im¬
portant commission. Go to the host
and inquire for the rich banker, John
13
Gotzkowsky ; and when you have
found where he lives, enter into fur¬
ther conversation, and get some infor¬
mation about the circumstaiices of this
gentleman. I wish to learn, too, about
his family; ask about his daughter—
if she be still unmarried, and whether
she is now in Berlin. In short, find
out all you can."
The courteous and obedient valet
had left the room some time, but
Prince Stratimojeff still stood motion¬
less, his eyes cast on the ground, and
muttering some unintelligible words.
Suddenly, with an impatient move¬
ment, he threw his furred robe from
off his shoulders, and cast his head¬
gear far into the room.
" Air ! air 1 I suffocate I " cried he.
" I feel as if this town lay on my chest
like a hundred-pound weight, and that
I have to conceal myself like a crimi¬
nal from the eyes of men."
He threw his cloak open, and took a
long and deep breath.
What was it, then, that so strangely
excited Prince Stratimojeff, and shook
his very bones as with an ague? It
was the memory of former days ; it was
the painful and damning voice of Con¬
science which tormented him. What
reason had he to inquire after Gotz¬
kowsky the banker, and his daughter ?
Howl Had the heart of Count Feo-
dor von Brenda become so hardened,
that when he returned to Berlin he
should not long to hear of her whom
he had once so shamefully wronged
and betrayed ?
It was indeed himself. Colonel
Count Feodor von Brenda had become
transformed into the Prince Stratimo-
194
THE MERCHANT OF BERLIN.
jeflf. Four short years had passed, but
what desolation had they not caused
in his inner Ufe !—four years of disso¬
lute pleasure, of mad, enervating enjoy¬
ment ; four bacchanalian years of sen¬
sual dissipation and extravagance ;
four years passed at the court of two
Russian empresses ! In these four
years Elizabeth had died; and for a
few days the unfortunate Peter IL had
worn the imj)erial crown. But it had
proved too heavy for him; and his
great consort, Catharine, full of com¬
passion and Russian humanity for him,
had sought to lighten his load 1 Only,
in her too great zeal, she had taten
not only his crown, but his head, and
changed his prison for a grave.
The Guards shouted for the new em¬
press as they had done for the old. In
the presence of their beautiful young
sovereign they remembered with de¬
light the graciousness of her predeces¬
sor, who, in the fulness of her kind¬
ness and power, had made princes of
the subalterns, and great lords of the
' privates.
Why should not Catharine resemble
Elizabeth in that respect, and show fa¬
vor to the splendid soldiers of the
Guards ? She was merciful. She was a
gracious mistress to all her subjects,
but especially so to the handsome men
of her empire. And the Count von
Brenda was a very handsome man. He
had been the favorite of Elizabeth, why
should he not also be the favorite of
Catharine? The former had treated
him with motherly kindness, for she
was old ; but Catharine was young, and
iu her proud breast there beat an ardent
heart—a heart that was so powerful
and large, that it had room for more
than one lover.
The young count had been for some
short months the declared darling of
the empress, and the. whole world did
homage to him, and looked upon it as
a matter of course that Catharine should
make him Prince Stratimojef^ and be¬
stow on him not only orders and titles,
but lands and thousands of slaves.
What a mad, intoxicating, joyous
life was his 1 How all the world en¬
vied the handsome, rich prince, sur¬
rounded by the halo of imperial favor I
But nevertheless a cloud lay always on
his brow, and he plunged into the sea
of pleasure like one ill of fever, who
seeks something to cool the heat which
is consuming him. He threw himself
into the arms of dissipation, as the
criminal condemned to execution, who
in the intoxication of champagne revels
away the last hours of life in order to
banish the thought that Death stands
behind him, reaching forth his hand to
seize him.
Thus , did the prince strive, in the
wild excitement of pleasure to kill
thought and deaden his heart. But
there would come quiet hours to remind
him of the past, and, at times, in the
naiddle of the night, he would start up
from his couch, as if he had heard a
scream, a single heart-piercing cry,
which rang through his very soul.
But this scream existed only in his
dreams, those dreams in which Elise's
pale, sad face appeared, and made him
tremble before her indignant and de¬
spairing grief. Near this light figure
of his beloved appeared another pallid
woman, whose sorrowful looks tortured
THE RUSSIAN PRINCE.
195
him, and struck his soul with anguish.
He thought he saw his wife, the late
Countess Lodoiska von Sandomir, who,
with weeping eyes, demanded of him
her murdered happiness, her youth,
her life. •
She was dead; she had died of grief,
for she had felt that the man for whom
she had sacrificed every thing —her
youth, her honor, and her duty—de¬
spised her, and could never forgive her
for having cheated him into taking
her for his wife. She died the victim
of his contempt and hatred. Not sud¬
denly, not as with a lightning-stroke,
did his contempt kill, hut slowly and
steadily did it pierce her heart. She
bore the torture for one desolate, dis¬
consolate year, and then she died
solitary and forsaken. No loving hand
dried the death-sweat on her cold fore¬
head ; no pitying lips whispered words
of love and hope to her; yet, on her
death-bed, her heart was still warm
toward her husband, and even then she
blessed bim and forgave him all her
wrongs.
A letter, written by her trembling
hand in her last hours, full of humble,
earnest love, of forgiving gentleness,
which her husband the prince found on
his writing-table, as well as another,
directed to Elise Gotzkowsky, and en¬
closed in the first, bore witness to this
fact.
Lodoiska had loved her husband suffi¬
ciently to be aware of the cause of his
wild and extravagant life, to know that
in the bottom of his heart he was suf¬
fering from the only true love of his life
—^his love for Elise ; and that all the
rest was only a mad and desperate ef¬
fort to deaden his feelings and smother
his desire.
Elise's image followed him every¬
where; and his love for her, which
might have been the blessing of a
good man's life, had been a cruel
curse to that of a guilty one. In the
midst of the wild routs, the private
orgies of the imperial court, her image
rose before him from these waves of
maddening pleasure as a guardian
angel, hushing him often into silence,
and stopping the wanton jest on his
quivering lips.
At times during these feasts and
dances, he was seized with a bound¬
less, unspeakable dread, a torturing
anxiety. He felt inexpressibly deso¬
late, and the consciousness of his lost,
his wasted existence haunted him,
while it seemed as if an inner voice
was whispering—" Go fiee to her I
with Elise is peace and innocence. If
you are to be saved, Elise wiU save
you."
But he had not the strength to obey
the warning voice of his heart ; he
was bound in gilded fetters, and, even
if love were absent, pride and vanity
prevented him from breaking these
bonds. He was the favorite of the
young empress, and the great of the
empire bowed down before him, and
felt themselves happy in his smile, and
honored by the pressure of his hand.
But every thing is changeable. ■ Even
the heart of the Empress Catharine was
fickle.
One day the Prince Stratimojeff re¬
ceived a note from his imperial mis¬
tress, in which she intrusted him with
a diplomatic mission to Germany, and
196
THE MERCHANT OF BERLIN.
requested him, on account of the ur¬
gency of the occasion, to start imme¬
diately.
Feodor understood the hidden mean¬
ing of this apparently gracious and
loving letter; he understood that he
had fallen into disgrace—not that he
had committed any error or crime. It
was only that Count Orlofif was hand¬
somer and more amiable than himself,
or at least that he seemed so to the em¬
press. Therefore Feodor's presence
was inconvenient to her; for at that
time, in the commencement of her
reign, Catharine had still some modesty
left, and the place of favorite had not
yet become an official position at
court, hut only a public secret. As
yet, she avoided bringing the dis¬
charged favorite in contact with the
newly - appointed one, and therefore
Feodor had to be removed before
Count Alexis Orloff could enter on his
duties.
Prince Feodor Stratimojeff crushed
the perfumed imperial note in his
hand, and muttered through his set
teeth : " She has sacrificed me to an
OrloflT! She wishes to send me away,
that she may more secm-ely play this
new farce of love. Very well ; I will
go, but not to return to be deceived
anew by her vows of love and glances
of favor. No ! let this bre'ach be
eternal. Catharine shall feel that,
although an empress, she is a woman
whom I despise. Therefore let there
be no word of farewell, not even the
smallest request. She bids me go, and
I go. And would it not seem as if
Fate pointed out to me the way I am
to go? Is it not a strange chance
that Catharine should choose me for
this mission to Germany ?"
It was indeed a singular accident
that the empress unintentionally should
have sent back her discharged fevorite
to the only woman whom he had evei
loved. He was sent as ambassador ex¬
traordinary to Berlin, to press more ur¬
gently her claims on a Prussian banker,
to bring up before the Prussian depart¬
ment for foreign aflfairs the merchant
John Gotzkowsky with regard to her
demand for two millions of dollars;
and, in case he refused to pay it, to try
in a diplomatic way whether Prussia
could not be induced to support this
demand of the empress, and procure
immediate payment.
This was the mission which Catha¬
rine had confided to Prince Stratimo¬
jeff, who, when he determined to un¬
dertake it, said to himself; "I will
' •
take vengeance on this proud woman
who thinks to cast me off like a toy of
which she has tired ; I will show her
that my heart is unmoved by her infi¬
delity ; I win present to her my young
wife, whose beauty, youth, and inno¬
cence wül cause her to blush for
shame."
Never had he been so fascinating
and lively, so brilliant and sparkling
with wit, as on the evening preceding
his departure. His jests were the
boldest and freest ; they made even
the empress blush, and sent her blood
hot and boimding through her veins.
The comt, that would have been
delighted to have seen the long-en¬
vied and hated favorite now abashed
and humbled before his newly-de¬
clared successor, remarked with aston
OLD LOVE—NEW SORROW.
197
ishment and bitter mortification that
the humiliation was changed into a
triumph ; for the empress, charmed by
his amiability and wit, seemed to turn
her heart; again toward him, and to-
entreat him with the tenderest looks
to forgive her faithlessness. She had
already forgotten the unfortunate em¬
bassy which was to remove Feodor
from her court, while he himself came
to remind her of it.
While all countenances were still
' beaming with delight over a precious
hon-mot which Feodor had just per¬
petrated, and at which the empress
herself had laughed aloud, he stepped
up to her and requested her blessing
on his voyage to Germany, which he
was going to commence that night.
Catharine felt almost inclined to
withdraw her orders and request him
to remain, but she was woman enough
to be able to read pride and defiance
in his face. She therefore contented
herself with wishing him a speedy
return to his duty. Publicly, in the
presence of the whole court and her
new favorite, she afibrded Prince
Stratimojeflf a fresh triumph : she
bade him kneel, aud taking a golden
chain to which her portrait was at¬
tached, she threw the links around
his neck. Kissing him gently on the
forehead, with a gracious smile full of
promise, she said to him only, Au re¬
voir ! "
CHAPTER rX.
old love—new soeeow.
Elise was in her room. Her face
bore its usual expression of quiet,
silent resignation, and her large dark
eyes had a dreamy but bright look.
She sat in an easy-ehair, reading, and
whoever had seen her with her high,
open forehead and calm looks, would
have thought her one of those happy
and fortunate beings whom Heaven
had blessed with eternal rest and
cheerful composure, who was unac¬
quainted with the corroding poison
of passionate grief. No trace of the
storm which had raged through her
life could be seen on her countenance.
Her grief had eaten inwardly, and
only her heart and the spirit of her
youth had died; her face had re¬
mained young and handsome. The
vigor of her youth had overcome the
grief of her soul, and her cheeks, al¬
though colorless and transparent in
their paleness, were stUl free from that
sallow, sickly pallor, which is the her¬
ald of approaching dissolution. She
was apparently healthy and young,
and only sick and cold at heart. Per¬
haps she only needed some sunbeams
to warm up again her chilled heart,
only some gleam of hope to make
her soul young again, and strong and
ready once more to love and to sufier.
She had never forgotten, never ceased
to think of the past, nor of him whom
she had loved so unspeakably, whom
her soul could not let go.
The memories of the past were the
life of the present to her. The tree in
198
THE MEBCHAHT OF BERLIN.
the garden which he had admired, the
flowers he had loved, and which since
then had four times renewed their
bloom, the rustling of the fir-trees
which sounded from the wall, all
spoke of him, and caused her heart to
beat, she knew not whether with anger
or with pain. Even now, as she sat in
her room, her thoughts and fancies
were busy with him. She had been
reading, but the book dropped from
her hand. From the love-scenes which
were described in it her thoughts
roamed far and wide, and awakened
the dreams and hopes of the past.
But Elise did not like to give her¬
self up to these reveries, and at times
had a silent horror even of her own
thoughts. She did not like to confess
to herself that she still hoped in the
man who had betrayed her. • She had,
as it were, a sympathizing pity with
herself; she threw a veil over her
heart, to hide from herself that it stiU
quivered with pain and love. Only at
times, in the quiet and solitude of her
chamber, she ventured to draw aside
the veil, to look down into the depths
of her soul, and, in agonizing delight,
in one dream blend together the pres¬
ent and the past. She leaned back in
her chair, her large dark eyes fixed on
vacancy. Some passage in the book
had reminded her of her own sad
love, had struck on her heart like the
hammer of a bell, and in response it
had returned but one single note, the
word " Feodor."
" Ah, Feodor ! " she whispered to
herself, but with a shudder at the name,
and a blush suffused her otherwise
pale cheeks for a moment. " It is the
first time my lips have spoken his
name, but my heart is constantly re¬
peating it in hopeless grief, and in my
dreams he still lives. I have accepted
•my fate ; to the world I have separated
from him ; to myself, never ! Oh, how
mysterious is the heart 1 I hate and
yet I love him." She covered her face
with her hands, and sat long silent
and motionless. A noise at the door
roused her. It was only Marianne,
her maid, who came to announce that
a strange gentleman was outside, who
earnestly requested to speak to her.
Elise trembled, she knew not why. A
prophetic dread seized her soul, and in
a voice scarcely audible she asked the
name of her visitor.
"He will not give his name," an¬
swered the maid. " He says the name
is of no consequence. He had a letter
to deliver from the Countess Lodoiska,
of St. Petersburg."
Elise uttered a cry, and sprang from
her seat—she knew all. Her heart
told her that he was near. It must be
himself. She felt as if she must hasten
to her father for protection and safety ;
but her feet refiised to carry her. She
trembled so, that she was obliged to
hold on to the arm of a chair to keep
herself from falling. She motioned
with her hand to deny him admittance,
but Marianne did not imderstand her ;
for, opening the door, she invited the
stranger in, and then left them.
And now they stood in presence of
each other, silent and breathless—^Elise
trembling with excitement and bitter
feeling, wrestling with her own emo¬
tion, and deeply abashed by the meet¬
ing. Both uttered an inward prayer—
OLD LOVE—NEW SOEEOW.
199
but how different were their two as¬
pirations 1
" Now, God or devil 1 " thought
Feodor, " give my words power, lend
enchantment to my tongue, that I may
win Elise ! "
Elise prayed to herself : "Have
mercy on me, 0 God ! Take this love
from me, or let me die."
In sad silence these two, so long
separated, stood opposite to each other
—^both hesitating, he knowing that he
was guilty, she ashamed of the con¬
sciousness of her love. But finally, he
succeeded in breaking this silence. He
whispered her name, and as she,
alarmed and shuddering, looked up at
him, he stretched out his arms implor¬
ingly toward her. And then she felt,
thought, knew nothing but him. She
uttered a cry, and rushed forward to
throw herself in his arms. But sud¬
denly she stopped. Her dream was at
an end, and now awaking from the
first ecstasy of seeing him again, she
collected herself, and stood before him
in the whole pride and dignity of her
offended honor. She found courage to
sacrifice her own heart, and, with cold,
constrained manner, bowing to him,
she asked, " Colonel von Brenda, whom
do you wish to see ? "
The prince sighed deeply, and let
his arms drop. " It is over," said he ;
" she no longer loves me ! "
Low as these words had been spoken,
Elise had seized their purport, and
they touched her to the quick. " What
do you wish ? " she continued.
" Nothing 1 " said he, despondently,
" I have made a mistake. I expected
to find a faithful heart, a woman like
an angel, ready in the hour of meeting
to forget aU else, and take refuge in
this heart ; to forgive, and, with her
blessing, to wipe out the curse of my
existence. That is what I sought. But
God is just, and I did not deserve such
happiness. I submit."
" Oh, my God 1 " said Elise to her¬
self, "it is the same voice which
once charmed me." She no longer
found strength in herself to bid Lim
go. She would have given her life-
blood to be always able to be thus
near him.
" This time, young lady," said Feo¬
dor, " I come only as a messenger, the
executor of the will of one who is
dead." He took a letter from his
bosom and handed it to Elise. " I
bring you," he said, solemnly, " the last
will of my wife. Countess Lodoiska."
" She is no longer aHve ? " cried
Elise, and involuntarily an almost joy¬
ful tone pervaded her voice.
This did not escape the prince. " I
will win her," said he to himself. His
eyes shone brighter, his countenance
looked prouder, and his heart beat
higher with triumphant joy. Elise had
taken the letter, and still held it in her
hand. " Will you not read it ? " asked
he, gently, and her heart trembled at
the pleading tone of his voice.
" Yes, I wiU read it," she answered,
as if awaking from a dream, and
breaking the seal hastily.
The prince fixed his sharp, piercing
eyes on her, and seemed to wish to read
in her looks her inmost thoughts, and
feeling them favorable to him, he ap¬
proached still closer to her.
The letter was short and hastily
200
THE MERCHANT OF BERLIN •
written, but every word entered her
soul and brought tears to her eyes. It
ran thus :
" My dear Elise : When you receive
this letter I shall be no more, and the
heart which has suffered so much will
be at rest. But when I have found re¬
pose in the grave, do you fulfil my trust.
I leave you the dearest legacy that
I possess. I give you back your prop¬
erty, the heart and love of Feodor,
which never ceased to belong to you.
I never have been able to win this love
to myself He gave me his hand, his
heart remained yours, and that is kill¬
ing me. Take it, then, it is my leg¬
acy to you ; and if you accept it, my
purified spirit will bless your reunion.
" Lodoiska."
The letter dropped from her hand ;
completely overpowered by deep and
solemn emotions, she sank in her chair
and hid her tears with her hands.
Feodor felt that she was again his, that
he had regained his sway over her.
He rushed toward her, falling at her
feet, and passionately snatching her
hands from her face, he exclaimed :
" Elise ! In this moment her spirit is
hovering over us. She blesses this
love which she has already forgiven.
Oh, if you only knew what I have suf¬
fered for you, you would, at least, not
be angry with me. You would pardon
me for the sake of what I have under¬
gone."
"Have I then not suffered also?"
she asked, turning her face, covered
with tears, toward him.
" Oh ! leave me here at your feet,"
he continued. "Look upon me as a
poor pilgrim Who has wandered to the
Holy Sepulchre in order to cleanse his
heart of its sins at the sanctuary by
sincere repentance and prayers for for¬
giveness. You are my sanctuary, to
you my heart bends ; the poor pilgrim
has come to you to confess and be
shrived before he dies. WiU you, my
Madonna, hear him ? May I tell you
what I have endured, how much I have
suffered ? "
" Speak," she said, half conscious, but
eagerly listening to the music of his
voice. "Tell me what you suffered,
that I may forget my own sufferings
when I gave you up."
" Oh ! " he continued, with a shudder,
"I shall never forget that fearful mo¬
ment when I became aware of the de¬
ception, and discovered it was not you,
but Lodoiska, whom I held in my arms.
A raving madness seized me, which
threatened my own life. Lodoiska
turned aside the dagger, and pro¬
nounced your name. That name re¬
called me to life—to the knowledge
of my crime. I submitted to the pun¬
ishment which I had merited, and
which you had imposed upon me. I
led Lodoiska to the altar, at which I
had hoped to see you. I made her my
wife, and my heart pronounced your
name, while my lips bound me to Tier.
It was a terrible hour ; a fearful agony
raged within me, and it has never left
me since. It was there, when Lodoiska
pressed me to her heart. It was près
ent in the tumult of battle. Then,
however, when death raged around me,
when destruction thundered from the
enemy's cannon, then I became cheer¬
ful, and the pang left me as I rushed
old love—sorrow.
,201
amid the enemy's ranks. But even
death itself retreated before me—I
found on the battle-field only honor
and fame, but not the object for which
I fought—not death. I lived to suffer
and to expiate my crime toward you,
Elise. But one hope sustained me, the
hope one day to fell at your feet, to
clasp your knees, and to sue for forgive¬
ness."
Completely overcome by his own
passionate description, he bowed his
head on his knees, and wept aloud.
He had succeeded in rousing his own
sympathy; he believed in his own
grief He had so feelingly played the
part of a repentant sinner, an ardent
lover, that for a moment probability
and reality had become blended in one,
and he felt himself thoroughly possessed
by crushing repentance.
But Elise believed in him. His
voice sounded like music in her ear,
and every fibre of her heart thrilled
and quivered. The past with its griefs
and sorrows was gone forever, he was
once more there, with no stranger to
come between them, and she only felt
that she loved him without bounds.
He embraced her knees, looked
pleadingly up in her face. "Elise,
forgive me," cried he; "say but one
word, ' Pardon,' and I will go away in
silence, and never again dare to ap¬
proach you."
Elise had no longer power to with¬
stand him. She opened her arms, and
threw them with passionate tenderness
around his neck. "Feodor, love does
not forgive, it loves," she cried with
unspeakable rapture, and tears of de¬
light burst from her eyes.
Feodor uttered a cry of joy, and
sprang up to draw her to his breast, to
cover her face with kisses, to whisper
words of delight, of tenderness, of
passionate love, in her listening ear.
" Oh 1 now aU is right again—^now you
are again mine. These four years are
as if they had not been. It was all a
mournful dream—and we are now
awake. Now we know that we love
each other, that we belong to each oth¬
er, forever. Come, Elise, it is the same
hour which then called us to the altar.
Come, the priest waits. For four long
years have I hoped for this hour.
Come, my beloved."
He threw his strong arm around her
and raised her to his breast to draw her
forth with him. As Elise drew herself
gently back, he continued still more
passionately: "I wiU not let you go,
for you are mine. You have betrothed
yourself to me for life or death. Come,
the priest is waiting, and to-day shall
you be my wife. This time no un¬
friendly hand shall impose itself be¬
tween us, and Lodoiska no longer
lives."
" But my father lives," said Elise, as
earnestly and proudly she freed herself
from Feodor's arms. "Without his
consent I do not leave this threshold.
It was for that the Lord punished us.
My father's blessing was not upon our
love, and I had sinned grievously
against him. Now, it is expiated, and
Fate is appeased. Let us go hand in
hand to my father, and ask his blessing
on our love, that love which has re¬
mained undiminished through so many
years of grief."
" I submit to you. I wiU obey your
E02
THE MERCHANT OF BERLIN.
will in every thing. But will not your
father reject me ? I feel that he must
hate me, for the tears I have caused you
to shed."
" He will love you when he sees that
you have taught me to smile once
more," said she, gently. " Come to my
father."
She wished to draw him along with
her. But his consciousness of guUt
held him hack. He wanted the daring
courage to face this man whom he had
been sent to ruin ; and involuntarily he
shrank hack from his own deeds. "I
dare not go before him so suddenly
and unprepared," said he, hesitat¬
ingly.
" Then allow me to prepare him for
your presence."
" And if he denies his sanction Î "
" He will not do it."
" He has "swom never to allow you
to marry a Russian."
" Oh, that was long ago," said she,
smiling, " when Russia was our enemy.
Now we are at peace. The bloody
streams of discord are dried up, and
an angel of peace rules over all coun¬
tries. Even my father will feel his in¬
fluence, and make peace with you and
me."
Teodor did not answer immediately.
He stood thoughtful and contempla¬
tive, weighing the necessary and un¬
avoidable, and considering what he
should do. One thing only was clear.
Neither Elise nor Gotzkowsky must be
allowed to suspect on what extraordi¬
nary mission his empress had sent him
thither. Only when EUse was irrevo¬
cably bound to him, when she was his
without recall, when Gotzkowsky had
given his consent to their union—
then would he dare to disclose it to
him. It was necessary, above all, to
postpone the negotiations about the
Russian demands for a day, and there¬
fore he only gave his agents his in¬
structions, and imposed on them silence
and inactivity for a day longer. The
principal thing, however, was to con¬
vince Elise and her father, that their
union should suffer no delay, because
he was only allowed to remain a few
hours. He put his arm aroimd Elise^
slender waist and pressed her to his
heart. " Listen to me, my beloved : my
time has been but sparingly dealt out
to me. I have come on with courier
horses, so as to allow me more leisure
on my return writh you. But to-day
we must leave, for the army is on the
frontier, equipped and ready for war.
Only out of special favor did the em¬
press allow me a short leave of absence
to fetch my wife. In her clemency she
has done what she was able to do, and
I must now obey her orders to return
q)eedily, if I do not wish to bring her
anger down upon me. That nothing
might prevent or delay us, I have
brought a chaplain of our Church with
me, to bless our union. You see, my
beloved, that every thing is ready, and
aU that is wanting is the wreath of
myrtle in your hair."
" And the blessing of my father," she
replied, solemnly.
Feodor's brow darkened, ^d an an¬
gry expression flashed across his coun¬
tenance. EUse did not perceive it, for,
in her noble forgetfulness of self, she
had leaned her head on his breast, and
all doubt and distrust were aUen to her
OLD LOVE—NEW SORROW.
203
free and confiding love. The love of a
woman is of divine nature; it for¬
gives all, it safifers all ; it is as strong in
giving as in forgiving. Every woman
when she loves is an inspired poetess ;
the divine frenzy has seized, her, and
poetic utterances of ecstasy issue from
her trembling lips. This poor girl, too,
had become inspired. Confidingly
happy, she reposed on the breast of the
man whom she had never ceased to
love, whom she had blessed in the
midst of her bitterest tears, whom she
had prayed for, earnestly entreating
God to have mercy on him.
"Do you go to your father," said
Feodor, after a pause. "Pray for his
consent and his blessing on both of us
—I hasten to prepare every thing. Tell
your father that my whole life shall be
spent in the endeavor to redeem every
tear you have shed for me with a smile ;
that I will love him as a son to whom
he has given the dearest treasure of life,
his Elise."
He pressed her to his heart and
kissed her forehead. Elise raised her
face from his breast, and smiled on him
with loving emotion. But he placed
his hands over her eyes; he was not
callous enough to be able to bear those
innocent, yielding, tender looks.
"I must be gone," he said. "But
this shaU be our last separation, and
when I return, it shall be to lead you
to the altar. In an hour, dearest, you
must be ready. At the end of that
time, I will come to take you to St.
Petersburg, and present you at the em¬
press's court as my bride, the Princess
Stratimojeff."
He looked down at her with an air
of triumph, to see what an impression
his words would have on her. He had
expected to prepare a pleasurable sur¬
prise for her with the princely title—^to
see her blush with proud satisfaction.
But Elise felt neither elevated nor
honored by the high rank. What did
she care whether Feodor was a prince
or a poor officer, so that he only loved
her, and would never again forsake
her?
She replied, with some surprise,
"Princess Stratimojeff! What does
that mean ? "
" For three months," said he, with a
proud smBe, " I have been Prince Strat¬
imojeff. The empress gave me this
title. The world calls me prince, but
you—^you will call me your Feodor ? "
" Oh," said she, feelingly, " my heart
called you so when you did not hear
me."
" Well, then, go -wind the wreath of
myrtle in your hair, and wait for me.
In an hom I wiU return."
He hastened to the door, but on the
threshold he turned to send a farewell
greeting to her. Their eyes met and
rested on each other, and suddenly a
deep, indescribable feeling of grief
came oyer him. It seemed to him as
if he would never see her again ; as if
the threshold once crossed, Elise was
lost to him forever. Once again he re-
tiuned, and folded her passionately in
his arms, and, completely overpowered
by his painful presentiments, he bowed
his head on her shoulder, and wept
bitterly. He then tore himself loose.
"Farewell!" he cried, but his voice
sounded hoarse and rough—" farewell I
in an hour I wiU return for you. Be
204
THE MERCHANT OF BERLIN.
prepared, do not keep me waiting in
vain. Farewell 1 "
CHAPTER X.
THE MAGISTBACT OF BEKLIN.
Gotzkowskt had conquered his
proud heart ; he had left his house to
apply to those whom he had benefited
and saved in the days of their need
and distress, and who had then avowed
him everlasting gratitude. He resolved
now, reluctantly and with deep humili¬
ation, rather to remind them of those
days than to ask of them any favors or
assistance beyond the payment of their
debts to him.
First he went to the ober-burgomas-
ter. President Kircheisen; to the man
whom he had saved from death, who
had clung to him, and, when he had
found his speech again, had vowed
with tears that he would be forever
grateful to him, and would bless the
arrival of the hour in which he could
prove it to him by deeds.
This hour had now arrived, but Herr
von Kircheisen did not bless it ; on the
contrary, hè cursed it. He was stand¬
ing at the window of his ground-fioor
when Gotzkowsky passed by. Their
eyes met. Gotzkowsky's were clear
and penetrating ; Kircheisen's were
cast down, as he stepped back from
the window. He only had time to tell
the servants that he was not at home
for any one, whoever it might be, when
the bell rang, and Gotzkowsky inquired
for Hen- von Kircheisen.
" Not at home, sir."
" Not at home I but I saw him just
this moment standing at the window."
"It must have been a mistake, sir.
The president has just gone to the
Council-chamber."
"Very well. I wiU go to the town-
hall," said Gotzkowsky, as he left the
house.
Passing by the window he looked in
again. This time, however, Kircheisen
was not standing before the sashes, but
at the side, ensconced behind the cur¬
tain, he was spying Gotzkowsky
through the window. As he saw him
passing by, pale of countenance, but
erect and unbent, he felt involuntarily
a feeling of remorse, and his conscience
warned him of his unpaid debt toward
the only man who came to his rescue.
But he would not listen to his con¬
science, and with a dark frown he
threw back his head with contempt.
" He is a bankrupt—have nothing
to do with him!" So saying, he re¬
tired to his study, and in obedience to
a natural instinct, he opened his strong
box, and refreshed himself with a look
at the thousands which he had earned
from Gotzkowsky as "detective and
informer." And now his conscience no
longer reproached him; the sight of
the shining money lulled it into a gen
tie slumber.
In the mean while Gotzkowsky con¬
tinued his toilsome and humiliating
journey. He met men who formerly
bent humbly to the earth before him,
yet who scarcely greeted him now.
Others, again, as they passed him,
whispered, with a malicious smile,
" Bankrupt 1 " As he came to the cor¬
ner of a street, he met the valiant edi-
THE MAGISTEACY OF BERLIN.
205
tor of the Vossian Gazette, who was
coming round from the other side. As
they met, he jostled Gotzkowsky rather
roughly, yet Mr, Kretschmer did not
think it worth while to excuse himself,
but pulling his hat over his face he
walked on with a dark and scornful
look. As Gotzkowsky passed the
houses, he could hear the windows rat¬
tle, and he knew that it was his former
good frends, who were drawing hack
when they saw him coming, and who,
after he had passed, opened the win¬
dows again to look after him, to laugh
at and mock him. It was an intellec¬
tual running of the gantlet, and Gotz-
kowsky's heart bled from the blows,
and his feet were tired to death. What
had he then done to burden himself
with the cruelty and contumely of the
world? Had he not been benevolent
and kind, full of pity and humanity,
obliging to every one? Had he not
always shown himself ready to serve
every one, and never requested nor de¬
sired services in return? Therein lay
his fault and his crime.
He had been independent. He had
never sought the favor of any man, but,
trusting solely to himself, had always
relied on his own strength. And now
mankind wished to make him feel that
he had mortified them by his self-suffi¬
ciency—^for small natures never forgive
one who dares to be independent of
others, and finds his source of honor in
himself. And this crime Gotzkowsky
had been guilty of. What he was, he
had made himself. He had owed noth¬
ing to protection, nothing to hypocrisy
or flattery, eye-service, or cringing.
Only by the strength and power of his
own genius had he elevated himself
above the world which he ruled.
And now that he was down, it was but
natural that the world should fall upon
him, tear him to pieces with its venom¬
ous fangs, enjoy his torture, and
joyfully witness the lowering of pride
and independence. Gotzkowsky- ar¬
rived at the town-hall and slowly
ascended its steps. How often had he
gone this same road in answer to the
pressing cry for help which the magis¬
trate had uttered in his distress 1 How
often had he mounted those steps to
give his advice, to lend his energy, his
money, and his credit to these gentle¬
men of the Council 1
This day the doors were not thrown
open to him ; the beadle did not bow
down to the earth before him, but
proudly and with erect head stepped
up to him and bade him wait in the
antechamber untU he had announced
him to the assembled Council. He had
to wait long, but finally the doors
opened and he was admitted. There
sat the aldermen and councillors, and
the burgomaster, just as they had
when, in their need and distress, they
had appealed to Gotzkowsky for ad¬
vice and assistance—just as they had
when, in solemn session, they deter¬
mined to present him with a silver
laurel-wreath as an honorable testimo¬
nial.
Only the chief burgomaster was ab¬
sent. Herr von Kircheisen was at
home, enjoying the sight of the money
he had won from Gotzkowsky. This
day they did not receive him as a
councillor or friend, but more like a
delinquent. No one rose to greet him
206
THE MERCHANT OF BERLIN.
—no one offered Lim a seat ! ' They
knew that he had come to ask for
something. Why, then, should they
be polite to him, as he was only a peti¬
tioner like all other, poor people ? In
the mean time Gotzkowsky did not
seem to be aware of the alteration.
Smiling, and with a firm, proud step he
walked to a chair and sat down.
After a pause the burgomaster asked
him churlishly what his business was.
He drew out a parcel of papers, and
laying them on the table, said, " I have
brought my accounts."
A panic seized the worshipful gen¬
tlemen of the Council, and they sat
petrified in their seats.
" Tour worships have forgotten my
claims," said Gotzkowsky, quickly.
" However, that I can easily understand,
as the accounts are somewhat old. It
is now four years since I have had the
honor of having the Council of Berlin
as my debtor ; since I thrice performed
the perilous journey to Königsberg and
Warsaw in order to negotiate the war
contribution in the name of the town.
At that time, too, I was obliged, in the
service of the Council, to take with me
many valuable presents. I may enumer¬
ate among them the diamond-set staff
for General von Fermore, and the snuff¬
box, with the portrait of the empress,
surrounded by brilliants, which I de¬
livered to the GeneraT Field-Marshal
Count Butterlin, in the name of the
magistracy and town of Berlin. But,
gentlemen, you wUl find the accounts
of all these things here."
The gentlemen of the Council did.
not answer him ; they seized upon the
papers hastily, and turned them over.
and looked into them with stem and
sullen eyes. Hot a word was said, and
nothing was heard but the rustling of
the papers, and the low muttering of
one of the senators adding the num¬
bers, and verifjdng the calculation.
Gotzkowsky rose, and walked to the
window. Eaising his looks to heaven,
his countenance expressed all the pain
and bitterness to which his soul almost
succumbed. Ah ! he could have torn
the papers out of the hand of this mis¬
erable, calculating, reckoning senator,
and with pride and contempt have
thrown them in his face. But he
thought of his daughter, and the
honor of his name. He had to wait it
out, and bend his head in submission.
At last the burgomaster laid the
papers aside, and turned scowlingly
toward Gotzkowsky. The latter stepped
up to the table with a smile, making a
vow to himself that he would remain
quiet and patient.
" Have you read them, gentlemen ? "
he asked.
"We have read them," answered the
burgomaster, roughly, " but the Coun¬
cil cannot admit that it owes you any
thing."
" Ho ? " cried Gotzkowsky ; and then,
allowing himself to be overcome by a
feeling of bitterness—" I believe you.
Those in authority seldom take cogni¬
zance of what they owe, only what is
owing to them."
" Oh yes, indeed," said the first coun¬
cillor with solemn dignity, " we know
very well that we owe you thanks for
the great services you have rendered
the town."
Gotzkowsky broke into a loud, iron-
THE MAGISTRACY OF BERLIN.
207
ical laugh. " Do you remember that ?
I am glad that you have not forgotten
it."
" It is true," continued the councillor,
m a tone of conciliation, " at the re¬
quest of the magistracy you took charge
of the affairs of the town. You trav¬
elled to St. Petersburg to see the em¬
press ; twice did you go to "Warsaw to see
General Fermore, and twice to Saxony
to visit the king. You see the Council
knows how much it is indebted to
you."
"And we are cheerfully willing to
be grateful to you," interrupted the
burgomaster, " and to serve you when
and in what manner we can, but these
debts we cannot acknowledge."
Gotzkowsky looked at him in dis¬
may, and á deep glow suffused his
cheek. " You refuse to pay them ? " he
asked, faintly.
" It pains us deeply that we cannot
recognize these claims. You must abate
somewhat from them if we are to
pay them," answered the burgomaster,
rudely.
" Do you dare to propose this to me ? "
cried Gotzkowsky, his eyes flashing,
his countenance burning with anger
and indignation. " Is this the way
you insult the man to whom four years
ago on this very spot you swore eternal
gratitude ? In those days I sacrificed
to you my repose, the sleep of my
nights ; for, when the town was threat¬
ened with danger and alarm, there was
no Council, no authority in existence,
for you were base cowards, and abjectly
begged for my good ofBces. "With
tears did you entreat me to save you.
I left my house, my family, my busi¬
ness, to serve you. At the risk of my
life, in the depth of winter, I imdertook
those journeys. You did not consider
that Russian bayonets threatened me,
that I risked health and life. You
thought only of yourselves. I have not
put down in the account the sleepless
nights, the trouble and anxiety, the pri¬
vation and hardships which I suffered.
I do not ask any money or recompense
for my services. I only ask that I may
be paid back what I actually expended ;
and you have the assurance to refuse
it?"
"No, we do not," said the burgo¬
master, quite unmoved by Gotzkowsky's
noble excitement. " "We do not refuse
payment; we only desire a reduction
of the amounts."
" You wish to cheapen and bargain
with me," said Gotzkowsky, with a
hoarse laugh, "You take me for a
chapman, who measures out his life and
services by the yard ; and you wish to
pay me for mine by the same measure.
Go, most sapient gentlemen ; I carry on
a wholesale trade, and do not cut off
yards. That I leave to shopkeepers, to
souls like yours."
The burgomaster rose up proud and
threateningly from his seat. " Do you
dare to insult the Council ? "
"No, the Council of Berlin insult
themselves by their own deeds. They
dare to chaffer with me ! "
" And they have a right to do so,"
cried the burgomaster, quite beside
himself with rage. " Who asked you
to play the great lord in our name, and
distribute royal presents — diamonds
and gold snuff - boxes ? You could
have done it much more cheaply. The
208
THE MEECHANT OF BERLIN.
Russian is not so high-priced. But it
was your pleasure to be magnificent at
our expense, and to strut about as a
bountiful gentleman."
" Silence ! " cried Gotzkowsky, in
such a commanding tone that the bur¬
gomaster was struck dumb, and sank
back in his chair. Gotzkowsky said
no more. He took the accoimts from
the table, and, casting a look of anger
and contempt on the worthy gentle¬
men, tore the papers in pieces, and
threw the scraps at their feet. "I
am paid!" he said, proudly, and
turned to leave the room.
One of the town councillors hastened
after him, and held him back. "Tou
are too hasty : we may yet agree."
" No ! " said Gotzkowsky, striving
to free himself. " I do not chafier and
bargain for my right."
The other held him tight. " But the
Council are not averse to paying you,
if you—"
" If I will only traflBc with you,—is
it not so ? " interrupted Gotzkowsky.
" Let me go ; we have done with each
other."
" Tou will regret having repulsed
the Council," said the burgomaster,
threateningly.
" I never regret an action when my
honor is satisfied," said Gotzkowsky,
with proud contempt ; and then, with¬
out honoring the worthy gentlemen
with another look, he left the hall, and
returned into the street.
CHAPTER XI.
the jews op the mint.
Heeb Itzig was a very pious and
devout Jew. He kept the Sabbath
strictly after the custom of his ances¬
tors. He was charitable to the poor ;
and no Jew beggar ever left his door
without a gift.
He sat in his room, performing his
morning devotions, and so deeply was
he immersed therein, that he did not
hear a repeated knocking at the door
until a low, gentle voice whispered,
" Good-moming, Herr Itzig 1 "
Itzig first finished his prayer; for
all the world he would not have bro¬
ken off before the end of it : " Be gra¬
cious and merciful to us, Jehovah,
and incline us to be compassionate and
helpful to all who approach us with
supplication, even as we desire that
Thou shouldst be to us." And now
the pious Jew closed his prayer-book,
and turned slowly around.
That pale, bent man, who greeted
him with a sorrowful smile—could it
possibly be—could it be John Gotz¬
kowsky, the celebrated banker, the
honored and brilliant hero of the Ex¬
change, the money-king before whom
all Europe bowed down ?
An expression of malicious joy stole
over Itzig's face ; but he suppressed it
immediately, for the last words of his
prayer still floated around his lips, and
somewhat purified them. " Ah ! " said
he, in a friendly tone, as he stepped
toward Gotzkowsky, stretching out
both his hands to him, " the great and
powerful John Gotzkowsky does me
THE JEWS OF THE MIXT.
209
the honor to visit me. What joy for
my humble house I "
Gotzkowsky did not allow himself
to be misled by this seeming politeness.
He observed him with sharp and pen¬
etrating eyes, and then proudly said:
" Listen, Itzig ; let us be candid with
each other. You know the reports
which are current about me in the city
and on the Bourse."
" I know them, but do not believe
them," cried Itzig, with an altered,
earnest mien. "Yes, I know these re¬
ports, and I know too what they are
worth. They are a speculation of
Ephraim, that your notes may be de¬
preciated, that he may buy them in at
a low rate. I know that Gotzkowsky
is a rich man ; and a rich man has
judgment, and whoever has judgment
is prudent—does not venture much,
nor stand security for other people."
" I have perhaps less of this judg¬
ment than you think," said Gotzkow¬
sky. "It may be that I have stood
security."
" Then you will certainly know how
to pay?" said Itzig, with a forced
laugh.
" But how if I cannot pay ? " said
Gotzkowsky, sadly.
Itzig stepped back, and gazed at
him horrified.
" If I cannot pay," continued Gotz¬
kowsky, impressively ; " if I am unable
to pay half a million for Leipsic,
another half million for the Eussian
claims, after having lost the same
amount yesterday by the new treasury
ordinance—what would you say to
that, Itzig ? "
Itzig listened to him with increasing
14
terror, and gradually his features as¬
sumed an expression of hatred and
savage rage. When Gotzkowsky had
finished, he raised his clasped hands
to heaven, as if imploring the wrath of
God on the head of the sinner. " My
God I sir, are you, then, going to
fail ? "
Gotzkowsky seized his hand, and
looked into his quivering face with an
expression of intense anxiety. " Listen
to me, Itzig. I may yet be saved;
every thing depends upon my obtain¬
ing a delay, that my credit may not be
shaken. You are rich—"
" No, I am poor," interrupted Itzig,
vehemently. " I am perfectly poor ; I
have nothing but what I earn."
" But you earn a great deal," said
Gotzkowsky, with a faint srcdle. " I
wish to effect a loan from you. Take
my word of honor as security."
" Your word of honor ! " cried Itzig,
thrusting back his hand. " What can
I do with your word of honor ? I can¬
not advance any money on it."
" Consider 1 the honor of my name is
concerned—and this, till now, I have
kept unsullied before God and man ! "
cried Gotzkowsky, imploringly.
" And if my own honor was con¬
cerned," exclaimed Itzig, "I would
rather part with it than my money.
Money makes me a man. I am a Jew.
I have nothing but money—it is my
life, my honor! I cannot part with
any of it."
But Gotzkowsky did not aUow him¬
self to be repulsed. It seemed to him
that his future, his honor, his whole
life, hung upon this moment. He felt
like a gambler who has staked his
210
THE MERCHANT OF BERLIN.
last hope upon one throw of the dice.
If this fails, all hope is gone; no fu¬
ture, no life is left, nothing but the
grave awaits him. With impetuous
violence he seized the hand of the rich
Itzig. " Oh ! " said he, " remember the
time when you swore eternal gratitude
to me."
" I never would have sworn it,"
cried Itzig—"no, by the Eternal, I
never would have done it, if I had
thought you would ever have needed
it!"
"The honor of my name is at
stake ! " cried Gotzkowsky, in a tone
of heart-rending agony. " Do you not
understand that this is to me my life ?
Remember your vow ! Let your heart
for once feel sympathy—act as a man
toward his fellow-man. Advance me
money upon my word of honor. No, not
on that alone—on my house, on all that
belongs to me. Lend me the sum I
need. Oh ! I will repay it in a prince¬
ly manner. Help me over only these
shoals, and my gratitude to you will
be without bounds. You have a heart
—take pity on me ! "
Itzig looked with a malicious smile
into his pale, agitated face. " So the
rich, the great Christian banker in the
hour of his trouble, thinks that the
poor derided Jew has a heart—I ad¬
mit that I have a heart—but what,
has that to do with money ? When
business begins, there the heart stops.
No, I have no heart to lend you
money !"
Gotzkowsky did not answer immedi-
titely ; he stood for an instant motion¬
less, as if paralyzed in his inmost be¬
ing. His soul was crushed, and he
scarcely felt his grief. He only felt
and knew that he was a lost man,
and that the proud edifice of his for¬
tune was crumbling under him, and
would bury him in its ruins. He
folded his hands and raised his discon¬
solate looks on high; he murmured:
" You see my suffering, O God 1 I have
done my utmost! I have humbled
myself to begging — to pitiful com¬
plaining. My God I my God 1 wiU no
helping hand stretch itself once more
to me out of the cloud ? "
" You should have prayed before to
God," said Itzig, with cruel mockery.
."You should have begged Him for
prudence and foresight."
Gotzkowsky did not heed him, He
fought and struggled with his immense
suffering, and, being a noble and a
brave man, he at length conquered it.
For a moment he had been cowed and
downcast, but now he recovered aU the
power of his energetic nature. He
raised again his bowed head, and his
look was once more determined and de¬
fiant. " Well, then, I have tried every
thing ; now I accept my fate. Listen,
then, Herr Itzig, I am going to sus¬
pend payment ; my house must fail 1 "
Itzig shuddered with a sudden ter¬
ror. " My God ! " cried he, " only yes¬
terday I bought a draft of yours. You
will not pay it ? "
" I will not do it, because I cannot ;
and I would not do it, if I could. I
have humbled myself before you in the
dust, and you have stretched out no
hand to raise me. Farewell, and may
that now happen which you would
not prevent when you could I You
punish yourself. Farewell ! "
THE LEIPSIC
Itzig held him convulsively back,
and cried, in a voice drowned by rage,
" You wUl pay my draft ? "
" I will not," said Gotzkowsky.
" You have judged ; take now your
reward." He threw Itzig's hands from
him, and hastened from the spot.
Behind him sounded the wailing
and raging of Itzig, who implored
Heaven and hell to punish the crim¬
inal who had cheated him out of his
money.
CHAPTER XH.
the leipsic mekchaitts.
Exhausted and weary, Gotzkow¬
sky returned to his house, and retired
to his room, to give himself up to the
sad and terrible thoughts which tor¬
tured him. He could not conceal
from himself that the sword above
his head was only suspended by two
thin threads. If De Neufville did
not return from Amsterdam, and if
the courier did not bring a relief from
Leipsic, then was he lost without re¬
demption, and the deadly sword must
fall. For the first time did he think of
death* for the first time did the
thought of it fiash like lightning
through, his brain, and make him
almost cheerful and happy.
He could die ; it was not necessary
that he should bear the pain and hu¬
miliation of life. He could take ref¬
uge in the quiet, silent grave under
the turf, which would soon be decked
with fiowers over his agonized breast.
He had worked much ; his feet were
sore, and his heart weary, from his
MERCHANTS. £11
walk through life. Why should he
not lay himself down in the grave to
rest, to dream, or to sink in the arms
of eternal, dreamless sleep ?
But this enticing thought he cast
forcibly from him. He had not yet
lost aU hojje. His anticipations rose as
the door opened, and the servant
handed him a large sealed letter, which
the courier from Leipsic had just
brought. With hasty hand he seized
the letter, and motioned to Peter to re¬
tire. But as soon as he was alone, and
was about to break the seal, he drew
back and hesitated. This letter might,
indeed, contain his salvation; but it
might also contain his death-sentence.
He weighed it in his hand thought¬
fully, and muttered to himself: "It is
light as a feather, and yet its contents
may be heavy enough to hurl me down
the abyss. But this is foolish," he ex¬
claimed aloud, drawing himself up
proudly. "At least I will know my
fate, and see clearly into the future."
With a firm hand he broke the seaL
But as he read, horror and dismay
were depicted in his countenance, and
his whole frame shook. Violently he
fiung the paper on the ground. " This,
then, this is my reward—reproaches,
accusations, instead of thanks; scorn
and malice, instead of compassion.
Reproaches, because I assisted them;
accusations, that I had offered to help
them, only because without me it would
have been impossible for the King of
Prussia to raise so much money. With¬
out my mediation, they say, they would
not have paid, but at the utmost would
have had to endure a somewhat longer
imprisonment, which would have been
I
THE MERCHANT OF BERLIN.
Î12
more tolerable than the loss of such im¬
mense sums."
He paced impatiently up and down,
and as he came to the letter he spumed
it with his foot, like a poisonous adder,
too loathsome to touch. "I have de¬
served this punishment," cried he,
laughing aloud from inward pain.
" Who bade me love mankind ? who
bade me help them, instead of like a ■
highwayman falling upon and plunder¬
ing them, when they were defenceless ?
Fool that I was to give to life any
other interpretation, any other end I "
He threw himself in a chair, and was
soon buried in thought. Once more
he reviewed his whole past, and as
he made up the accounts of his Ufe,
he had to confess that the total of his
hours of happiness was but small,
while that of his years of misery and
toil was heavy enough to bear him
down. But there was still one hope,
and as long as he could expect De
Neufville's arrival all was not lost,
and he must still wait in patience, still
struggle with the worm that gnawed
at his heart. With such painful
thoughts as these was he busied when
the door opened, and Elise entered
with a glowing countenance.
She was so happy, that in her selfish¬
ness she did not perceive his troubled
and care-wom looks. " Oh ! " said she,
kissing his hand, "I am so happy at
last to find you alone at home. Sev-"
eral times have I sought you here."
" With letters for me ? " asked he,
hurriedly, for he had not observed
Elise's excited countenance. Both
were so occupied with their own
thoughts and feelings, that they took.
note of nothing else. " Have not let¬
ters arrived ? " asked he once more,
"No letters have arrived," said she,
smiling joyfully, "but happiness has
come."
" De Neufville is here, then 1 " cried
Gotzkowsky, anxiously, hurrying tow
ard the door.
" What has De Neufville to do with
it ? " asked EUse, with surprise, hold¬
ing him back.
GotzkoWsky stared for a moment,
terrified at her bright face, and then a
sad smile stole across his own. " Poor
fool that I am!" he muttered; "I
complain of the egotism of men, while
I am selfish enough to think only of
myself." He drew Elise toward him,
and looking at her with infinite ten¬
derness, said, " Well, my child, speak :
what happiness has arrived ? "
"Look at me," said she, playfully;
" can you read nothing in my looks ? "
Sadly he looked down deep into her
large bright eyes. " Oh, your eyes
shine as bright as two stars of hope,
the last that are left me ! "
Elise threw both her arms around
his neck, and kissed him, then drew
him with gentle force toward the otto¬
man, and, as she forced him down on
the cushions, she took her own seat,
smiling, on the stool at his feet. " How
often, my father, have you sat here and
cared for me ! Ah J I know well how
much sorrow I have caused you in
these last four sad years,—I could not
command my heart to forget. Ton
knew this, and yet you have been con¬
siderate and gentle as a mother, and
kind as the best of fathers. Ton were
never angry with me on account of mj
THE LEIPSIC
MERCHANTS.
213
grief ; you knew of il, tnd yet you al¬
lowed me to weep." She took his
hand in hers, and for a moment covered
her hot, burning face with it, then
looked cheerfully up in his face. " See,"
she said, "I do not shed any more
tears, or, if I do, they are tears of joy.
My father, I come to ask your blessing.
Feodor is again here ; he has come to
ask me of you for his wife. Oh, for¬
give him, and grant your blessing to a
love which till now has been the an¬
guish of my life, but which hereafter
will be its chief happiness 1 "
Blushing with maiden modesty she
nestled in her father's breast. Gotz-
kowsky felt himself paralyzed with
terror. He pressed his child's head
warmly to his breast, saying to himself,
" And this, too, my God I you try me
sorely. This is the greatest sacrifice
you have demanded of me yet; but
my pride is gone. This offering, too,
will I make."
"Well, my father, you do not an¬
swer ? " asked Elise, still leaning on
bis breast. "All is right, is it not?
and you will give us your fatherly
blessing, and forgive Feodor the errors
of former years, and receive him as a
son ? "
Gotzkowsky, with his eyes still raised
to heaven, moved his lips in silent
prayer. At last, after a long, painful
pause, he said solemnly : " Well, let it
be so ; I give my consent."
Elise uttered a cry of joy, and,
amidst tears of imalloyed delight,
kissed him, as smiling, and often inter¬
rupted by her own deep emotion, she
narrated her meeting with Feodor, Lo-
doiska's death, and the letter she had
written to her. "Oh, how delightful
this hour would be," continued she,
after finishing her narrative, "if I could
only remain with you I Love bids me
go, and yet it keeps me here 1 I have
promised Feodor to go with him, but
I did it in my haste, seeing only him
and listening only to his prayers. Now
I see you, my father, and it seems to
me as if I could not leave you to-day."
" To-day 1 " cried Gotzkowsky, and
a ray of joy shone from his fece. He
arose, and, with folded arms, paced
the room. His soul was full of grati¬
tude to God, to whom he had prayed
in his despair. Was this not a sign
that God was with him, even if men
forsook him?—that God had pity on
him, even if all others were pitiless?
This day his child wished to leave him,
to enter on a brilliant destiny. He
had, therefore, no longer any need to
be anxious about her fate ; and, as she
was going to leave at once, he would
be spared the torture of having her as
a witness to his disgrace and degrada¬
tion. He took her to his breast, and
kissed her with heart-felt fervor. " Fare¬
well, my cliild, my only happiness ; you
wish to leave me. I will be alone, but I
wiU have time to think of and pray for
you." He then cast her from him al¬
most roughly, for he felt as if his grief
would unman him. " Go," he cried,
" your bridegroom is waiting for you ;
go, then, and order your bridal orna¬
ments."
Elise smiled. "Yes, I will adorn
myself; but you, father, will place the
wreath of myrtle on my head, wiU you
not ? That is the sacred and last of¬
fice of love with which a mother sends
214
THE MERCHANT OF BERLIK.
a daughter from her arms. I have no
mother. You are both father and
mother to me. Will you not crown
me with the myrtle-wreath ? "
" Yes," said he, with a sigh, "I will
place the myrtle on your brow, and
God grant it may not turn to a crown
of thorns I Go now, my child, adorn
yourself, and leave me alone, to pray
for you."
He greeted her smilingly, and ac¬
companied her to the door. But when
she had left the room he felt indescriba¬
bly lonesome, and, pressing his hands
against his breast to suppress the cry
which choked him, he muttered in a
low tone, " I have lost her—she is
mine no longer. Every thing forsakes
me. The unfortunate is ever alone ! "
Once more a knocking, repeated at
his door, awakened him from his rev¬
erie. Peter his servant entered, and
announced Herr Ephraim.
A ray of joyful astonishment flashed
across him, and, as he stepped hastily
toward the rich Jew of the mint, he
said to himself : " Is it possible that
this man comes to have pity on me in
my distress? Will he be more mag¬
nanimous than Itzig? Will he assist
me?"
CHAPTEK Xm.
EPHBAm THE TEMPTEE.
"You seek me?" asked Gotzkow-
sky, as Ephraim entered and saluted
him in silence.
Gotzkowsky's sharp glance had de¬
tected in his insolent bearing and con¬
tracted features that it was not juty or
sympathy which had brought the Jew
to him, but only a desire to gloat over
the suflferings of his victim. " He
shall not enjoy his triumph. He shall
find me collected and determined, and
shall not suspect my grief." Thus
thinking, he forced his features into a
cheerful expression, and handing a
chair to the still silent Ephraim, said
laughingly: "Indeed, I must be in a
dangerous plight, if the birds of prey
are already circling around me. Do
you already scent my death, Herr
Ephraim ? By Heaven I that would be
a dainty morsel for you ! "
"You are angry with me," said
Ephraim, shaking his head slowly;
" but you shall know how much injus¬
tice you do me. I bring you an im¬
portant and fearful piece of news."
"It must be fearful, indeed," inter¬
rupted Gotzkowsky, " as you do your¬
self the pleasure of bringing it to me
in person."
Ephraim shrugged his shoulders and
abruptly replied, "De Neufville has
failed I "
A cry of horror escaped Gotzkow¬
sky's lips ; he staggered, and was
obliged to support himself by a chair
to keep himself from falling. This
was the last, decisive blow, and it had
wounded him mortally. "De Neuf-
ville has failed I " he muttered low to
himself.
"Yes, he is bankrupt ! " said Ephraim
with scarcely suppressed malice. " The
proud Christian merchant, whose great¬
est pleasure it was to look down with
contempt upon the Jew Ephraim, he is
bankrupt. The Jew stands firm, but
EPHRAIM THE TEMPTER.
215
the Christian merchant is broken."
And as he spoke, he broke into a
scornful laugh, which brought back to
Gotzkowsky his composure and self-
possession.
"Tou triumph 1" he said, "and on
your brow is marked your rejoicing
over our fall. Yes I you have con¬
quered, for De Neufville's failure is
your deed. It was you who persecuted
bim so long, and by cunning suspi¬
cions and calumny undermined his
credit until it was destroyed, and the
whole edifice of his honorable industry
fell together."
" It is my work," cried Ephraim, ex-
ultingly, " for he stood in my way, and
I have pushed him out of it—what
more ? Life is but a combat ; whoever
is the strongest—^that is, has the most
money—is conqueror."
" De Neufville has fallen—^that is a
hard blow," muttered Gotzkowsky;
and as his wandering eye met Ephra-
im's, he added with an expression of
complete prostration : " Enjoy my suf¬
fering ; you have succeeded—am hurt
unto death ! "
"Listen to me, Gotzkowsky," said
Ephraim, approaching nearer to him ;
" I mean well by you."
" Oh, yes," said Gotzkowsky, bitter-
.y ; " after you have hastened my down¬
fall, you condescend to love me. Yes,
indeed I I believe in your friendship ;
for none but a friend would have had
the heart to bring such a Job's mes¬
sage."
Ephraim shook his head. "Listen
to me," said he ; "I vrill be quite can¬
did with you. Formerly I hated you,
it is true, for you were more powerful
and richer than I was, you were re¬
nowned for being honest and punctual,
and that hurt me. If a large bargain
was to be made, they were not satis¬
fied unless Gotzkowsky was concerned
in it ; and if your name stood at the
bottom of a contract, every one was
pleased. Your name was as good as
gold, and that vexed me."
"And for that reason you wished to
overthrow me, and worked uncearingly
for my downfall; because you knew
that I expected this remittance of light
money from Hamburg—
"I procured the decision that the
light money should be declared uncur-
rent, that is true. I succeeded. From
this hour I am more powerful and
richer than you. You shall see that I
only hated your house, not yourself; I
have come to help you. You must in¬
deed fail ; that I am aware of, and that
if you were to put forth all your pow¬
er, you could not stand this blow.
You must and will faü, and that this
very day."
Gotzkowsky muttered some unintel¬
ligible words, and covered his face
with his hands. " Yes," he cried, pit-
eously, " I and all my hopes have suf¬
fered shipwreck."
Ephraim laid his hand suddenly
upon his shoulder. " Seek, then, to
save some plank from the wreck, on
which you may swim. You can no
longer save your creditors ; save your¬
self."
Gotzkowsky removed his hands
slowly from his face, and looked at
him with astonishment and wonder.
Ephraim met his look with a smiling
and mysterious expression, and bend-
THE MERCHANT OF BERLIN.
216
ing down to Gotzkowsky's ear, whis¬
pered : " I think you will not he such
a fool as to give up aU you have to
your creditors, and to go ont of your
house a poor man. Intrust me with
your important papers, and all that
you possess of money and valuables,
and I will preserve them for you. You
do not answer. Come, he reasonable ;
do not allow the world the pleasure
of pitying you ; it does not dèserve it.
Believe me, mankind are bad ; and he is
a fool who strives to be better than his
fellows." He stopped, and directed
an inquiring look toward Gotzkow-
sky.
The latter regarded him proudly
and with contempt. "This, then, is
your friendship for me ? You wish to
make me a cheat ! "
"Every man cheats his neighbor,"
cried Ephraim, shrugging Iiis shoul¬
ders ; " why should you alone be hon¬
est?"
" Because I do not wish to be
ashamed of myself It is the fault of
others that I fail to-day. It shall not
be said that Gotzkowsky is guilty of
any crime of his own."
" It will be said, nevertheless," in¬
terrupted Ephraim: "for whoever is
mifortunate, is in the wrong, in the
eyes of men. And if he can help him¬
self at the expense of others, and does
not do it, do you think men will admire
him for it ? No ! believe me, they will
only laugh at him. I have often been
sorry for you, Gotzkowsky; for, with
all your good sense, your whole life
through has been a miscalculation."
"Or rather say," said Gotzkowsky,
sadly, "I have not calculated enough.
and from all the experiences of my life
I have not drawn the sum totaL"
"You miscalculated," said Ephraim,
" for you calculated on gratitude. That
is a bad investment which does not
bear interest. Mankind cannot be
grateful, and when any one tries to be
so he must sink, for others are not so.
Whoever wishes to succeed in this
world, must think only of himself, and
keep his own interest in sight."
"You wise men of the world are
right!" cried Gotzkowsky, with a
hoarse laugh.
Unhindered by Gotzkowsky's vehe¬
ment and scomfiil bearing, Ephraim
continued: "If I had thought as you
did, I would not have been able to
operate against you, nor could I have
brought the mint ordinance to bear on
you. Then, to be sure, I would have
been grateful, but it would not have
been business-like. Therefore I thought
first of my own welfare, and after that
I came here to serve you, and show you
my gratitude."
" I do not desire any gratitude. Let
me go my way—^you go yours."
Ephraim looked at him almost pity¬
ingly. "Be reasonable, Gotzkowsky;
take good advice. The world does not
thank you for being honorable. Man¬
kind have not deserved the pleasure of
laughing at you. And they will laugh ! "
" Leave me, I tell you ! " cried Gotz¬
kowsky ; " you shall not deprive me of
my last possession, my conscience ! "
" Conscience ! " sneered Ephraim.
"You will starve on that capital"
Gotzkowsky sighed deeply, and
dropped his head on his breast. At
this moment there were heard from
EPHEAIM THE TEMPTER.
217
without loud hxirrahs and jubilant
sounds, mingled with the tones of mar¬
tial music.
King Frederick IL was returning this
day to Berlin, after a long absence, and
the happy and delighted Berliners had
prepared for him a pompous and bril¬
liant entry. They had buüt triumphal
arches, and the guilds had gone forth
to accompany him into the city, now
adorned for festivity. The procession
had to pass by Gotzkowsky's house,
and already were heard the sounds of
the approaching music, while the shouts
and cries of the people became louder
and shriller.
Ephraim stepped to the window,
opened it, and pointing down into the
street, he said, with a mocking laugh:
" Just look, Gotzkowsky ! There is the
t'ue test of your beautiful, high-toned
principles. How often has Berlin not
called you her benefactor, and yet she
is overjoyed on the very day you are
going to ruin ! The whole town
of Berlin knows that Gotzkowsky fails
to-day, and yet they pass by your house
with merry music, and no one thinks
of you."
" He is right," murmured Gotzkow¬
sky, as the huzzas sounded rmder his
window. " He is right ! I was a fool
to love mankind."
Ephraim pointed down into the
street again. " See,"* said he, " there
comes Count Salm, whom you saved
from death when the Bussians were
here. He does not look up here. Ah,
there goes the banker, Splittyerber,
whose factories in Neustadt Eberswald
you saved at the same time. He, too,
does not look up. Oh ! yes, he does.
and laughs. Look there I There goes
the king w'th his staff. Ton have
caused his majesty much pleasure.
You accomplished his favorite wish—
you founded the porcelain factory.
You travelled at your own expense into
Italy, and bought pictures for him.
You preserved his capital from pillage
by the Austrians and Bussians. The
Dutch ambassador, who at that time
interfered in favor of Berlin with the
Austrians, him has the king in his
gratitude created a count. What has
he done for you? What Vereise did
is but a trifle in comparison with your
services, yet he, forsooth, is made a
count. What has the king done for
you ? See, the king and his staff have
passed by, and not one of them has
looked up here. Yesterday they would
have done so, for yesterday you were
rich; but to-day they have forgotten
you already : for to-day ysu are poor,
and the memory of people is very short
for the poor. Ahl look down again,
Gotzkowsky—so many gentlemen, so
many high-born people are passing I
Not one looks up ! "
Against his will Gotzkowsky had
been drawn to the window, and en¬
ticed by Ephraim's words he had
looked down anxiously and mournfully
at the brilliant procession which was
passing by. How much would he not
have given if only one of the many
who had formerly called themselves
his friends had looked up at him, had
greeted him cordially ? But Ephraim
was right. No one did so. No one
thought of him who, with a broken
heart, was leaning beside the window,
asking of mankind no longer assist-
218
THE MERCHANT OF BERLIN.
anöe or help, but a little love and
sympathy. But, as he looked down
into the street again, his countenance
suddenly brightened up. He laid his
hand hastily on Ephraim's shoulder,
and pointed to the procession.
"You are right," said he; "the
respectable people do not look up
here; but here comes the end of the
procession, the common people, the
poor and lowly, the workmen. Look
at them ! See how they are gazing at
me ! Ah, they see me, they greet me,
they wave their hats! There, one of
them is putting his hand to his face.
He is a day-laborer who formerly
worked in my factory. This man is
weeping, and because he knows that I
have been unfortunate. See! here
come others—poor people in ragged
clothes—^women with nurslings in their
arms—tottering old men — they all
bend their eyes on me. Do you see ?
they smile at me. Even the children
stretch up their little arms. Ah, they
love me, although I am no longer rich."
And turning with a beaming face
and eyes moistened with tears toward
Ephraim, he exclaimed : " You teU me
that I have miscalculated. No I you are
mistaken. I calculated on the kernel
of humanity, not on the degenerate
shelL And this noble kernel of human¬
ity resides in the people, the workmen,
and the poor. I trusted in these, and
they have not betrayed my confidence."
Ephraim shrugged his shoulders.
"The people are weathercocks; they
will stone to-morrow the same men
whom they bless to day. Only wait
until public opinion has condemned
you, and the people, too, will forsake
you. Protect yourself, then, against
men. When you were rich, every one
partook of your liberality; now that
you are poor, no one will be willing to
share your misfortune. Therefore save
yourself, I tell you. Collect whatever
papers and valuables you may have.
Give them to me. By the God of my
fathers I will preserve them faithfully
and honestly for you ! "
Gotzkowsky repulsed him with
scorn, and indignant anger flashed
firom his coimtenance. " Back from me,
tempter 1 " cried he, proudly. " It is
true you possess the wisdom of the
world, but one thing is wanting in your
wisdom—^the spirit of honor. I know
that this does not trouble you much, but
to me it is every thing. You are right :
I will be a beggar, and men will point
at me with their finger, and laugh me
to scorn. But I will pass them by
proudly, nor will I bend my head be¬
fore them, for my dignity and honor
as a man are unconnected with gold or
property. These are my own, and
when I die, on my tomb will be written
—' He died in poverty, but he was an
honorable man.'"
" Fool that you are I " exclaimed
Ephraim, laughing in contempt. "You
are speculating on your epitaph, while
the fortune of your life slips away from
you. Take my advice : there is yet
time to secure your future."
" Never, if it is to be accomplished
by frauds I "
" Think of your daughter."
A painful quivering flitted across
Gotzkowsky's face. "Who gives you
a right to remind me of her ? " asked
he, angrily. " Do not soil her name by
EPHRAIM THE TEMPTER
219
pronouncing it, I have nothing in
common with you."
" Yes, you have, though," said Eph¬
raim, with a wicked smile. "You
have done me a good deed, and I am
thankful. That is something in com¬
mon."
Gotzkowsky did not answer him.
He crossed the room hastily, and
stepped to his writing-table, out of a
secret drawer of which he drew a dark-
red case. He opened it and snatched
out the diamond ring that was con¬
tained in it.
" I do not wish your gratitude," said
he, turning to Ephraim, anger flash¬
ing from his countenance—" and if
you could offer me all the treasures of
the world, I would throw them to the
earth, as I do this ring I " And he
cast down the costly jewel at Ephra-
im's feet.
The latter raised it coolly from the
ground and examined it carefully. He
then broke out into a loud, scornful
laugh. " This is the ring which the
Jews presented to you when you pro¬
cured our exemption from the war-tax.
You give it to me ? "
"I give it to you, and with it a curse
on the tempter of my honor ! "
"You repulse me, then? You will
have none of my gratitude ? "
" Yes ; if your hand could save me
from the abyss, I would reject it 1 "
" Let it be so, then," said Ephraim ;
and his face assumed an expression of
hatred and malice—for now it could be
perceived that the rich Ephraim was
again overcome by Gotzkowsky, al¬
though the latter was a poor and shat¬
tered man. His sympathy and his
help had only met with a proud refusal
from him whom he had not succeeded
in humbling and dragging down to the
dust.
" Let it be so, then ! " he repeated,
gnashing his teeth. "You will not
have it otherwise. I take the ring,"
and looking at Gotzkowsky malicious¬
ly, he continued : " With this ring I
will buy you a place in the churchyard,
that the dishonored bankrupt may, at
least, flnd an honorable grave, and not
be shovelled in like De Neufville the
suicide 1 "
" What do you say—De Neufville is
dead 1 " cried Gotzkowsky, ' hurrying
after him as he neared the door, and
seizing him violently by the arm.
"Say it once more—^De Neufville is
dead ? "
Ephraim enjoyed for a moment, in
silence, Gotzkowsky's terrible griefl He
then freed himself from his grasp and
opened the door. But turning round
once more, and looking in Gotzkow¬
sky's face with a devilish grin, he
slowly added, " De Neufville killed him¬
self because he could not survive dis¬
grace." And then, with a loud laugh,
he slammed the door behind him.
Gotzkowsky stared after him, and
his soul was fuU of inexpressible grief.
He had lost in De Neufville not only a
friend whom he loved, and on whose
fldelity he could count, but his own
future and his last hope were buried in
his grave. But his own tormenting
thoughts left him no leisure to mourn
over his deceased friend. It was the
kind of death that De Neufville had
chosen which occupied his mind.
" He came to his death by his own
220
THE MERCHANT OF BERLIN,
hand ; he did not wish to survive his
disgrace. He has done right—for when
disgrace begins, life ends—and shall I
live," asked he aloud, as almost an¬
grily he threw his head back, " an ex¬
istence without honor, an existence
of ignominy and misery ? I repeat
it. De Neufville has done right. Well,
then, I dare not do wrong ; my friend
has shown me the way. Shall I fol¬
low him ? Let me consider it."
He cast a wild, searching look
around the room, as if he feared some
eye might be looking at him, and read
desperate thoughts in the quivering of
his fiice. "Yes! I will consider it,"
whispered he, uneasily. " But not
here—there is my cabinet, where every
thing is so silent and solitary, no one
will disturb me. I will think of it, I
say." And with a dismal smile he hur¬
ried into his study, and closed the door
behind Lim,
CHAPTER XrV.
elise.
The bridal costume was completed,
and with a bright face, smiling and
weeping for sheer happiness, Elise stood
looking at herself in a large Venetian
mirror. Not from vanity, nor to enjoy
the contemplation of her beauty, but to
convince herself that all this was not a
dream, only truth, delightful truth.
The maiden, with blushing cheeks,
stood and looked in the glass, in her
white dress, till she smiled back again ;
so like a bride, that she shouted aloud
for joy, kissed her hand to herself, in
the fulness of her mirth, as she greeted
and smiled again to her image in the
mirror. " I salute you, happy bride 1 "
said she, in the exuberance of her joy.
" I see in your eyes that you are happy,
and so may God bless you I Go forth
into the world and teach it by your ex¬
ample, that for a woman there is no
happiness but love, no bliss but that of
resting in the arms of her lover. But
am I not too simply clad ? " cried she,
interrupting herself suddenly, and ex¬
amining herself critically in the glass.
" Yes, indeed, that simple, silly child is
not worthy of such a handsome and
splendid cavalier: a white silk dress
and nothing else I How thoughtless
and foolish has happiness made me I
My Heaven ! I forgot that he comes
from the land of diamonds, and that
he is a prince. Oh 1 I will adorn my¬
self for my prince." And she took
from her desk the costly set of dia¬
monds, the legacy of her mother, and
fastened the glittering brilliants in her
ears, on her arms, and the necklace set
with diamonds and emeralds around
her snow-white neck.
" Now that looks splendid," said she,
as she surveyed herself again. " Now,
perhaps I may please him. But the
last ornament is still wanting — my
myrtle-wreath—^but that my father shall
put on." Looking at the wreath, she
continued, in a more «serious and sad
tone : " Crown of love and of death I it
is woven in the maiden's hair when she
dies as maiden, whether it be to arise
again as a wife or as a purified spirit ! '
And raising her tearful eyes to heaven,
she exclaimed : " I thank Thee, O God,
for granting me ¡ill this happiness. My
whole life, my whole future, shall
ELISE.
221
evince but gratitude toward Thee, who
art the God of love,"
Soon, however, it became too close
and solitary in this silent chamber.
She wished to go to her father, to
throw herself on his breast, to pour out
to him all her happiness, her affec¬
tion, her joy, in words of thankfulness,
of tender, child-like love. How the
white satin dress rustled and shone I
how the diamonds sparkled and glit¬
tered, as, meteor-like, they flitted down
the dark corridor I With a bright,
happy smile, holding the wreath in her
hand, she stepped into her fether's
room. But the apartment was empty.
She crossed it in haste to seek him in
his study. The doors were locked,
and no one answered her loud calls.
She supposed he had gone out, and
would doubtless soon return. She sat
down to await him, and soon sank into
deep thought and reverie. What sweet
dreams played around her, and greeted
her with happy bodings of the future 1
The door opened, and she started up
to meet her father. But it was not her
father—^it was Bertram. And how al¬
tered—^how pale and troubled he looked.
He hardly noticed her, and his eye
gleamed on her without seeing her.
What was it that had so changed him ?
Perhaps he already knew that she was to
be married to-day, and that her lover, so
long mourned, had returned to heh She
asked confusedly and anxiously for her
father.
"My God! is he not here, then?"
asked Bertram, in reply. " I must
speak to him, for I have things of the
greatest importance to teU him."
Elise looked at him with inquiring
astonishment. She had never seen
him so intensely excited in his whole'
being, and un-willingly she asked the
cause of his trouble and anxiety.
Bertram denied feeling any anxiety,
and yet his eye wandered arotmd
searehingly and uneasily, and his whole
frame was restless and anxious. This
only made Elise^the more eager to find
out the cause of his trouble. She became
more pressing, and Bertram again as¬
sured her that nothing had happened.
Elise shook her head distrustfully.
"And yet I do not deceive myself!
Misfortune stands written on your
brow." Then, turning pale with ter¬
ror, she asked, " Do you bring my fa¬
ther bad news ? "
Bertram did not answer, but cast his
eyes on the ground to escape her
searching gaze. There awoke in her
breast all the anxiety and care of a lov¬
ing daughter, and she trembled vio¬
lently as she implored him to inform
her of the danger that threatened her
father. He could withstand her no
longer. " She must leam it some time ;
it is better she should hear it from
me," muttered he to himself He took
her hand, led her to the sofe, and, sit¬
ting down by her side, imparted to
her slowly and carefully, always en¬
deavoring to spare her feelings, the ter¬
rible troubles and misfortunes of her
father. But Elise was little acquainted
with the material cares of Ufe. She.
who had never known any extreme
distress, any real want, could not un
derstand how happiness and honor
could depend on money. When Ber
tram had finished, she drew a long
breath, as if relieved from some oppres-
222
THE MERCHANT OF BERLIN.
ßive anxiety. " How you have fright¬
ened me I " said she, smDing. " Is that
all the trouble—we are to be poor?
Well, my father does not care much
about money."
" But he does about his honor," said
Bertram.
" Oh, the honor of my father cannot
stand in any danger," çried Elise, with
noble pride.
Bertram shook his head. "But it
is in danger, and though we are con¬
vinced of his innocence, the world wiU
not believe it. It will forget all his
noble deeds, all his high-mindedness
and liberality, it will obliterate all his
past, and only remember that this day,
for the first time in his life, he has
it not in his power to fulfil his word.
It will condemn him as if he were a
common cheat, and brand him with
the disgraceful name of bankrupt."
With increasing dismay Elise had
watched his countenance as he spoke.
Now, for the first time, the whole extent
of the misfortune which was about to
befall her father seemed to enter her
mind, and she felt trembling and
crushed. She could feel or think of
nothing now but the evil which was
rushing in upon her parent, and with
clasped hands and tears in her eyes she
asked Bertram if there was no more
hope ; if there was no one who could
avert this evil from her father.
Bertram shook his head sadly.
" His credit is gone—^no one comes to
his assistance."
" No one ? " asked Elise, putting her
h.md with an indescribable expression
on his shoulder. " And you, my
brother ? "
"Ah, I have tried every thing," said
he ; and even in this moment her very
touch darted through him like a flash
of delight. " I have implored him vrith
tears in my eyes to accept the little I
possess, to allow me the sacred right
of a son. But he refused me. He will
not, he says, allow a stranger to sacri¬
fice himself for his sake. He calls me
a stranger 1 I know that my fortune
cannot save him, but it may delay his
fall, or at least cancel a portion of his
debt, and he refuses me. He says that
if I were his son, he would consent to
what he now denies me. Elise," he
continued, putting aside, in the press¬
ure of the moment, all consideration
and all hesitation, " I have asked him
for your hand, my sister, that I may in
reality become his son. I know that
you do not love, but you might esteem
me ; for the love I bear your father, you
might, as a sacrifice to your duty as a
daughter, accept my hand and become
my bride."
He ceased, and looked anxiously and
timidly at the yoimg girl, who sat
blushing and trembling by his side.
She felt that she owed him an answer ;
and as she raised her eyes to him, and
looked into his noble, faithful face,
which had never changed, never altered
—as she thought that Bertram had al¬
ways loved her with the same fidelity,
the same self-sacrifice—with a love
which desired nothing, wished for
nothing but her happiness and content¬
ment, she was deeply moved ; and, for
the first time, she felt real and painful
remorse. Freely and gracefully she
offered him her hand.
" Bertram," she said, " of all the
ELISE.
223
men whom I know, you are Ihe most
noble 1 As my soul honors you, so
would my heart love yqji, if it were
mine."
Bertram bent over her hand and
kissed it ; but as he looked at her, his
eye accidentally caught sight of the
sparkling jewels which adorned her
arms and neck, and, aware for the first
time of her unusually brilliant toilet, he
asked in surprise the occasion for it.
" Oh, do not look at it," cried Elise :
" tell me about my father. "What did
he answer you when you asked him for
my hand ? "
" That he would never accept such a
sacrifice from his daughter, even to
save himself from death."
" And is his fall unavoidable ? " asked
Elise, thoughtfully.
" I almost fear it is. This morning
already reports to that efiect were cur¬
rent in the town, and your father him¬
self told me that if Russia insisted on
payment, he was lost irretrievably.
Judge, then, of my horror, when I have
just received from a friend in St.
Petersburg the certain intelligence
that the empress has already sent a
special envoy to settle this business
with the most stringent measures !
This half a million must be of great
importance to the empress, when, for
the purpose of collecting it, she sends
her weU-known favorite, Prince Strati-
mojeflf! "
Elise started from her seat in horror,
and stared at Bertram. " Whom did
she send ? "
" Her favorite, Stratimojeff," re¬
peated Bertram, calmly.
Elise shuddered; her eyes flashed
fire, and her checks burned. "Who
has given you the right to insult the
Prince Stratimojeff, that you call him
the favorite of the adulterous em¬
press ? "
Bertram looked at her in astonish¬
ment. " What is Prince Stratimojeff
to you ? " said he. " The whole world
knows that he is the favorite of Catha¬
rine. Read, then, what my correspond¬
ent writes me on the subject." He
drew forth a letter, and let Elise read
those passages which alluded especially
to the mission of the imperial favorite.
Elise uttered a scream, and feU back
fainting on the sofa ; every thing swam
before her; her blood rushed to her
heart ; and she muttered faintly, " I am
dying—oh, I am dying 1 " But this mo¬
mentary swoon soon passed over, and
Elise awoke to full consciousness and a
perception of her situation. She un¬
derstood every thing—she knew every
thing. With a feeling of bitter con¬
tempt she surveyed all the circumstan¬
ces— her entire, pitiable, sorrowful
misfortune. "Therefore, then," said
she to herself, almost laughing in scorn,
"therefore this hasty wedding, this
written consent of the empress—I was
to be the cloak of this criminal inter¬
course. Coming from her arms, he
was anxious to present me to the world.
' Look ! you calmnniate me ! this is my
wife, and the empress is as pure as an
angel ! ' " She sprang up, and paced the
room with hasty steps and rapid breath-
ng. Her whole being was in a state of
excitement and agitation. She shud¬
dered at the depth of pitiable mean¬
ness she had discovered in this man,
who not only wished to cheat and
224
THE MERCHAlîT OF BERLIN.
delude her, but was about, as if in
mockery of all human feeling, to make
herself the scapegoat of her imperial
rival.
She did not notice that Bertram
was looking at her in all astonishment,
and in vain seeking a clew to her con¬
duct. " This is too much ! " cried she,
half soliloquizing. " Love caimot
stand this ! Love ! away with the
word — I would despise myself if I
could find a spark of this love in my
heart I " She pressed her hands to her
breast, as if she wished thereby to
extinguish the fiâmes which were
consuming her. " Oh 1 " she cried, " it
bums fearfully, but it is not lovel
Hate, too, has its fires. I hate him I I
know it now—hate him and I wiU
have vengeance on the traitor ! I will
show him that I scom him ! " Like
an infuriated tigress she darted at the
myrtle-wreath which lay on the table.
"The bond of love is broken, and I
will destroy it as I do this wreath I"
she exclaimed, wildly ; but suddenly a
gentle hand was laid upon her extend¬
ed arm, and Bertram's soft and
sympathizing voice sounded in her
ear.
"What he said, what words he used—
he who now understood all, and per¬
ceived the fulness of her grief—with
what sincere, heart-born words he
sought to comfort her, she neither knew
nor understood. But she heard his
voice; she knew that a sympathizing
friend stood at her side, ready to offer
a helping hand to save her from misery,
and faithfully to draw her to his breast.
She would have been lost, she would
have gone crazy, if Bertram had not
stood at her side. She felt it — she
knew it. Whenever she had been
threatened with calamity, he was al-
ways near, to watch and shield, to
afford her peace and comfort.
" Bertram I Bertram I " she cried,
trembling in every limb, " protect me.
Do not shut me out from your heart !
have pity on me 1 " She leaned her
head on his breast and wept aloud.
Now, in her sorrow, she felt it to be a
blessing that he was present, and for
the first time she had a clear conscious¬
ness that God had sent him to her to
be a helping friend, a guardian an¬
gel.
The illusions and errors of her whole
life fell from before her eyes like a
veil, and she saw in a clear light both
herself and Bertram. And now, as she
leaned her head upon his breast, her
thoughts became prayers, and her tears
thank-offerings. " I have entertained an
angel unawares," said she, remembering,
unintentionally, the language of Holy
Writ. WTien Bertram asked the mean¬
ing of her words, she answered, " They
mean that an erring heart has found
the right road home."
She wiped away her tears with her
long locks. She would no longer
weep, nor shed a single tear for the
false, intriguing traitor, the degenerate
scion of a degenerate race. He was
not worthy of a sigh of revenge, nor
even of a reproach. A mystery had
slept in her breast, and she thought to
have found the true solution in the
word " Feodor ! " but she was mista¬
ken, and God had allowed this long-
moumed, long-desired man to return
to her, that she might be allowed to
THE RESCUE.
225
read anew the riddle of her heart more
correctly, to find out its deceitful na¬
ture, its stubborn pride, and to conquer
them. Thus thinking, she raised her
head from Bertram's breast, and
looked at him. " You asked my father
for my hand. Do you stUl love me ? "
Bertram smiled. This question
seemed so strange and singular I " Do
I love you ? " asked he. " Can he ever
cease to love who has once loved ? "
" Do you still love me ? " she repeat¬
ed.
" Faithfully and honorably," said he,
with feeling.
"Faithfully and honorably I" cried
Elise, deeply moved. "Oh those are
words as strong as rocks, and, like the
shipwrecked sailor, I wUl cling to them
to save myself from sinking. Oh, Ber¬
tram, how good you are ! Tou love
my father, and desire to be his son, only
for the sake of helping him."
" And if need be, to work for him, to
give up my life for him I "
With her bright eyes she looked
deeply into his, and held out her hand
to him. ."Give me your hand, Ber¬
tram," said she, softly. "You were a
better son to my father than I have
been a daughter. I will leam from you.
Will you be my teacher ? "
Bertram gazed at her astonished and
inquiringly. She replied to this look
with a sweet smile, and like lightning
it shot through his heart, and a happy
anticipation pervaded his entire soul.
" My God ! my God I is it possible ? "
murmured he, " is the day of sufieiing,
indeed, past ? Will—"
He felt Elise suddenly shudder, and
pressing his hand significantly, she
ie
whispered, " Silence, Bertram — look
there ! "
Bertram followed the direction of her
eyes, and saw Gotzkowsky, who had
opened the door of his study, and was
entering the room, his features pale and
distorted, and his gaze fixed. "He
does not see us," whispered Elise.
" He is talking to himself. Do not dis¬
turb him."
In silence she pointed to the curtains
just behind them, concealing a recess,
in the middle of which stood a costly
vase. " Let us conceal om-selves," said
she, and, unnoticed by Gotzkowsky,
they glided behind the curtains.
CHAPTER XV.
the kescue.
Gotzkowsky had closed with life and
earthly affairs. He had signed the doc¬
ument declaring himself a bankrupt,
and delivering over all his property to
his creditors. The die had been cast.
He had been powerful and great
through money, but his power and
greatness had now gone from him, for
he was poor. The same men who yes¬
terday had bowed down to the ground
before him, had to-day passed him by
in pride and scorn ; and those who had
vowed him eternal gratitude, had
turned him from the door like a beg¬
gar. Why should he continue to bear
the burdens of a Hfe which had no
longer any allurements, and whose
most precious jewel, his honor, he had
lost ?
De Neufville had done right, and
226
THE MERCHANT OF BERLIN.
only a coward would stiU cling to life
after all that was worth living for had
disappeared. They should not point
scornfully at him as he went along
the streets. He would not be con¬
demned to hear whispered after him,
"Look! there goes Gotakowsky the
bankrupt." No, this fearful word
should never wound his ears or pierce
his heart.
Once more only would he pass
through those streets, which had so
often seen him in his glory—once more,
not poor, nor as the laughing-stock of
children, but so that those who now
derided him should bow down before
him, and honor him as the mourning
emblem of departed honor: only his
body should pass by these men who
had broken his heart. He had deter¬
mined to quit this miserable existence,
to leave a world which had proved it¬
self to him only a gulf of wickedness
and malice, and his freed spirit would
wing its way to regions of light and
knowledge.
"With such thoughts he entered the
room which was to be the scene of his
last hours. But he would not go down
to the grave without bearing witness
to the wickedness and malice of the
world. His death should be a monu¬
ment of its disgrace and ingratitude.
For this purpose he had sought this
room, for in it was the costly étagère
on which stood the silver pitcher pre¬
sented to him by the Council of Leipsic
as a token of their gratitude, and
from it he would drink his fatal
draught. He took it and emptied into
it a small white powder, that looked
60 irmocent and light, and yet was
strong enough to drag him down with
leaden weight into the grave. He
then took the water-goblet and poured
water on it. The draught was ready ;
all that was necessary was for him to
put it to his lips to imbibe eternal rest,
eternal oblivion.
Elise saw it aU—understood it alL
She folded her hands and prayed ; her
teeth chattered together, and aU that
she could feel and know was, that she
must save him, or follow him to the
grave. ""When he raises the pitcher
to his lips, I will rush out," she whis¬
pered to Bertram, softly, and opened
the curtains a little in order to watch
him.
Gotzkowsky had returned to the
étagère. He took the silver - oaken
wreath, the civic crown presented to
him by the city of Berlin, and looked
at it with a bitter, scornful smile. " I
earned this," he said, half aloud—"I
wül take it with me to the grave.
They shall find my corpse crowned
with this wreath, and when they tum
away in shame, the broken bankmpt,
John Gotzkowsky, will enjoy his last
trimnph over a degenerate world."
And as if in a dream, in the feverish
delirium of grief, he placed the wreath
on his brow, then for a moment stood
with his head bent in deep thought.
It was a strange picture to see his
proud, tall figure, his pale, nervous
face, crowned with the silver wreath,
and opposite to him, looking through
the curtains, his daughter, whose glow¬
ing eyes were eagerly watching her fa¬
ther.
And now Gotzkowsky seized the sil¬
ver pitcher, raised it on high—it had
THE RESCUE.
227
already touched his lips — but sud¬
denly he staggered back. A dearly-
loved voice had called his name. Ah,
it was the voice of his daughter, whom
he had forgotten m the bitterness of
his grief. He had believed his heart
dead to all feeling, hut love still lived
in him, and love called him back to
life. Like an electric shock it flew
through his whole frame.
He put the pitcher down, and cover¬
ing his face with his hands, cried,
" Oh, unnatural father 1 I forgot my
child ! "
Behind him stood Elise, praying to
God eagerly and fervently. She wished
to appear quite composed, quite unsus¬
picious, that her father might not have
even an inkling of her knowledge of
his dark design. Her voice dare not
tremble, her eye must remain clear and
calm, and a smile play about her lips,
which yet quivered with the anxious
prayers she had just offered to God.
" My father 1 " she said, in a low, but
quiet voice—"my father, I come to
beg your blessing. And here is the
myrtle-wreath with which you were to
adorn me."
Gotzkowsky still kept his face
covered, but his whole frame trembled.
" I thank Thee, O my God ! I thank
Thee ! the voice of my child has saved
me." And turning round suddenly, he
stretched out both arms toward her,
exclaiming aloud: "Elise, my child,
come to my heart, and comfort your
father."
Elise uttered a cry of joy, rushed
into his arms, and nestled close to his
heart. She whispered in his ear words
of fervent love, of warmest affeetion.
They fell on Gotzkowsky's heart like
soothing balm ; they forced tears of
mingled joy and repentance from his
eyes. .
A long while did they remain locked
in each other's arms. Their lips were
silent, but their hearts spoke, and they
understood each other without words.
Then Elise raised herself ftom her fa¬
ther's embrace, and, again offering him
the myrtle-wreath, said with a smile,
" And now, my father, bless your
daughter."
"I wUl," said Gotzkowsky, drying
his eyes. "Tes, from my whole soul
will I bless you. But where is the
bridegroom ? "
Elise looked at him inquiringly.
" Wül you bid him, also, welcome ? "
" That I will with aU my heart 1 "
Elise approached the curtain, drew
it back, and taking Bertram's hand,
led him to her father, saying, with in¬
describable grace: "My father, bless
your children."
" This is your bridegroom ? " asked
Gotzkowsky, and for the irst time a
sunbeam seemed to flash across his
face.
Bertram with a cry of delight, drew
Elise to his heart. She clung to him,
and said warmly : " I wiU rest on your
breast, Bertram. I will be as true
and as faithful as yourself. Tou shall
reconcile me to mankind. Tou will
make us both happy again. My father
and I put our hope in you, and we
both know it will not be in vain. Is
it not so, my father ? " She extended
her hand to Gotzkowsky.
He took it, but was too much af¬
fected to speak. He pressed it to his
228
THE MERCHANT OF BERLIN.
eyes and his breast, and then looked
with a smile into the countenance of
his daughter.
Elise continued : " Look, father, life
IS still worth something. It gives you
a son, who is happy to share your un-
happiness with you. It gives you a
daughter, who looks upon every tear
of yours as a jewel in your crown;
who would be proud to go as a beggar
with her father from place to place,
and say to all the world, ' Gotzkowsky
is a beggar because he was rich in
love toward his fellow-men ; he has be¬
come poor because he was a noble
man, who had faith in mankind.' " And
as she drew her fether into her own and
Bertram's embrace, she asked him, smil¬
ing through her tears, " My father, do
you still wish to leave your children ? "
" No, I will live—live for you I "
cried Gotzkowsky, as, almost overcome
with emotion and pleasure, he threw
his arms around their necks, and kissed
them both warmly and lovingly. " A
new life is to begin for us," said he,
cheerfully. "We will seek refuge in a
quiet cottage, and take with us none
of the show and luxury for which men
work and sell their souls—none of the
tawdriness of life. Will you not be
content, Elise, to be poor, and pur¬
chase the honor of your father with
the loss of this vain splendor ? "
Elise leaned her head on his shoul¬
der. "I was poor," she said, "when
the world called me rich. Now I am
rich when it will call me poor. Give
up every thing that we possess, father,
that no one may say Gotzkowsky owes
him any thing, and has not kept his
word." With ready haste she loosened
the necklace from her throat, the
bracelets from her arms, and the drops
from her ears. " Take these, too," said
she, smiling. " Add them to the rest.
We wiU keep nothing but honor, and
the consciousness of our probity."
" Now I am your son, father," cried
Bertram, with beaming eyes. " Now I
have a right to serve you. You dare
no longer to refuse to accept all that is
mine for your own. We will save the
honor of our house, and pay all our
creditors."
" That we wiU do," exclaimed Gotz¬
kowsky ; " I accept your offering, my
son." And joining Elise and Bertram's
hands together, he cast grateful looks
to heaven, saying: "From this day
forward we are poor, and yet far
richer than many thousands of rich
people; for we are of sound health,
and have strong arms to work. We
have good consciences, and that proud
contentment which God gives to
those only who trust in His help
CHAPTEK XYI.
EETEIBUTION.
The appointed hour had arrived,
and in the full splendor of his rich uni¬
form, decorated with orders, and glit¬
tering with diamonds bestowed upon
'^m by the favor of the two empresses,
Prince Feodor von Stratimojeff en¬
tered Gotzkowsky's house. With the
proud step of victory he ascended the
stairs that led to the apartments of his
bride. The goal was at last reached.
The beautiful, lovely, and wealthy
RETRIBUTIOÎd.
229
maiden was finally to become his wife.
He could present her at the court of
St. Petersburg, and with her beauty,
her virtue, and his happiness, revenge
himself on the fickle empress. These
were his thoughts as he opened the
door and entered Elise's room. There
she stood in her white bridal attire, as
delicate, as slender, and as graeeful as a
lily to the sight. There stood also her
father, and the friend of her youth,
Bertram. The witnesses to the cere¬
mony were present, and nothing more
was necessary but to lead her to the
altar. Elise had requested of her fa¬
ther that she herself should see the
prince, and give him his dismissal.
She had also requested that Bertram
should be present. She wished to
show him that her heart had, at once
and forever, been healed of its foolish
and unholy love, and that she could
face the prince without trembling or
hesitation. This was an offering which
she wished to bring to the honor of
her future husband and her own
pride; and she would have despised
herself if a motion of her eyebrow or a
sigh from her breast had betrayed the
sadness which, against her will, she
felt in her heart. She looked therefore
with a cold and calm eye on the prince
as he entered, and for the first time he
seemed no longer the handsome man,
the being endowed with numberless
fascinations, of former days. She read
only in his fiaccid features the sad
history of the past. The charm was
broken which had held her eyes cap¬
tive. Her vision was clear again, and
she shuddered before this wild, demo¬
niacal beauty which she had once adored
as God's image in man. As she looked
at him, she felt as if she could hate
him, because she had loved him ; be¬
cause she had spent her first youth, her
first love, her first happiness, on him ;
because he had defrauded her of the
peace and innocence of her heart ; and
because she no longer had even the
right of weeping for her lost love, but
was forced to turn away from it with
blushes of shame.
Feodor approached with an air of
happy triumph and satisfaction, and,
bowing low to her father, said, with a
most exquisite smile, " I have come to
seek my bride—^to request Elise's hand
of her father."
"With eyes beaming pleasure he offered
Elise his hand, but hers remained calm
and cold, and her voice did not tremble
or falter as she said : " I am a bride, but
not yours. Prince Stratimojeff ; " and
extending her hand to Bertram, she
continued, " this is my husband ! To¬
day for the third time, he has saved me
—saved me from you ! "
Prince Feodor felt annihilated, and
staggered back as if struck by an
electric shock. "EUsel is this the
way you reward my love ? " asked he,
sadly, after a pause. "Is this the
troth you plighted me ? "
She stepped up close to him, and
said softly : " I kept my heart faithful
to my Feodor, but he ceded it to
Prince Stratimojeff. Elise is too proud
to be the wife of a man who owes his
title of prince to the fact of being the
favorite of an empress."
She turned and was about to leave
the room, but Feodor held her back.
No reserve, no concealment were any
230 THE MERCHAl
longer possible to bim. He only felt
that he was infinitely wretched, and
that he had lost the hope of his life.
" Elise," he said, in that soft, sad tone,
which had formerly charmed her heart,
" I came to you to save me ; you have
thrust me back into an abyss. Like a
drowning man, I stretched out my
hand to you, that in your arms I
might live a new life. But Fate is
just. It hunts me back pitilessly
from this refuge, and I must and will
sink. Well, then, though the waves of
life close over me, my last utterance
wiU be your name."
Elise found herself capable of the
cruel courage of listening to his pa¬
thetic words with a smile : " You wiU
yet have time to think over your
death," said she, with proud compo¬
sure ; and, turning to her father, she
continued, " My business with this gen¬
tlemen is finished. Now, father, be¬
gin yours." She gave her hand to
Bertram, and, without honoring the
prince with another look, she left the
room with her betrothed.
" And now," said Gotzkowsky coldly,
" now, sir, let us proceed to our affairs.
Wül you have the kindness to foUow
me to my counting-room ? Tou have
come to Berlin to rob me of my daugh¬
ter and my property ! You have been
unsuccessful in the one ; try now the
other."
" That I will, that I shall ! " cried
the prince, gnashing his teeth, and an¬
ger flashing from his eyes. " EUse has
been pitiless, I wiU be so too."
" And I would hurl your pity from
me as an insult," said Gotzkowsky, " if
you offered it."
T OF BERLIN.
" We are then enemies, for life and
death—"
"Oh, no! we are two tradesmen
who bargain and haggle with each
other about the profits. There is noth¬
ing more between us." He opened the
door and called in his secretary and his
cashier, " This gentleman," said Gotz¬
kowsky, with cutting coldness, " is the
agent of Eussia, sent here to negotiate
with me, and in case I cannot pay, to
adopt the most severe measures toward
me. You, gentlemen, wiU transact this
business with him. You have the ne¬
cessary instructions." He then turned
to the prince, who stood breathless and
trembling from inward excitement,
burning with anger and pain, and
leaning against the wall to keep him¬
self from falling. "Prince," said he,
" you win be paid. Take these thirty
thousand doUars ; they are the fortime
of my son-in-law. He has given it
cheerfully to release us from you. Here,
further, are my daughter's diamonds.
Take them to your empress as a fit me¬
morial of your German deeds, and my
pietures will cover the balance of my
indebtedness to you." *
" It is too much, it is too much 1 "
cried Prince Feodor ; and as if hunted
by the furies, he rushed out, his fists
clinched, ready to crush any one who
should try to stop him.
* Gotzkowsky paid his debt to Eussia with
thirty thousand dollars cash ; a set of diamonds;
and pictures which were taken by Eussia at aralu-
ation of eighty thousand dollars, and formed the
first basis of the Imperial Gallery at 8t Petersburg.
Among these were some of the finest paintings of
Titian, some of the best pieces of Eubens, and one
, of Eembrandt^s most highly executed works—the
portrait of his old mother.
TARDY GRATITUDE.
231
CHAPTER XVn.
tabdt gratitude.
John Qotzkowskt, the rich mer¬
chant of Berlin, had determined to
struggle no longer with Fate; no
longer to undergo the daily martyrdom
of an endangered honor, of a threatened
name. Like the brave Sickingen he
said to himself, " Better a terrible end
than an endless terror," and he pre¬
ferred casting himself down the abyss
at once, to being slowly hurled from
cliff to cliff. He had given notice to
the authorities of his failure, and of his
intention of making over all his prop¬
erty to his creditors. He was now
waiting to hand over the assets to the
assignees, and leave the house which
was no longer his. Not secretly, how¬
ever, but openly, in the broad day¬
light, he would cross the threshold to
pass through the streets of that town
which was so much indebted to him,
and which had formerly hailed him as
her savior and preserver. It was inev¬
itable—^he must fall, but his feU should
at the same time be his revenge. For
the last J;ime he would open the state
apartments of his house ; for the last
time receive his guests. But these
guests would be the legal authorities,
who were to be his heirs while he was
yet alive, and who were to consign his
name to oblivion before death had in¬
scribed it on any tombstone.
The announcement of his fall had
spread rapidly through the town, and
seemed at last to have broken through
the hardened crust which collects
around men's hearts. The promptings
of conscience seemed for a moment to
overcome the voice of egotism. The
magistrates were ashamed of their in¬
gratitude; and even the Jews of the
mint, Ephraim and Itzig, had perceived
that it would have been better to have
avoided notoriety, and to have raised
up the humbled Gotzkowsky, than to
have trodden him in the dust entirely.
Instead of the officials whom he had
expected, however, a committee of the
Council, accompanied by Ephraim and
Itzig, entered his house and asked to
speak with him. He received them in
his apartments of state, with his chil¬
dren at his side. His figure was erect,
his head proudly raised, and he re¬
garded them, not as an imfortunate, •
downcast man, but as a superior would
regard his inferiors ; and they lowered
their eyes before his penetrating
glances, ashamed and conscious of
wrong.
" The Council have sent us," said
one of the aldermen.
" I have no further business with the
Council," said Gotzkowsky, contemptu¬
ously.
" Gotzkowsky, be not angry with us
any longer," said the aldermen, almost
imploringly. " The magistracy, in
acknowledgment of your great services
to the city, are ready and willing to
pay the sum you demand."
Gotzkowsky shook his head proudly.
" I am no longer ready to accept it.
The term has expired; you can no
longer buy me off; you remain my
debtors."
" But you wUl listen to us," cried
Itzig. " We come in the name of the
Jews."
232
THE MERCHANT OF BERLIN.
"We are empowered to assist you,"
added Ephraim. "We haye been in¬
structed by the Jews to give you, on
the security of your signature and the
prepayment of the interest, as much
money and credit as wUl prevent your
house from failing."
Gotzkowsky's large bright eyes
rested for a moment searchingly and
speculatively on Ephraim's counte¬
nance; and the light, mocking smile
which stood on the lips of the Jew
confirmed his determination, and
strengthened him in his resolution, " My
house has failed," said he quietly and
proudly, and, reading the anxiety and
terror depicted on their countenances,
he continued almost exultingly : " yes !
my hotise has failed. The document
in which I announced it and declared
myself a bankrupt, has already been
sent to the magistracy and the mer¬
chants' guild."
" You dare not fail I " cried Itzig, in
a rage.
" You dare not put this insult upon
the Council and the town," exclaimed
the aldermen, with dignity. " We can¬
not allow posterity to say of us, ' The
town of Berlin left the noblest of her
citizens to perish in want and misery.' "
" It will be well for me if posterity
should say so, for then my name and
my honor will be saved."
"But the magistracy will be delight¬
ed to be able to show its gratitude
toward you."
"And the Jews will be delighted
too," cried Itzig. " The Jews are ready
to help you."
Gotzkowsky cast an angry look at
him. " That is to say, you have calcu¬
lated that it will not profit you if I do
fail. You have large drafts on me,
and if I fail, you only get a portion of
your debt ; whereas, if I stand, you get
the whole. You would be magnani¬
mous from self-interest, but I do not
accept your magnanimity—you shall
lose. Let that be your punishment,
and my revenge. You have wounded
my heart unto death, therefore I will
strike you on the only spot in which
you are sensitive to pain ; I attack
your greed of money. You come too
late ; I am bankrupt ! My drafts are
no longer current, but my honor wiU
not die with my fium."
They were all silent, and gazed down
to the earth frowningly. Only one
looked toward Gotzkowsky with a
clear, bright eye. This was Ephraim,
who, mindful of his conversation with
Gotzkowsky, said to himself trium¬
phantly, " He has taken one lesson from
me—he has learned to despise man¬
kind."
But Itzig was only the more furious.
"You wish our ruin," said he, angrily.
"You will be ungrateful. The Jews,
who made you a present of a hand¬
some ring, have not deserved that of
you. What will the world say ? "
" The world wiU leam the cause of
my ruin, and condemn you," said Gotz¬
kowsky. " Go, take all that I have ;
I will reserve nothing ; I despise riches
and estate. I wish to be poor ; for in
poverty is peace. I turn my back
upon this house, and I take nothing
with me but this laurel-wreath and
you, my children."
Smilingly he gave his hands to Ber¬
tram and Elise. " Come, my children !
TAEDY GRATITUDE.
233
•et us wander out in the Happiness of
poverty. "We shake the dust from our
feet, and are light and free, for though
we are poor, we are rich in love. Yes,
we are poor ; but poverty means free¬
dom. We are no longer dependent
upon prejudices, conventionalities, and
forms. We have nothing more to con¬
ceal or hide. We need not be ashamed
of our poverty, for we dare show it to
all the world ; and when we go through
the streets as ragged beggars, these
rieh people will cast down their eyes
in shame, for our poverty will accuse
them, and our rags testify against
them. Come, my children, let xis be¬
gin our life of poverty. But when
death comes to take me away, crown
my cold brow with this laurel-wreath,
given me by the city of Berlin, and
write on my coffin : ' This is the world's
reward ! ' " *
And firm and erect, leaning on his
children, Gotzkowsky crossed the room.
No one dared to detain him. Shame
and remorse, anger and terror, kept
them all spell-bound. " Let us go, let
us go ; I have a horror of this house,
and this splendor sickens me."
"Yes! let us go," said Elise, throw¬
ing her arms around her father's neek.
They went out into the street. How
refreshing did the cool air seem to
them, and how soft and sweet did the
calm blue sky look down upon them 1
Gotzkowsky gazed up at it. He did
not perceive the multitude of people
which stood before his own door, or
rather he did not vrish to see them,
because he took them for a portion of
* With these words Gotzkowsky closes his aato«
bio^phy.
the idle, curious populace, which fol¬
lows misfortune everywhere, and finds
a spectaele for the amusement of its
ennui in the suffering of others.
But for this once, Gotzkowsky was
mistaken ; it was indeed only poor peo¬
ple who were standing in the street,
but their countenances bore the marks
of sympathy, and their looks were sad.
They had heard of his misfortunes, and
had hastened hither, not from curios¬
ity, but from interest in him. They
were only factory-hands, to whom
Gotzkowsky had been benefactor,
friend, and adviser; they were the
poor whom he had supported and
comforted, who now stood before his
house, to bid him a last farewell. To
be sure, they could render him no as¬
sistance—^they had no money, no treas¬
ures—but they brought their love with
their tears.
At the head of the workmen stood
Balthazar, with his young wife, and
although his eyes were dimmed with
tears, he still recognized his master
who had done him so much kindness ;
and although his breast was stified
with grief, yet he controlled himself^
and cried out, " Long live Gotzkowsky,
our father ! "
" Hurrah for Gotzkowsky ! Long
may he live ! " cried the crowd, not
jubilantly, but in a sad tone, half
smothered by tears.
Gotzkowsky's countenance beamed
with joy, and with a grateful smile he
stretched out his hand to Balthazar.
"I thank you, my friend," he said; »
"you have often shouted in compli¬
ment to me, but never has it given me
so much pleasure as to-day."
¿34
THE MERCHANT OF BERLIN.
"Never has it been done more cor¬
dially and sincerely," said Balthazar,
pressing Gotzkowsky's hand to his lips.
" You have always been a father and a
friend to us, and we have often been
sorry that you were so rich and power¬
ful that we could not show you how
dear you were to us. Now that you
are no longer rich, we can prove that
we love you, for we can work for you.
We have come to an agreement among
ourselves. Each of us wiU give one
working-day in the week, and the pro¬
ceeds shall go to you, and as there are
one hundred and seventy of us work¬
men, you shall at least not starve. Far
ther Gotzkowsky."
Gotzkowsky looked at him with eyes
glistening with pleasure. "I thank
you, my friends," said he, deeply
moved ; " and if I do not accept your
offer you must not think that I do not
appreciate its greatness or its beauty.
Who can say that I am poor when you
love me, my children ? "
At that moment, a carriage stopped
at the door. Bertram had brought it
to convey them to their new and mod¬
est residence.
"Are you going, then, to leave us
forever ? " said Balthazar, mommfuUy.
" No, my children, I remain among
you, in the midst of you. I am only
going to exchange this large house for
a smaUer one."
" Come," cried Balthazar, " come,
my friends, we will escort our father,
Gotzkowsky, to his new house. The
town of Berlin shaU see that only rich
people are ungrateful, and that the
poor never forget their benefactor and
their friend. Come, let us take out
the horses. We will draw Father
Gotzkowsky through the streets."
The crowd answered with a thun¬
dering hurrah ; and with busy haste
they proceeded to the work. The
horses were unharnessed, and twelve
of the most powerful workmen crowd¬
ed around the pole. In vain did Gotz¬
kowsky beg them to refrain, not to
make him an object of general curios¬
ity. But the people paid no heed to
his request—^it was a necessity to their
hearts to give him a public proof of
their love. Almost by force they raised
him into the carriage, and compeUed
Bertram and Elise, who had mixed
with the crowd for the purpose of es¬
caping attention, to take their seats
beside him. And now the procession
advanced. Women and workmen
went on before, rejoicing and jumping
about merrily at the side of the car¬
riage ; and when they met other work¬
men, these latter stopped and waved
their hats, and greeted Gotzkowsky,
calling him the great factory-lord, the
father of his workmen, the benefactor
of Berlin. Especially when the pro¬
cession came to the low houses and
poor cottages, the small dusty win¬
dows were thrown open, and sun-
browned faces looked out, and toil-
hardened hands greeted and waved.
The forsaken, the ruined Gotzkow
sky celebrated this day a splendid i
triumph. The jubilant voice that thus
did him homage was that of the people
—and the voice of the people is the
voice of God 1
THE AUCim.
235
CHAPTER XVIII.
THE AUCTION.
At.t. -was now over—the curtain had
fallen: Gotzkowsky had run his bril¬
liant career, and retired into oblivion.
His fall was for some days the topic of
conversation of the good Berliners;
but it was soon superseded by some
other novelty, and without either sym¬
pathy or iU-feeling they passed by the
deserted house with the closed win¬
dows which had once been Gotzkow-
sky's residence. The king had pur¬
chased it, in order to carry on, at the
expense of the royal government, the
porcelain factory which Gotzkowsky
had founded.
Months had passed by. How many
changes had taken place in this short
space of time ! How many tears had
been shed there, how many hopes de¬
stroyed 1
Elise had become Bertram's wife;
and she lived with him in the small
quiet residence which they had selected
in the most remote quarter of the town.
The three had entered the low, narrow
rooms, which were to be their home,
with the firm determination not to
let themselves be annoyed by such
slight material privations as they might
have to endure, but to pass them over
with cheerful equanimity and proud
indifference, consoling themselves with
the conviction that no one could rob
them of their great and pure love.
And besides this, their honor and their
reputation was vmtouched, for every
one was acquainted with Gotzkowsky's
fate, every one knew that he had not
fallen through his own fault, but
through the force of circumstances, and
the baseness of mankind.
He might have cause of complaint
against the world, it had none against
him. IVith his creditors he had been
honest. All that he possessed he had
given up to them, and they were all
satisfied. With proud step and unbent
head could he pass through the streets,
for no one dared to follow him with
insulting words. Nor had he need to
be ashamed of his poverty, for it was
in itself a proof not only of his unmer¬
ited misfortune, but of his integrity.
All this he said and repeated to him¬
self daily, and yet it pained him to go
through the streets, feeling solitary and
downcast. His eyes even filled with tears,
as one day pasâng by his house he saw
the gates open, and equipages, as in
former days, at his door, while genteel
and rich people, with cold, apathetic
countenances, were entering his house
as they had done of yore. Formerly
they came to Gotzkowsky's splendid
dinners, now they had come to the
auction. The fauteuil» and velvet-
covered sofas, the carpets and gold-
embroidered curtains, the chandeliers
of bronze and rock crystal, the paint¬
ings and statuary, the silver table-ware,
and the costly porcelain service, all
these were now exposed for sale.
There is something sad and mourn¬
ful about an auction. It speaks always
of the ruin and breaking up of a man's
life and the happiness of his family,
of the wreck of a shattered existence,
and the sad remains of what was once,
perhaps, a brilliant destiny. On the
day of an auction there ceases to be a
236
THE MERCHANT OF BERLIN.
home, the sacred secrets of family life
vanish ; home is no longer the abode
of peace, and the long-cherished jpereafe«
hide their heads in grief
Then the gates are opened, and the
curious multitude rushes in, and with
callous eye spies into each comer and
every room ; tries the sofas on which,
perhaps, yesterday some poor widow
sat weeping for her lost husband;
throws itself down on the bed which
once had been the sacred temple of
their love ; and coldly and unfeelingly
examines the furniture of parlor and
boudoir, which yet retains the appear¬
ance of comfort and of genial repose,
though soon to be scattered to the
winds, to proclaim aloud its sad and
secret story in the gaudy show-room of
some second-hand dealer. AH the
beauty and splendor of Gotzkowsky's
former days were now to be displayed
at auction. For this reason there stood
so many carriages before his door ; for
this reason did so many noble and
wealthy persons come to his house, and,
mixed with brokers and speculators,
crowd into those halls, which they had
formerly trod with fiûendly smiles and
in costly dresses.
No one took any heed of the figure of
a man crouching, leaning against the
staircase, with his hat pressed down over
his brow, and the collar of his cloak
drawn up high over his Êice. No one
perceived how he shuddered when the
auctioneer handled the beautiful arti¬
cles and called on the public to bid.
It was to him a terrible grief to assist
at these obsequies of his past life, and
yet he could not tear himself away.
He felt fascinated, as it were, by some
supernatural power, and forced to re¬
main in the house and attend this
horrible ceremony. In the tediousness
of his lonesome, inactive, idle misery, it
was a species of diversion to him,
something to arouse him firom his dull
rumination, to be present at this disin¬
tegration and demolition of his own
house.
As Jeremiah once sat among the
ruins of Jerusalem, so sat Gotzkowsky
with concealed face at the threshold
of his house, listening with savage joy
to the strokes of the auctioneer's
hammer—albeit each blow struck him
to the heart, and made its wounds
smart still more keenly. At times,
when a well-known voice fell on his
ear, he would raise his head a little,
and look at the bidders, and examine
their cold, unsympathizing faces. How
many were there among them whom he
had once called his friends, and to
whom he had done good ! And now,
like vultures, they flocked to the car¬
cass of his past ; they bought his
treasures, while their eyes glistened
with malicious joy. They were de¬
lighted to be able to boast that they
possessed a souvenir of the rich Gotz-
kowsky.
When Gotzkowsky saw this, he felt
ashamed that he had once smiled lov
ingly on these men, had confided in
them, and believed in their assur
anees of fiiendship. He rose to leave,
feeling himself refreshed and strength¬
ened, for his depression and griet
had left him. Never had he walked
the stieets more proudly than on the
day when he returned from the auction
to his dark, lowly dwelling. Never
THE AUCTION.
237
Lad he looked upon mankiad with
greater pity or more bitter scorn. And
vet it pained him to reenter this dis¬
mal, quiet house, and to force himself
back into the mnui and indolence of
his inactive life. It was such a sensi¬
tive, burning pain, so, in the fulness of
his strength and manhood, to be con¬
demned to do nothing more than drag
on a weary existence—to sleep, to eat,
and to dream of the past 1 And yet he
would repeat to himself, he was strong
and active to work and create ; and
nevertheless he was condemned to
idleness, to live by the favor and toü of
others, even if these others were his
children.
But they worked for him with so
much pleasure and so much love !
Bertram had accepted the situation of
book-keeper in a large factory, and his
salary was sufficient to support the
three. To be sure, they had to manage
carefully, and provide scantily enough.
But Elise was active and notable;
though as the spoilt child of wealth,
she had, indeed, been able to leam
nothing of those minor offices bf life
which are called by women "house¬
keeping." Still the instinct of her sex
had enabled her soon to acquire this
knowledge, and in a short time she
became mistress of it. It was, indeed, a
pleasant sight to see EUse, with the
same quiet cheerfulness, acting at one
moment the part of cook in the kitch¬
en, at another setting her little chamber
to rights with busy hands, and making
amends in cleanliness and neatness for
what was wanting in elegance and
beauty. True, she was altered, but
never since she had been Bertram's wife
had her brow been darkened or her
eye dimmed. Her face was always
bright and clear; for her husband,
when he returned home, she had always
a smUe of welcome, a cordial greeting—
never a word of complaint or of mourn¬
ing over the privations she was obliged
to undergo, or the wealth she had lost.
Elise felt rich—for she loved her hus¬
band ; not with that ardent consuming
passion which she had once felt, and
which had been the cause of so much
disappointment and so many tears ; but
with that gentle, affectionate flame
which never dies out, but is constantly
supplied and nourished by esteem and
appreciation.
Bertrarn was no longer her brother ;
he was her beloved, her Mend, her
counsellor, and comforter above all.
With him she was always certain to be
understood and appreciated, to flnd
comfort and help. As on a rock, she
could now rely on the nohle heart of
one who was at the same time so firm,
and yet so soft in loving, that he had
never doubted her, never turned away
from her. Her whole heart was given
up to him in gratitude and affection,
and with her whole life did she wish to
reward him for his noble love, for the
self-sacrificing gratitude with which he
had given up his entire fortune to her
father, and saved the name and honor
of his house from disgrace and shame.
She desired neither splendor nor jewels.
Surrounded by the halo of her love,
and of her quiet, peaceful happiness,
this poor, little dwelling seemed to her
as a temple of peace and of holy rest—
as a refuge from the world's troubles—
and, locked in Bertram's embrace, her
238
THE MERCHANT OF BERLIN.
wishes never reached beyond its narrow
sphere.
But Gotzkowsky was not as yet able
to attain this resignation. This repose
was to him an annihilating torment,
and the inactive vegetation a living
death. With each day the torture in¬
creased, the soreness of his heart be¬
came more corroding and painful. At
times he felt as if he must scream out
aloud in the agony of his despair. He
would strike his chest with his clinched
fists, and cry to God in the overflow of
his sufierings. He who his whole life
long had been active, was now con¬
demned to idleness; he who through
his whole life had worked for others,
was now obliged to lay his hands in his
lap, and allow others to labor for him.
How had he deserved this? What
crime had he committed, that after he
had toiled and worked honestly, he
should go down, whilst others who
had enriched themselves by fraud and
lying, by cunning and malice, should
drive through the streets in splendid
carriages, surrounded by elegance and
wealth, while he was obliged to creep
along, bowed down with sorrow ? He
had gone down, while Ephraim had
risen higher and higher. He had be¬
come poor because he was honest ; but
Ephraim had grown rich on usury.
His firm had failed, while Ephraim
continued to coin money. What did
the Jew care that his name was brand¬
ed by the people, that they spoke with
cutting sarcasm of the pewter-money
to which he had so skilfully imparted
the appearance of silver ccsn, and that
he was derided by all ? Gotzkowsky's
name, too, had been scofied at, and he
had been a benefactor of the people»
while Ephraim had been their blood¬
sucking leech.
At last, Gotzkowsky came to a firm
determination that he would have re¬
venge—yes, revenge on this ungrateful
generation which had betrayed and
forsaken him—^revenge on the men who
had shown themselves so small and
pitiful. He wanted to remind those
who were flourishing in pride and
splendor, of their meaimess and ingrati¬
tude. He would accuse no one, but his
whole life was an indictment, not
against individual men, but whole com¬
munities and cities, against the king
himself. They had aU been ungrateful
toward him. They were all his debt¬
ors, and in presence of the whole
world he would cast their ingratitude,
their meanness, their malice, and kna¬
very in their face, and humble them by
recalling the past. He wrote for thai,
purpose The SUtory of Ms Life, not in
anger and scorn; he did not dip his
pen in gall, he made no ill-natured re¬
flections, no contemptuous remarks.
He did nothing more than quietly and
simply, clearly and truthfully, describe
his life and his deeds, and whenever it
was necessary, confirm his assertions
by quotations from the official docu¬
ments relating thereto.*
♦ His biographj begins in these words: "I know
that I subject myself to a variety of judgments.
How ridiculous will 1 appear in the eyes of many,
because I did not use my fortune for my own bene¬
fit ! They will say, ' A man who pretends to know
the world, a merchant, furthermore, whose princi¬
pal merit is to make himself rich, and found a
great house, gives so little heed to self-interest, and
entertains dreams of humanity and benevolence,
hardly pardonable in a philosopher.^ Others, again,
will deem my acts too good-natured, Improvident,
or vain, as usually happens, when such are con¬
sidered from a point of ^iew dififerent from the act-
THE AUCTION.
239
The very simplicity and truthfulness
of this " BwgrwpTiy of a Patriotic Mer¬
chant" procured for it an enormous
success, and made the long-forgotten,
much - calumniated Gotzkowsky for a
while the topic of conversation, not
only in Berlin, but throughout all Ger¬
many. Every one wanted to read the
book. All wished to have the mali¬
cious pleasure of seeing how much
people of rank, communities, cities, and
princes, were indebted to this man,
and how pitilessly they had let him
sink.
The natural consequence was, that
the book, though written simply and
with reserve, gave great offence. Gotz-
kowsky had accused no one, but the
facts accused. His present poverty
and need condemned the proud, high¬
born people, and showed to the world
their cold - heartedness and miserable
conduct. He had not exposed individ¬
uals to the judgment of the world ; no
—his book accused the whole magis¬
tracy of Berlin of deeds of ingratitude ;
and it even included the king, for
whom he had bought a hundred thou¬
sand ducats' worth of pictures, and who
had only paid him back a hundred and
fifty thousand dollars.
If his book had contained the small¬
est untruth, if there had been the least
false statement in it, they would have
ual one. But as long as 1 am coDTinccd that I have
acted as a true Cbristain and an honest patriot, I
can despise all these criticisms. I would not act
otherwise, if I had my whole life to live over again.
But 1 would be more prudent, as 1 am better ac¬
quainted with the character of those in whom I
confided most. The peace of mind and cheerful¬
ness which innocence and the consciousness of good
deeds impart, are too perceptible to me, to allow
me to hesitate for a moment between the demands
of selfishness and those of humanity."
stigmatized him as a calumniator and
scandalizer of majesty. But Gotzkow-
sky had only told the truth. They
could not therefore punish him as a
false witness or slanderer. Consequent¬
ly they had to content themselves with
suppressing "The Life of a Patriotic
Merchant."
The booksellers in Berlin were
therefore ordered to give up all the
copies, and even Gotzkowsky received
an order to return those in his posses¬
sion. He did so ; he gave up the book
to the authorities, who persecuted him
because they had cause to blush before
him; but his memory he could not
surrender. TTia memory remained
faithful to him, and was his support
and consolation, whenever he felt
ready to despair ; this made him
proud in his misfortune, and free in
the bonds of poverty. And now they
were really poor ; and penury, with all
its horrors, its humiliations and suffer¬
ings, crept in upon them.
Gotzkowsky's book had awakened
all those who envied and hated him,
and they vowed his ruin. It showed
how much the merchants of Berlin
were indebted to him, and how little
of this indebtedness they had cancelled.
It was therefore an accusation against
the wealthy merchants of Berlin,
against which they could not defend
themselves, but for which they could
wreak revenge. Not on him, for he
had nothing they could take from him
—no wealth, no name, no credit, and,
in their mercantile eyes, no honor. But
they revenged themselves on his fam¬
ily—on his son-in-law. The rich fac¬
tory-lord, whose book-keeper Bertram
240
THE MERCHANT OF BERLIN.
had been, deprived him of his situa¬
tion ; and in consequence of a precon¬
certed arrangement, he could find no
situation elsewhere. How could he
now support his family ? He was
willing to work his fingers to the
bone for his wife, for his father, for
his chñd, who looked up so lovingly
to him with its large, clear, inno¬
cent eyes, and dreamt not of the
anxiety of its father, nor of the sighs
which told of the anguish of its
young mother. But nowhere could he
procure employment—nowhere was
there a situation for the son-in-law of
Gotzkowsky, who had accused the
merchants, the magistrates, yes, even
the king 1 And now they were indeed
poor, for they had no work ; but, con¬
demned to inactivity, to comfortless
brooding, they shudderingly asked
themselves what was to become of
them—how this life of privation was
to end.
But while Bertram and Elise re¬
mained sad and dispirited, Gotzkow¬
sky suddenly brightened up. For a
long time he had walked up and down
in silent thought. Now, of a sudden,
his countenance assumed the cheerful
expression of former days, and ener¬
getic self-reliance was expressed in his
features. Elise looked on with aston¬
ishment. He drew out from his chest
the last remains of by-gone days, the
silver oak-wreath set with diamonds,
presented him by the town of Berlin, and
the golden goblet given by the town
of Leipsic. He looked at them for a
long time attentively, and then went
out, leaving Elise alone, to weep and
pray to God to send them help, and to
console Bertram when he came home
from his ihiitless search after a situa¬
tion.
It was some hours before Gotzkow¬
sky retximed, but his countenance still
retained its cheerfulness, and his fea¬
tures exhibited the energy and activ¬
ity of past days. He stretched out
his hands to both of his children, and
drew them affectionately toward him
and embraced them. "Are we then
really poor, possessing one another ? I
say that we are still rich, for our hearts
are yet warm, and our honor is not yet
lost. But we have not yet learned to
bear the indigence of our outer life.
We have covered our poverty with the
gloss of respectability ; we have been
ashamed to appear in the streets in
coarse clothes ; we have not yet learned
to distinguish the necessary firom the
superfluous; we have endeavored to
be poor, and yet happy, in a city. That
has been our mistake. The happiness
of poverty does not reside within the
cold walls of a town. It is not sown
among the paving-stones of a street.
It is only in Nature, who is rich enough
to nourish and give to all those who
trustingly cast themselves on her bo¬
som—only in Nature, and the privacy
of country life, that we can find rest
and peace. Come, my children, let us
leave this town ; let us have the cour¬
age to become children of Nature and
free citizens of poverty. Let us cast
the show and glitter of a city life be¬
hind us, and wander forth, not over the
sea nor into the desert, but to a cottage
in a wood. I have stripped off the last
vestige of the past, and the silver
wreath and the golden goblet have
THE AÜCTIOK.
241
been of some use, for they have fur¬
nished us the means to found a new
existence. Bertram, have .you the
courage to commence life anew and
become a peasant 1 "
Bertram smiled. " I have both the
courage and the strength, for I am
hearty and able to work."
"And you, EUse, are you not too
proud to bring up your child as a
peasant ? "
Elise kissed her child, and handed
him to her father. " Let us bring him
up to be a good and healthy man—a
man like you and his father, and he
wiU overcome the world and poverty,
and be happy "
"Ohl I well knew that I could
count upon you ; and now I know how
we all can be helped. We are rich
enough to buy, in some comer of the
world, a little piece of land that we can
cultivate, and on which we can build a
cottage. The product of my valuables
is sufficient for that purpose ; and what
we can realize from these articles of fur¬
niture will be sufficient to defray our
travelling expenses. Get ready, then,
children ; to-morrow we leave for Sile¬
sia. In the mountains there we will
look out some quiet, secluded valley,
where the newly-made peasants can
build them a cottage. There we wül
forget the past, and cast aU its suffer¬
ings behind us; or if we do speak of
them, it will be as of the tales, of our
childhood. Come, my children, let us
return to Nature, God, and contentment.
Do you remember, Elise, how I once re¬
lated to you that as a lad I once lay
hungry and wretched on the high¬
road ? The hand which was then
stretched out to me did not proceed out
of the cloud, but from heaven. It was
net the consolation of an alms that it
gave me, but the comforting assurance
of love which raised me up and strength¬
ened me, directing my looks to God,
and teaching me to love Him in all
His works. God dwells and speaks in
Nature. Let us seek Him there, and
serve Him in the sweat of om brow and
in the coarse peasant's frock."
^ ^ :|c
And they went, and did as Gotzkow-
sky said. They moved to Silesia, and
bought themselves there, among the
mountains, a piece of land and a cot¬
tage, in which they led a quiet, retired,
happy life. The world forgot them.
Gotzkowsky's name passed into obliv¬
ion. But history preserved it, and still
holds him up as an example, not only
of the most noble patriotism, but also
of the ingratitude of men. His book,
too, is left us, and bears witness for
him. But as we read the mournful
record, we become sad, and are ready
to cry out, as he does, " This is the
world}s rewa/rd ! "
END OF THE MEECHANT OF BEELIN.
16
MAMÁ THERESA ARD HER FIREMAN.
AN HISTORICAL NOVEL.
BT
L. MÜHLBACH.
TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN.
MARIA THERESA AND HER FIREMAN.
I.
the engraved cup.
Princess Amelia, of Prussia, was
alone in her cabinet—alone, as always.
She lay on the divan, and stared up at
the ceiling, reflecting, in great distress,
over her wretched fate.
With what longing had she not
hoped these many years, for the end
of. that unholy war which caused Aus¬
tria and Prussia to oppose each other
as enemies, and, in a manner, made a
captive of the Baron von Trenck!
" When the war is ended," she had of¬
ten said to herself, " the prisoners wiU
be released; then wiU Maria Theresa
herself further the liberation of her
cavalry-captain, Frederick von Trenck ;
then, at last, will he be free ! "
But peace had already been con¬
cluded four months, and Trenck stiU
sat in his subterraneous prison at Mag¬
deburg. All Europe was freed from
the fetters of war. Trenck alone still
bore the chains of captivity.
This it was that made the Princess
Amelia sad almost to death, that ban¬
ished sleep from her couch, and drove
her about, by day, restless ánd in de¬
spair. Now she had no longer any
hope, now was the last ray extin¬
guished. Peace was concluded, and
Trenck had been forgotten. God, who
had refused -her the happiness of hav¬
ing released him through her own ex¬
ertions, would not grant her the conso¬
lation of seeing him released through
another.
For nine years Trenck had lan¬
guished in prison. For nine years
Amelia had no other thought, no other
hope, no other wish than to be able to
deliver him. Her whole life had been
devoted to this effort. She did not
think of the many thousands given
away in this effort, to accomplish
which she had not only expended her
private means, but had contracted
debts which she was scarcely yet in
condition to pay from her revenues.
Compared with this one great aim of
her life, money, for her, had really no
value. She only knew that her heart
was broken in vain, useless endeavors,
that her expectations had fallen to the
ground, and her existence become
worthless.
Peace had everywhere filled the
246
MARTA THERESA AND HER FHIEMAN.
hearts of the people with new confi¬
dence, with fresh hope ; she alone had
it filled with despair and wretched¬
ness. Whilst every one entered life
again serene and fresh of courage,
Princess Amelia alone, sorrowful and
full of dark melancholy, concealed her¬
self in her apartments, hating all those
who laughed and were joyous, abhor¬
ring with dark, angry envy all those
who were happy and contented. To
her the world was nothing but a great,
awful grave, and she hated any one
who had the wild and wicked coinage
to dance and to be merry on its brink.
She avenged herself on the men who
avoided her, whilst she persecuted
them with bitter sarcasms, with spite¬
ful mockeries, in order thereby to es¬
trange them still further from her.
She would be alone, always alone. A
desert was it within her ; it should be
desolate around her.
For her there would be no more
amusements. She lived like a captive,
in the most distant of her apartments ;
and if, at any time, she was compelled
to leave her solitude, and appear in so¬
ciety at a great court festival, she
avenged herself for it through bitter
sarcasms and cutting raillery, which
she applied, in a manner, as balsam to
the burning wounds of her heart, and
with them soothed her own pains.
To-day, as ever, she was alone. Her
maid of honor, who had been reading
to her one of Molière's biting, sarcas¬
tic comedies, had just received leave of
absence for a few hours, and had gone
out to make a visit, and, in intercourse
with her friends, to recover from the
burdensome constraint of her service.
The princess had also told her cham¬
berlain that she would not need him
to-day tiU dinner, and he too had left
the castle ; only the two pages waited
in the antechamber, which was sepa¬
rated from the cabinet of the princess
by two apartments.
Amelia could now enjoy the full
feeling of real, undisturbed solitude.
Since words lent to her grief, she could
complain and sigh aloud, without fear
of being observed by any save the
dead, secret walls which long already
had been the confidants of her grief.
All at once the quiet around her was
interrupted by a light knock at the
door, and, at her call, one of her pages
entered. Anxiously begging pardon
for the necessity of disturbing the prin¬
cess, he informed her that a strange
man was without at the door, who
pressingly begged for admittance.
" And what does he want with me ? "
asked the princess, roughly. " I have
no places to dispose of, no honors to
grant, no money to give. Tell him
this, and he will soon depart."
" He said he was a strange jeweller,"
answered the page, " and it was of the
greatest importance to him that your
highness should grant him the favor
of looking at his jewels and curiosities,
for he hoped they would please your
highness, and you would have the
kindness to make a purchase, and thus
bring him into fashion here in Ber¬
lin."
'• He is a fool ; teU him that," cried
Amelia, with a hoarse laugh. "I do
not wish to know any thing about his
jewels and wares. He shall go, and
never again let him venture to impor
THE ENGRAVED CUP.
247
tune me. How—^you do not go at
once ; why do you delay Î "
" Tour highness, the man begged so
pressingly and imploringly. He said
that yom* highness had known him be¬
fore at Magdeburg, and that the gov¬
ernor of Magdeburg, the Landgrave
of Hesse, had expressly charged him to
go to your highness, and show you his
jewels."
Princess Amelia was roused by these
words from her apathy, as if by magic.
She raised herself from the divan with
a quick motion ; her whole being again
acquired life and animation. She has¬
tily took a few steps forward toward
the door, then remained standing, col¬
lecting herself. "Call the stranger in
to me," she said—" I wiU look at his
wares."
When the page had left the cabinet,
jhe looked, breathless, with high-beat-
■ng heart toward the door. It seemed
an eternity till the door opened and
the stranger entered.
It was a tall, slender man, in plain,
but elegant citizen's dress, who now
entered the apartment, and respect¬
fully greeted the princess.
Amelia fastened upon him her sharp,
searching look, and sighed deeply.
She did not know this man—again had
her hopes deceived her.
" You have said that the Landgrave
of Hesse sent you to me ? " she said,
roughly.
" I have said so, and so it is," an¬
swered the man. " He even com¬
manded me, as soon as I arrived in
Berlin, instantly and speeially, to go
to your highness with my treasures,
and show you them, that thereby you
might have choice of them in advance
of all others."
Princess Amelia again fastened on
him her sharp, searching look, but the
man remained quite at ease and indif¬
ferent.
" Show me your wares, Mr. Jeweller,"
commanded Amelia.
He bowed, and opened the door ; he
quickly returned with a tolerably large
casket, which he placed on a table in
the middle of the room. Then he im-
locked the same, and threw back the
lid. There, in the compartment, lay
splendid ornaments of rare beauty and
workmanship — rings, pins, bracelets,
and necklaces.
" Diamonds," said Amelia, contempt¬
uously, " nothing but diamonds ! "
"But diamonds of rare brilliancy,
and wonderfully set," remarked the
jeweller. " Your highness should have
the goodness to examine them more
closely."
" I do not care for them, I want no
diamonds," said Amelia. " If you have
nothing else, you may shut the lid
again, I will buy nothing of these."
"I have yet some other and rare
treasures, some magidficent Cecilian-
work by Cellini, some ivory-carved
work of the middle ages, some extreme¬
ly beautiful, antique cameos—which,
perhaps, vrill please you better."
He lifted the first tray'out of the
casket, and took from the bottom a
quantity of costly things, which he dis¬
played on the table ; while, at the same
time, he called the attention of the
princess to the beauty of each piece,
and explained its value. — Princess
Amelia listened to his words abstract-
248
MARIA THERESA AND HER FIREMAN.
edly; all those rare and costly jewels
interested her but little. Her looks al¬
ways returned to the same object—to
that roimd packet wrapped in paper,
which the jeweller had lifted out of
the casket together with the other or¬
naments. That must, indeed, be a pe¬
culiarly rare and costly object, for it
alone was carefully wrapped in tissue-
paper, while all the other things were
open, and yet the jeweller did not ap¬
pear to be quite willing to show this
piece. But Amelia thought that, sev¬
eral times, he picked up this mysterious
packet, as though it were in his way,
and put it in another place ; but always
nearer to the princess, so that it now
lay quite close beside her.
" What have you here in this pack¬
et ? " she now asked.
" Oh, that is not for your highness,"
said the jeweller, smiling. "A quite
worthless object. WUl your highness
have the goodness to look at this seal ?
It represents St. Michael trampling the
dragon under his feet, and is one of the
most successful Cecilian-works of Ben-
venuto Cellini."
He handed her the seal, but Amelia
cared nothing for it. She reached for
the mysterious packet before her, and,
with a sharp glance at the jeweller, she
picked it up and opened it.
" A cup, a pewter cup ! " she cried,
astonished. •
" As I told your highness, quite a
worthless object—and it must needs be
so — so that it may have value from
the beauty of its workmanship. The
work is certainly worthy of admiration,
and the more so, when one reflects that
it was executed with a common board-
nail, and moreover, not by bright day¬
light, but in the darkness of a subter¬
raneous prison."
Amelia trembled so much, that she
almost let the cup fall from her hand.
The jeweller did not notice it, but
continued, calmly: "Tour highness
will observe how correct and fine the
contours are drawn—the lines marked.
It is executed as artistically as the
plates of an engraver, and it is a shame
that one is not able to make impres¬
sions of this cup, for the designs are
not only beautifully, but judiciously
executed ; with verses beneath them,
which might be written in any album.
If such things interest your highness,
have the goodness to take this cup
nearer to the light—it is really a mas¬
terpiece."
The princess did not answer a word,
but, going hastily to the window, with
her back turned to the jeweller, she ex¬
amined the cup.
Sure enough, it had been executed
with wonderful diligence, with rare ar¬
tistic skill. The whole surface was di¬
vided by means of elegant little ara¬
besques into ten panels, each of which
contained a picture of the finest and
most exquisite drawing. No graver
could draw the lines finer or more cor¬
rect, nor could produce light and shade
with ihore artistic effect. Under each
picture were inscribed a few verses in
characters so fine that one could read
them only with the greatest effort. But
Amelia's eyes appeared, now, to have
recovered the power and force of other
days ; her whole soul was reflected in
the glances which, with painfully sweet
pleasure, she fastened on the cup. She
THE ENGRAVED CUP.
249
could see every thing, could understand
every thing. Here on this panel was
represented a bird in a cage; under¬
neath were these verses :
^ Oe n'est pas un moineau
Gardé dans cette cage.
C'est un de ces oiseaux
Qui chantent dans Torage !
Ouvrez, amis des sages,
Brisez fers et verroux ;
Les chants dans vos bocages
Bejaliliront pour vous." ♦
In the panel next to this one, there
was again represented a bird, while on
a branch of the tree, tmder which stood
the cage, sat another bird with spread
wings and open bill. Underneath were
written the lines—
Le rossignol chante, void la raison
Pourquoi il est pris pour chanter en prison !
Voyez le moineau qui fait tant de dommage,
Jouir de la vie, sans craindre la cage.
Voilà un portrait.
Qui montre l'effet
Du bonheur des fripons, du désastre des sages." t
Amelia was compelled to stop. She
could read no further. Her eyes,
which wept so seldom, were now filled
with tears ; they fell down on the cup,
as though to kiss the characters which
caused Amelia so many beautiful, sad
reminiscences.
But she would not weep—she would
read further. With a reluctant move¬
ment she shook the tears from her
♦ " This is not a sparrow
Kept in this cage.
It is one of those birds
"Who sing in storms.
Open, friend of the wise,
Break iron and bolts,
The songs in your woods
Shall fly back to you."
* " The nightingale sings, and this is the reason
That he is taken to sing in a prison.
See now the sparrow, who does so much evil.
Plays with life without fear of cages.
See in this portrait,
"Which shows the effect
Of the good luck of rogues, and the misfor¬
tune of sages."
eyes and turned the cup further
around.
Here was another picture. In a
prison there lay a human form, lank
and wasted to a skeleton, bound hand
and foot with heavy chains. The fig¬
ure had half raised itself upon the
straw on which it lay, and looked de-
ploringly at the grate in the wall, be¬
yond which could be seen the grim
countenance of a bearded soldier, who
appeared to call out something to the
prisoner with an angry look and open
mouth. Underneath were some verses
in German.*
" Oh terrible, terrible ! " groaned
Amelia, aloud,—while, entirely over¬
come, her head sank on her breast.
What cared she that the strange jew¬
eller was there—^that he could see her
tears, could hear the despairing cry of
her heart? She feared nothing—she
had no more to lose, the whole world
might see her misery !
But no, no, they might increase his
sufferings, in order, through him, to
punish her.
She then could not wee^j, could not
complain ! Still, Trenck lived ; albeit
in chains and in prison, still he lived !
So long as he lived, she must restrain
her grief, she dared not lament or com¬
plain.
As she thus reasoned, the tears in
•
♦ See memoirs of Treuck, Thiébault, in which
Trenck describes one of these cups and the late
which befell it One of them was engraved for
the Landgrave of Hesse, and in this way fell into
the hands of the Emperor Joseph the Second, who
kept it in his art cabinet. Another, which had
once been in possession of the wife of Frederick
the Great, Trenck afterward recovered in Paris,
Some of these cups are still to be seen in art col¬
lections in Germany, and some are in the museum
in Berlin.
250
MARIA THERESA AND HER FIREMAN.
her eyes dried up, and she raised her
head again resolutely. She would he
ready and calm ; perhaps even this man
whom the landgrave had sent, was
furnished with a special message for
her. She turned her head toward him.
He did not seem to notice her in .the
least, but was zealously occupied in re¬
packing his jewels into the casket.
"Can you tell me," she asked, "who
has made this cup ? "
" Oh, certainly, your highness, I can
do that," said the jeweller, indifferently.
" A captive, who for nine years has lan¬
guished in a subterraneous prison, made
it. His name is Frederick von Trenck.
Tour highness perhaps may never have
heard the name, but in Magdeburg
every child knows it, and pronounces
it with admiration. No one in the city
has seen him, but every one can relate
his heroic deeds, his boldness, his in¬
trepid comage, his fabulous attempts
at escape. He has become the hero
alike of the nursery and of the saloon,
and although none of the ladies of Mag¬
deburg know him, they all admire
him. The officers in the garrison who
know him love him, and it is said are
ready to venture their lives for him."
Amelia breathed hard—joy, like a
golden glimmer, flitted over her coun¬
tenance, and she listened again, with
suspended breath, for the words of
the jeweller, which to her ears had
sounded like the most exquisite mu¬
sic.
The jeweller continued > " For some
time Trenck, to relieve the tedious-
ness of imprisonment, began to draw
with a nail, which he had found among
the earth of his undermined floor at his
last attempt at escape, little flgures and
pictures on his drinking-cup. During
a visit the commandant found this cup.
The designs pleased him, and, his du¬
ties calling him thence, he took the cup
with him and sent Trenck another.
Every major, every officer on duty, de¬
sired such a cup from him, as a keep¬
sake ; every lady in Magdeburg longed
for one as for a costly jewel. These
cups are the newest fashion ; yes, they
have become such an important article
of merchandise that, when it is at all
possible to persuade an officer to sell
his cup, twenty louis d'ors and more are
paid for a single cup. Poor Trenck, it
is true, receives none of this money,
but the cups have brought him
another advantage. They have given
the captive the means of showing his
complaints to the world, they have
given him speech again, they supply
him with the writing-materials which
are strongly forbidden him. But they
have brought him still further advan¬
tage," continued the stranger, "they
have supplied him light and air ! For,
to let him see in daytime, the officers
open for him both doors upon the first
corridor, where there is a large window
the topmost little panes of which are
opened every morning; and since the
days in the casement are but short, the
commandant winks at it, if the officers
bring light to the captive, so that he,
at least, no longer sits in darkness, and
his lonely prison has been changed into
an artist's studio."
Amelia did not answer ; but the cup
which she still held in her hand, she
raised to her hps and kissed. The
jeweller had certainly not observed
THE ENGRAVED CUP.
this, for he ccntinued, quietly. "An
officer of the garrison himself told me
this, when he sold me the cup. The
gentlemen really make no secret of it
—that they are very friendly to Trenck,
although they know that they would
be severely punished, were it known
in high places that they provided
Trenck such forbidden indulgences,
which, however, they pride themselves
in, as being a good deed ! "
" And may God reward them 1 "
murmured Amelia, to herself. Then
she said, aloud ; " I will buy this cup
from you, sirl I will bot be behind
the Magdeburg ladies, and, since it is
the fashion to possess such a cup, I
too wiLL have one. Tell me your price,
sir."
The jeweller remained silent for a
moment. " Pardon me, your highness,"
he then said, " I dare not sell you this
cup—or rather I beg you not to desire
it. The cup shall contribute, if possi¬
ble, to Trenck's deliverance."
"And how will you begin this?"
asked the princess, breathless.
" I will go with this cup to General
Riedt, the new Austrian ambassador
here. Since all the world interests it¬
self in the unfortunate Trenck, I do not
see why I should not do so too, and
why I should not also strive to procure
his freedom for him, if possible. I will
go to General Riedt and show him this
cup. General Riedt, they say, is an
honorable man, and at the same tinie
is a distant relation of Trenck. When
he sees this cup, he cannot fail to in¬
terest himself in the fate of his unfor¬
tunate cousin ; when he hears of his
sad, cruel imprisonment, he must cher-
251
ish an active desire to free him. He
knows all the ins and out? about the
court of Vienna, all the ways and
means are open to him—even the em¬
press Maria Theresa counts him among
her friends and confidants. Whoever,
then, would free Trenck, must come to
an understanding with Riedt, and must
secure him. Thus alone will it be
possible to work upon the empress, and
induce her to intercede for Trenck."
Princess Amelia suddenly raised her
head and looked at the stranger, whose
eyes rested on her with a searching,
significant expression. Their glances
met, and for a moment remained fixed.
Then an almost imperceptible smile
passed over the face of the princess, and
she slightly nodded her head. Both
felt that they understood one another.
" Have you nothing further to say to
me?" asked Amelia, after a pause.
" No, your highness. I have only
once more to beg your pardon that I
cannot sell you the cup, because, as I
said, I will go with it to General
Riedt."
" Leave the cup with me," said Ame¬
lia, after some reflection. "I myscU
will show it to General Riedt, and seek
to interest him for the safety of his un¬
fortunate relative. If I succeed, then
the cup will be mine, and you will
have no need to sell it to the general,
but will permit me to have it.
"Return to-morrow early at this
hour. I will then pay you the money
for the cup or return it you, if it
cannot be otherwise."
The jeweller bowed respectfully.
"I shaU obey the commands of your
highness, punctually. To-morrow at
252
MARIA THERESA AND HER FIREMAN
this hour 1 will return." He took his
casket and left the room. Princess
Amelia looked after him till the door
closed behind him.
" That man is reserved and discreet.
I believe that he can be trusted. But
first of all, I will write to General
Eiedt. He must come to me immedi¬
ately."
H.
the peincess aed the diplomat.
An hour later, the page of the prin¬
cess announced General Eiedt, the Aus¬
trian ambassador at the court of Ber¬
lin. Amelia stepped quickly toward
him, and with sharp, searching looks
viewed the general, who now, smiling,
bowed respectfully.
"I have sent for you, general, be¬
cause I desired to redress an injury,"
said the princess. "You have twice
announced yourself to me, and both
times I have refused you."
" That was no injury, your liighness,"
answered the diplomat, smiling. " I
ventured to pay you a visit, because
etiquette requires the newly accredited
ambassador to present himself to the
members of the royal household. Your
highness refused me, because it did not
appear convenient, and in this you
were fully justified."
"And yet, doubtless, you wonder
that I should afterward send for you ? "
" I never permit myself to wonder.
Your command to come hither, has
rendered me happy—that is all ! "
"And you do not anticipate why I
begged you to come to me ? "
" Your highness has already had the
goodness to tell it me. Because you
•wished graciously to recompense me
for a second disappointment of my ex¬
pectations ! "
" Ah 1 you are an adroit' diplomat,
you turn yourself quickly around, and
are as smooth as an eel ! " cried the prin¬
cess. " One can never catch and hold
you. You slip through one's hands.
But I am aceustomed to go straight to
my object, and never to diplomatize.
See here, why I have sent for you. I
wished to show you this cup."
"With a quick movement, she took
the cup from the table, and handed it
to the ambassador. He viewed it long
and attentively. He turned it around
in his hand, and examined every pic¬
ture—read every line.
Amelia watched him with searching,
proving looks; but his countenance
betrayed nothing. Not even the slight¬
est change came over it—^it was just as
smiling, as natural as before. After he
had examined every thing, with a low
bow he placed it again on the table.
" "Well, what do you say of the work¬
manship ? " asked Amelia, quickly.
" It is exceUent, your highness—wor¬
thy an artist."
"And do you know who the artist
was who made it ? "
" I have a presentiment of it, your
highness."
" TeH me his name."
" I believe it is Baron von Trenck."
" So it is, and, if I do not err, he is
your relation."
" A distant relation, your highness,
yes."
" And you can endm-e to know that
THE PRINCESS AND THE DIPLOMAT.
253
your relation is thus in chains, and in
prison? Your heart does not suffer
with the thought of his tortme and his
misery ? "
"I believe that he suffers justly,
otherwise he would not have been con¬
demned to endure it 1 "
" Sir, even if he had committed the
greatest crimes, it stiU would be a sin
to torturé him as they do. Sleep of
man is holy, even if the man be a crim¬
inal—^yes, a murderer. One may hiU
the criminal—but shall not deprive
him of sleep I But look at this picture,
general, this captive lying upon the
dry straw, sleeping—^whom the rough
voice of the soldier there wakes out of
his sleep—perhaps, out of his dreams
of happiness and freedom. Bead these
verses written beneath the picture.
Does it not seem as though each word
was bathed in tears, does not a cry of
terror penetrate them, so fearful, so un¬
precedented, that it must find an echo
in every heart ? And you—^his relative
—you wiU not hear him 1 You do
nothing to free this unfortunate man
from his prison ? You, the ambassador
of Austria, you suffer it that they should
hold captive an officer of your empress,
in a strange land, against all interna¬
tional law, without sentence or trial ? "
"My empress, when she sent me
hither, géve me definite instructions;
she marked off and prescribed to me
exactly the reach and compass of my
business.. She has not commissioned
me to disturb myself about the release
of this unfortunate prisoner; that lies
entirely out of my province, and I must
be contented."
" You must be contented, and it con¬
cerns a man, a relative ! You have,
then, no pity for him ? "
" I pity him deeply, your highness,
but I can do nothing for him."
" Not you," asked Amelia, " but per¬
haps another ? Perhaps I ? "
" I do not know whether your high¬
ness is sufficiently interested in the cap¬
tive as to work for him."
"You do not know whether I am
interested enough in Trenck to work
for him 1 " cried Amelia, with a harsh
laugh. "You know, all the world
knows—^no one ventures to speak of it
aloud, because all know and fear the
anger of the king ; but one whispers it
to another, why Trenck languishes in
prison; and you do not know it?
"Well, since you do not know it, I will
tell it you ! Trenck languishes in pris¬
on because I love him ! Yes, general,
I love him ! "Why do you not laugh ?
Is it not droll to see an old, crushed,
decayed creature, speak of love ? — a
broken, trembling form, which leans
on love as on a staff, on which it tot¬
ters to the grave ? Look at this dis¬
figured, horrible face—only hear this
harsh, broken voice, that ventures to
speak of love, and then laugh, laugh,
general, for I tell you I love Trenck !
I love him with the power and passion
of a yoimg girl; misfortune and age
have placed a horrible mask over my
face, but I stiff remain young ; in my
heart glows an imperishable, holy fire ;
my thoughts, my wishes, are glowing
and young, and with all my thoughts,
my wishes, I love Trenck ! I could
narrate to you all the pains and tor¬
tures which I have suffered on account
of this love, but of what use ? It does
254
MARIA THERESA AND HER FIREMAN,
not now concern me, but him—^him,
who suffers through me, through me,
because deprived of youth, of life's hap¬
piness. For nine years has he suffered
in prison, for nine years I had no oth¬
er wish, no other occupation, than to
serve, to find him ! My existence, my
soul, my heart, every thing is dashed
to pieces on the rough walls of his
prison 1 I only live because I must
free him from this; because, although I
have lost confidence in the pity of men,
I still believe in the mercy of God—it
will discover me a way to relieve him !
If you know a way, general, show it
me—wUl walk it with naked feet, al¬
though it may be strown with thorns
and red-hot nails—if it but serve to
free him I "
She raised her folded hands to the
general, who had listened, infiexible,
with bowed head, with a supplicating
look. When she became silent, he
raised up his head and looked at the
princess. Amelia could have cried for
joy, for she saw the tears roll down
the general's cheeks.
" Ah 1 " cried she. " you weep, you
have pity ! "
The general took her hand, and, as
he did so, respectfully bent his knee
before her. " Yes," said he, " I weep,
"but not for you, not from pity, but
from sympathy for your great, self-sac¬
rificing soul. I do not pity you, for
your misfortune is so great, so holy,
that it is above all pity. I bow, my
knee before you in veneration, for your
sorrowful calamity merits veneration,
and you appear to me more beautiful
m this thau all the fine, smiling women
who dance through life in frivolous
cheerfulness. It is not the diplomat,
but the man, who bows himself before
you and offers you his homage with
the deepest veneration I "
Amelia, smiling, raised him up—a
smile so gentle and lovely had not
dwelt on her face for many long years.
"Rise, general," said she, mildly; "let
us stand by each other as good friends,
and prove your interest in me by help¬
ing, and counselling how to free him."
The general remained silent for a
long time, and looked before him,
thoughtfully. " One must work upon
the empress," he then said ; " she must
intercede for Trenck with King Fred¬
erick. He win not refuse Maria The¬
resa her first petition."
" Will you imdertake to work upon
the empress?" asked Amelia, hastily.
"Will you speak to her in behalf of
your unfortunate cousin ? "
"Had that been possible, I would
have done so long since," said the gen¬
eral, shrugging his shoulders. " Alone,
I dare not venture it. Trenck is my
relative, and hence my petition would
not appear to be from disinterested
pity, but a selfish request ; my sublime
empress possesses such a strong sense
of justice that it is with her a con¬
firmed principle never to grant those
petitions which are presented by rela
tives and friends of those who are to
be benefited, not even to those who
are near her and whom she trusts.
The empress would certainly have re¬
fused me, had I spoken to her in be¬
half of Trenck. Moreover, by such a
course I would have made enemies of a
powerful and influential party at court,
of a party which by no means wishes
THE PRINCESS AND THE DIPLOMAT.
255
Trenck to be free, because be would
then come to demand an account of
^ his property, and the goods inherited
from his uncle, the colonel of Pan-
dours, and because to many, even to
people in high places, such a demand
would be very inconvenient and troub¬
lesome. These persons would besiege
the ears of the empress with com¬
plaints against this imfortunate, of
whom they well know that if he were
free he would not justify them. One,
then, must appear as though, like
them, he had forgotten poor Trenck,
who languishes in prison, whilst his
property is managed by a commission
that pays itself for the trouble and la¬
bor with the goods of the leader of
Pandours. It is very dangerous to
reach into such a wasp's nest; one
might easily be stung to death by
these malicious insects. If, then, one
would work for Trenck, it must be
done in quite a secret manner, through
a man who is so harmless and unim¬
portant, that no one would consider it
worth while to notice him; that the
enemies of Trenck would lay no im¬
pediment in his way, because they
would think that he could not harm
them."
" Is there such a man ? " asked the
princess.
" There is, your highness."
" And who is he ? What is his
name ? What is he ? "
" He is a fireman and a floor-scrub¬
ber in the chamber of the empress—a
poor Savoyard of no consequence,
without name, without rank and po¬
sition, but not without credit and influ¬
ence."
" Á. fireman and floor-scrubber ! "
cried the princess, astonished and
doubting.
"An ugly, old, deformed fellow,
whom the other servants call the
gnome, because he is always peevish
and taciturn; holds intercourse with
none of them; is rough in manners
and in voice, and busies himself about
nothing but his duties, which he per¬
forms with mechanical precision. Ear¬
ly every morning, at six o'clock, he
enters into her majesty's chamber,
makes a fire in the chimney, opens the
curtains that a little daylight may en¬
ter, arranges the furniture, and noise¬
lessly retires again. And all this takes
place without the slightest sign of in¬
discretion; always the same; never
slower, never quicker. He is a clock
that ever has the same motion, the
same sound. For thirty years the em¬
press has been accustomed to see him
enter her chamber ; has accustomed
herself to his person, and often, from
her humanity, has engaged in conver¬
sation with him. His answers are al¬
ways laconic, often in a tone of great
indifference, often brusque and rough,
but they always show common-sense
and often a deeper understanding.
When the empress talks to him he does
not intermit his work a moment, and
when it is done he does not remain a
moment longer, but retires without
even asking whether the empress has a
desire further to speak with him. For
thirty years he has been at the same
place, and filled it in thé same manner.
Although often tempted, he has never
been known to commit a fault ; never
has he been accused of curiosity or in-
266
MARIA THERESA AND HER FIREMAN.
trigue. And thus, at last, the empress
nas conceived a great, unshaken confi¬
dence in him. She is so thoroughly
satisfied of his fidelity, disinterested¬
ness, and honesty, that he has even won
a certain influence over her, as, since
she knows that he can be won neither
through money nor flattery, through
promises nor honors, she often asks his
opinion on the most important sub¬
jects, and his ever sound and impartial
advice has considerable influence with
her."
" But if this man is so honest and un¬
selfish, how then can we win him ? "
"We must seek to win for us his
heart and his head. He must be inter¬
ested in the fate of the unfortnnate
Trenck, and must cherish a desire to be
able to assist in his release. Then,
when this has been accomplished, we
can think how to interest his selfishness
a little and offer him money."
"Money? This wonder of honesty
and fidelity is also to be approached
with money ? "
"He never has been, and, perhaps,
never wül be. He himself has no
wants, no wishes—but he has one only
affection—the affection for his daugh¬
ter. This is a young, beautiful girl
whom, because he cherishes a dark dis¬
trust toward every one that collects
about the court, he has educated in a
cloister far from Vienna. Then he
placed her to board with a respectable
private family in Vienna, but she dares
never visit him nor enter the palace to
ask for him, that no one of the court
people may see her. Now this girl
has entertained a strong affection for a
young ofiicer. They would cheerfully
marry, but he has no property and she
has no money, and her father has saved
nothing ; he has always spent his wages
on his daughter, and cannot possibly
purchase a dowry for her."
" And he does not think to apply to
the empress, and beg for a dowry for
his daughter ? "
" If such a thought occurred to him,
he would reject it with scorn, for it is
his single ambition never to beg any
thing from the empress, never to receive
attestations of favor from her. Solely
for the sake of money he would will¬
ingly do notliing against his convic¬
tions, even were his daughter to die of
grief. We must, then, as I have said,
first win his heart and his head, and
afterward we may venture to speak of
money."
" Oh ! " cried the princess, " if this
mail has a heart, we shall win it as
soon as we tell him all that Trenck has
suffered, and what he still suffers. The
misery and pain that have been heaped
upon the head of the unfortunate,
must move him, must win his head and
his heart. Then, when we have at¬
tained this, we win offer him gold,
treasm-es, oh I every thing that I pos¬
sess; we wül promise his daughter a
dowry, a rich portion. My income as
abbess, as well as my appanage as prin¬
cess, were paid to me yesterday. A
smaU amount is there in my secretary ; I
shaU add more to it. Do you think
that four thousand louis d'ors would
suffice to win the heart of the Savoy¬
ard?"
" Ah 1 your highness, for any other It
would be too much; but in order to
win this honest man. greater entice
MxVRIA THERESA.
257
ments may be necessary, and bence I
cannot say that your offer is too
great."
" But it is sufficient, is it not ? "
"FuUy."
" Now, then, there is only wanting
a safe, clever, cunning man whom we
can send to this floor-scrubber of the
empress. A man, who, head and
heart, has love and feeling in the mat¬
ter, with which we would trust him.
Oh, general, where can we find such a
man ? "
Herr von Riedt smiled. "I think
your highness has already found him."
The princess looked at him aston¬
ished. " Ah 1 " cried she, then, " the
jeweller 1 The man who brought me
the cup, and in such a discreet and
adroit manner referred me to you."
" I think I have heard that you have
an appointment with him early to-mor¬
row morning ? "
"You know that? you also know
him 1 "
Von Riedt bowed, smiling. " I did
myself the honor to send him to your
highness."
" Ah, now I understand all, and I
must confess that this man is as skilful a
negotiator as you are an accomplished
diplomat; the cup which I showed
you came from you ? "
" I received it from the Governor of
Magdeburg, the Lp,ndgrave of Hesse,
and since I myself could not venture to
appear in the matter, I ventured to ap¬
ply to your highness."
" I thank you, general, that you have
done so, and I must do you the justice
to say that you have done it in a very
discreet and circumspect manner. Per-
17
haps it is necessary for us to keep the
matter so secret that my brother can
know nothing of it, and cannot work
against us. Hasten now, sir ; give the
jeweller, or whatever he may be, his in¬
structions, and early to-morrow morn¬
ing send him to me, that I may pay
him over the money, and speak to him
concerning his own reward."
m.
maria theresa.
It was a dull, cold December morn¬
ing, behind whose heavy clouds day¬
break had long been delayed. It was
about six o'clock in the morning, the
usual time for the Empress Maria
Theresa to rise and breakfast. But to¬
day there still reigned in the chamber
of the great monarch a nocturnal quiet
and darkness. The empress, whose
mode of living was otherwise so punc¬
tual and regular, seemed still to be mo¬
tionless on her pillow behind the
heavy hanging silk curtains of her
couch, and did not appear to have no¬
ticed the passing of the hour.
The door of the empress's chamber
now opened very lightly and cautious¬
ly, and again closed softly and with the
same care, behind the strange figure
which at this moment entered.
It was a small man, of strange and
very repugnant appearance, who now
entered the chamber of the empress.
It seemed to be an iU-shaped, hunch¬
backed dwarf, of the most deformed fig¬
ure, whose wüd, wicked gestures were
frightful and gloomy. His long black
258
MAEIA THERESA AND HER FIREMAN.
hair hung disorderly and shaggy over
his forehead and his eyebrows, and
eoncealed the little knavish eyes which
shot out sharp, watchful glances from
behind their black coverings. His ges¬
tures, while going to and fro in the
apartment of the empress, and slinking
round the couch in which Maria The¬
resa still lay deeply embraced in her
morning slumber, did not less show a
mysterious being of whom one could
not promise any thing good.
One might almost entertain dark
and suspicious thoughts, when one saw
the ugly dwarf who still slunk up and
down by the bed of the empress, and
spied round with his dark, insolent
eyes, as though he had come to watch
for a moment for the exercise of a fear¬
ful deed.
But such thoughts could surely only
have served to give to this scene a comi¬
cal appearance. For in the whole blessed
land of Austri a there was no enemy to the
»
beautiful, benevolent, high-minded Em¬
press Maria Theresa, since whose acces¬
sion to the throne Austria had been
united more heartily and strongly than
ever, and had gathered aroimd the be¬
loved throne of the royal family in de¬
termined adherence and loyalty. Maria
Theresa was hated by no one, and
there could be no interest of state or of
business for which a hostile hand could
be raised against her.
For all that, the designs of the little
hunchback man who was engaged
backward and forward in the apartment
of the empress, were becoming more
astonishing. At the same time he
seemed to have a right to be there,
dusting and cleaning, without taking
any notice of the empress, who still
gave no sign of waking.
Now he went with haste and quite
inaudible steps, which appeared in
strange contrast with his clumsy, short-
legged figure, to the high bow-win¬
dow and took down the curtain in or¬
der that the increasing daylight without
might enter. He evidently intended
that the empress should be awakened
by the bright sunshine reflected over
her couch.
Without, the dark cloudy morning
had suddenly become more friendly and
brighter, and the sun bursting out with
dazzling rays shone upon the empress,
reflecting on her forehead a sparkling
garland of light. Maria Theresa be¬
came restless upon the couch and be¬
gan to awake.
A few moments had passed beyond
her usual time of waking, as the empress
raised herself and looked hurriedly
around the room, evidently seeking the
little hunchback ; and, satisfied of his
presence, she leaned again on her pil¬
low a few moments longer.
The beautiful empress, who at this
time had entered upon her forty-sixth
year, no longer possessed the peculiar
charms which had adorned her youth,
and which had so wonderfully capti¬
vated the people.
But in the whole bearing of Maria
Theresa there still .prevailed an uncom¬
mon freshness and vigor, and upon her
fine face, shining with unusual white¬
ness, there was now visible in the mo¬
ment of waking a more beautiful rose¬
ate tinge, which the empress even in
her later years peculiarly retained, and
which often in conversation, or under
MAMA THERESA.
259
the least excitement, diffused itself over
her countenance.
At this moment it was the refresh¬
ment of enjoyed slumber which was so
beautifully apparent upon her cheeks.
The mature years of the empress were
only perceptible through the more
solid traits exhibited in her face, and
the few sharp wrinkles that had ap¬
peared upon her once so clear and
pleasant forehead.
She now reached out her small white
hand, and said, pointing at the win¬
dow, "Ton see, Dubois, that you are a
oad weather-prophet, for the sun has
risen in the heavens to-day in all his
splendor, and the bad weather which
you had promised for the whole month
will not be realized. So, then, I will
undertake a journey to-day which I
have deferred long already."
Dubois, who had just buUt up a few
billets of wood in the chimney, discon¬
tinued his work, and, squatting on the
hearth, looked back at the empress
with a wild, dark look, in which there
seemed to be nothing of respect—only
impudent boldness.
But one could know at once the high
favor in which Master Dubois stood
with his august mistress, for when he
signified his objection to the words of
the empress rather by grunts than in¬
telligible words, Maria Theresa lis¬
tened to him with quite a friendly
laugh, and seemed to have understood
his ugly spirit favorably.
" I know you have always something
to urge against the opinion of your em¬
press," laughing at her strangely-pre¬
ferred fireman, who always received her
first greeting at waking. "You will
readily prove to me that we cannot
even have fine weather to-day, and
that the color of the sun denotes anoth¬
er rainy, dirty day. So I hope at least
that you will have your chimney
heated with proper wisdom. For I
must tell you, Dubois, that your sys¬
tem of heating for some time past has
been very bad; you no longer under¬
stand, as formerly, how to arrange the
proper degree of heat and cold, which
I usually found under your manage¬
ment of the chimneys to be so well
ordered. For you know that I like to
sit and work at the open window as I
have done many a day, rather than
have it too warm in rny rooms. And
now you make it too wärm every day,
Dubois, and I no longer perceive in
you the clever Savoyard boy whom
years ago I took into my service. But
you begin to grow stupid before your
time, Master Dubois, and already even
have become a quite old Savoyard."
The empress appeared to take de¬
light in the strange face the old Sa¬
voyard made at hearing these words.
The manner and bearing of the ugly
dwarf displayed anger and passion in
the highest degree, and he could only
restrain himself through his respect for
the person of the empress. But in his
wrath even there appeared so much
that was droll and comical, as to alle¬
viate the appearance of this repugnant
being.
Maria Theresa had now raised her¬
self upon her couch, and began to ar¬
range her magnificent flaxen looks,
which still flowed round her head and
temples in beautiful profusion. Thus
occupied, she seemed already to nave
260
MARIA THERESA AND HER FIREMAN.
forgotten the presence of the fireman,
who returned to the chimney, and
rommenced with great zeal the work
of lighting the fire.
Meanwhile Master Dubois gave evi¬
dence from time to time, through light
growls aud unmeaning utterances of
single words, that he had by no means
been satisfied with the answer of the
empress.
When he had properly lighted the
fire in the chimney, he threw aside she
bellows and tongs, and, hastening as
qui^k as he could, and with a mali¬
cious laugh in his little green eyes,
placed himself before the bed of the
empress.
" The fire burns in the chimney,"
he cried, with a triumphant shriek¬
ing voice. " The heat is adapted
to the outside temperature exactly,
and never has Dubois made a fire that
was not properly regulated according
to Nature and your majesty's well-be¬
ing. Dubois himself will bum in heU
before he wUl make it too warm for
your imperial majesty. I know very
well that you cannot bear any heat,
and must have the windows open on
the coldest winter day, as if the God-
be-with-us Himself had made the fire
and blown the bellows ! But, pardon
me, most gracious empress, it was not
I who made your imperial majesty too
warm these last years—^it was quite
another man, a bad man. Begging
pardon, it was Frederick of Prussia,
who carried on the atrocious war
against us, and by land, and people,
and honor, damaged us as much as pos¬
sible. So fatal a fireman then had
never been, your majesty; hence, my
royal Empress Maria Theresa has now
and then in the past year been so
warm in the head, and old Dubois, the
most faithful servant and subject of
your majesty, has not at all assisted in
this wicked heating."
Maria Theresa indulged in a hearty
laugh at the fireman, and then said to
him with a happy and pleasant expres¬
sion : " Console yourself about it, Du¬
bois. We know your brave and faith¬
ful affection for us, and have never
doubted you. You have helped us in
many a difficulty by your good and in¬
telligent conduct. We know. Master
Dubois, that you are not entirely stu¬
pid, and that we have often listened to
your opinions on various subjects, be¬
cause your natural understanding has
often made clear that which our high¬
est state officers could not ffithom.
And now depart, for my maids are al¬
ready waiting, and I desire to leave my
bed."
Dubois now again saluted the em¬
press, and did so with such a resigned
air, and at the same time such a stiff,
military demeanor, as to give the little
gnome quite an earnest and commend¬
able appearance.
Whilst the stately form of the em¬
press was being raised by her waiting-
maids, Master Dubois was scolding in
his departure quite into the farthest
corner of the room, whilst he would
pick up trifles from the floor, and brush
away specks of dust with his sleeve,
and finally turned to look again at the
fire in the chimney. When he saw
that it was burning brightly, he rap¬
idly increased his steps to the door to
a happy and insolent skip.
DUBOIS AND
HIS CLIENTS.
2Ô1
Meantime Maria Theresa hastened to
complete her toilet. She then im¬
mediately entered the chapel, and hav¬
ing performed her devotions, with
which she always began the day, she
quickly returned to her apartment,
there to breakfast, and afterward for a
few hours to sit at her writing-table in
uninterrupted occupation with numer¬
ous petitions and reports.
rv.
dubois and his clients.
Meantime Dubois was striding
through the antechamber, fully con¬
scious of his great importance, which
appeared to him to increase daily. He
saw that on every morning he was ap¬
proached and surrounded by numerous
eager faces that seemed already to have
expected his exit from the apartment
of the empress.
Men and women of every position
and condition of life now drew near
the fireman of the Empress Maria The¬
resa, and beset him with all manner of
petitions.
As all Vienna knew that Dubois saw
the empress daily in a situation of con¬
fidence, and even possessed some au¬
thority with Maria Theresa, by reason
of his long, faithful service, and through
his unusual prudence had acquired a
right of influencing the empress on this
or that subject, it was natural that he
was soon applied to from aU sides, in
order that favors might be procured
through his mediation.
Dubois might have gained great ad¬
vantages for himself, had he used the
important position with which he was
charged, for his own advancement.
But he was universally known for his
sterling honesty and the disinterested¬
ness of his character, and his word had
received such weight and confidence
with the empress, that Maria Theresa
knew that Master Dubois was, in the
strictest sense of the word, incorrupti¬
ble ; that he never received money
from others for- any kind of service, and
that generally he let his much-sought-
for protection befall those who were
clearly free from reproach, and had an
honest cause.
Thus again the old Savoyard ap¬
peared, surrounded by a multitude of
people, who wished to place petitions
of various kinds in the hands of the
powerful fireman, or remind him of his
already-promised protection, and were
anxious to know the result of the same
Dubois had now a favorable hearing
for only a few of these persons. He
stood there in the midst of them with
strong and ti-ying looks, and whoever
did not appear to him specially trust¬
worthy, on him he immediately turned
his back, with frightful grimaces, and
often would have him dismissed from
the door. To others whom he had al¬
ready promised, he imparted, with
many words, the answer received from
the empress, whereat his hard, dark
features would frequently melt in entire
weakness, and the kind heart which,
without doubt, beat in his breast would
speak out. But when he had no good
result to announce, he would often con¬
ceal his vexation thereat behind a dark
indignation, which he vented against
262
MARIA THERESA AND HER FIREMAN.
tlie persons themselves. At the most
trifling objection, which they would
urge, he often would overwhelm them
with his anger, and often would expel
aU present in the antechamber with
reproachful terms and the most-fearful
gestures.
To-day again it had almost gone thus
far, for the answer he gave the most
of those present did not sound specially
propitious, and in many cases she
could not possibly grant the request,
even when a Dubois asked it. Or they
pressed thanks for what Dubois had ac¬
complished, in a manner that had dis¬
gusted him, while they offered him
presents or placed in view what al¬
ways filled him with passion.
Dubois had again dismissed his cli¬
ents, for, as it appeared, he was not in
the very best humor. And stiU more
must it have vexed him, that in the
backgroimd of the chamber a strange
form still remained standing, which
hitherto had in no way made itself vis¬
ible, but had rather sought to conceal
its presence.
The stranger who stood there, and
evidently had waited that he might be
alone with the fireman of the empress,
now stepped forward and approached
the faithful Dubois, who cast toward
him the most terrible looks.
It was a handsome man, dressed in a
fur-coat who now presented himself to
Dubois with a zealous friendliness, and
proffered him a welcoming hand. The
manners of the stranger were so pleas¬
ing and captivating, that Dubois at
first reluctant and anxious to turn away,
turned to him again and could not refi-ain
from extending his hand toward him.
But whoever would approach the
stranger, could not fail to notice the
great resemblance which his features
bore to those of the strange jeweller,
who sometime since, in such a myste¬
rious manner, got access to the Princess
Amelia of Prussia at the court of Ber¬
lin, and, by the delivery of the cup en
graved by the unfortunate Trenck,
sought to interest her in the captive.
It was the brother of the Austrian
ambassador in Berlin, General von
Riedt, who in the disguise of a jeweller
strove to work for the release of his de¬
plored jrelative, and who now, in agree¬
ment with his brother the general, had
undertaken to work upon the Empress
Maria Theresa in Vienna, in favor oí
the unfortunate Baron von Trenck.
Every thing had been well prepared
in Berlin to make effectual any media¬
tion of the empress with King Freder¬
ick n.
Herr von Riedt, who heretofore had
been recognized in the state service of
Austria, and had been intrusted with
several extraordinary missions to the
satisfaction of the empress, had yet not
counted, for the accomplishment of his
present mission, on the important con¬
nection he himself possessed in Vienna,
and which, in this instance, would have
exerted no exciting influence upon the
heart of the empress. He counted
only upon the fireman of the empress,
who now stood opposite him; and
the longer he scrutinized him, the more
he considered him to be the proper
man for his enterprise.
In the flashing, watchful glances oí
the fireman he believed he at once saw
that he would not be indifferent to
DUBOIS AND HIS CLIENTS.
263
money and profitable employment, and
therefore Herr ron Eiedt did not de¬
lay -beginning a serious, instantaneous
attack on the honorable Master Dubois.
"While he tapped him on the shoulder
in a fiiendly way, he said to him, " My
dear Dubois, I am delighted that, at
last, one can get to see you. I have
learned much about you, and they
praise you for the reason that you fi-e-
quently permit the favor which you
possess with the empress to fall upon
worthy heads, and thereby dry the
tears of many unfortunate ones."
Dubois stepped back in a dignified
manner, and looked at the stranger,
who had spoken to him in such a
friendly way, with a suspicious expres¬
sion.
" And one can see at a glance," con^
tinned Herr von Riedt, bowing very
low, " that you, Dubois, are a man of
honor, and of the most excellent dispo¬
sition, and one feels that the empress
must find great satisfaction in you. In
truth, Master Dubois, you are a fine
man, and one must admire the position
in which you are placed."
In spite of the misgivings with which
Dubois had fiLrst listened to the polite
stranger, he could not faü to be a little
flattered by these words. One could
see this in the assumed serenity which
gradually spread over his whole face,
and which increased into a pleasant
smile, that sought to beautify his thick,
opened hps.
"Now," said he, smiling, "your
honor thinks weU of me, and if I can in
any way serve you, I shall not fail to
exert myself to the utmost Tell me,
then, what you desire firom me."
" If you undertake my affair, which
is of great importance, and make for it
friends and patrons in high places,"
whispered the stranger in his ear, " on
the favorable conclusion of your effort,
I will pay you on the spot four thousand
louis d'ors."
" Four thousand louis d'ors 1 "
screamed Dubois, by which, at first,
Herr von Kiedt was deceived, for he
saw in it only an outcry of astonish¬
ment and wonder from the fireman, at
receiving so bHUiant an offer for his
intercession.
But Dubois, upon whose face con-
fiicting feelings were at this moment at
work, east on Herr von Kiedt a dark,
hateful look, and then suddenly went
away with hasty steps toward the door
leading out of the apartment, where he
stopped and stood with his forefinger
to his nose.
" Four thousand louis d'ors I " one
could now hear him murmuring to
himself. " This would certainly be
enough to insure the happiness of my
beloved Elizabeth. K I could procure
her this sum, she would be happy and
would bloom again, the poor child ; for
then she could marry the brave youth,
to whom for two years she has been be¬
trothed. They love so much and suffer
so much; for a royal officer who is
poor cannot marry if his girl has no
fortune that can protect the lovers from
want. But do not ride to the devil,
Dubois 1 None of this. You are and
shall remain an honest, discreet feUow,
and if the blue eyes of your Elizabeth
must ever be red from the many tears
she sheds with her Louis, it cannot and
shall not make me faithless in my office.
264
MARIA THERESA AND HER FIREMAN.
and I will still remiin an honest man,
who cannot be bribed."
" Hear you, sir," cried he, now aloud,
while, in great haste and with the great¬
est exertion of his crooked legs, he re¬
turned to Von Eiedt. " Hear you well,
I will not take the four thousand louis
d'ors, although it is dreadful to offer it
to such a poor man as I am. You must
know that you are dealing with an
honest man. How could my most
gracious empress have any further con¬
fidence in me, should she leam that my
petitions for others, which she so often
listens to graciously, can be won with
money ? I would no longer be able to
assist any unfortunate ones, if I accepted
your singular offer, sir, with which I
beseech you to take yourself off quick¬
ly, or else I may further convince you
with my poker that you are dealing
with an honest fireman of the em¬
press."
Herr von Eiedt broke out into a
hearty laugh at the sight of the en¬
raged dwarf, and said, while he tapped
him on the shoulder : " I know, Dubois,
you are an upright man, or I would not
venture to apply to your honest heart in
the interest of a poor unfortunate. But
believe me it is worth your while to in¬
terest yourself for a man who lies fast
in the hold of a prison ; and to recom¬
mend him to you, I have made the long
journey from BerUn to Vienna, in the
fierce cold. You would thereby oblige
the first persons in Berlin ; and, if you
will not accept money, at least permit
me to bestow the before-named sum as
a dowry on some poor girl, who cannot
marry her lover, because the infamous
money, a» you call it, is wanting."
"Do what you will with youf
money," answered Dubois, sullenly, " I
know no betrothed pair to be endowed
with it, and I will have nothing to do
with the whole matter. Speak to me
no more about it. It would not be the
first couple that could not exchange
rings because there was no money.
But if I can do any good for an unfor¬
tunate oue, who innocently suffers, or
at least is an honorable man in prison,
then is old Dubois aiways at hand, and
declares himself willing and ready to
leave nothing untried that is in his
power. But tell me what it is about,
whom does it concern, and how can I
be useful with my trifling influence, and
without violence to my conscience."
" It concerns a captive who sits in a
deep, subterranean prison in the fortress
of Magdeburg," answered Herr von
Eiedt, while a painful shadow passed
over his face. " It is the Baron Fred¬
erick von Trenck, a brave young officer,
a nobleman in the best sense of the
word, for whose honorable and brave
character I myself will answer. His
mishap befell him at Berlin, wlien "ne
entered into the Prussian military ser¬
vice, and had the misfortune to draw
upon himself the displeasure of King
Frederick of Prussia. They charged
him with having a secret love-affair
with the Princess Amelia of Prussia,
and thereby stirred up the anger of the
powerful king, who took Trenck pris¬
oner, and cast him into the fortress of
Glatz. Afterward Trenck made his es¬
cape, applied at Vienna, and became an
imperial cavalry captain of Austria.
The empress looked upon him as one
of her bravest officers, and soon
DUBOIS AND HIS CLIENTS
265
Trenck, as an Austriin officer, had to
be respected by the King of Prussia.
" But the King of Prussia caught him
again, for Trenck was a brave and dar¬
ing fellow, and ventured again into
Prussia, and was taken prisoner at
Dantzic. Again the Prussian put him
into the fortress—"
Here Dubois, who had listened with
the greatest attention, interrupted him
—" Oh, this story I have heard often
before. It is certainly very wonderful,
and I can tell your grace the empress
herself is much interested in this mat¬
ter, for I have often heard her majesty
speak of it."
" Ah ! " answered Herr von Riedt,
" that is a good sign for us already ; it
assures us that our plan will succeed 1
My dear Dubois, you see here ' before
you a near relation of the unfortunate
Baron von Trenck. I am the Knight
von Trenck ; Trenck is my nephew, the
only son of my beloved sister. He now
sits in a frightful hole in Magdeburg,
deep under the earth—no air, no light
can penetrate to him ; no motion is al¬
lowed him, for with seventy pounds of
iron chains he is bound hand and foot,
and body. He has no rest, nor is he re¬
freshed by sleep, day or night. For
the never-tired champion who fought
and struggled for his freedom, had
not yet lost his strength and spirit of
enterprise; so he worked day and
night at the attempt at release, and
through his unprecedented skill one
expected every moment to hear of his
escape from his gloomy prison. There¬
fore the sentries before the door of his
prison call him every quarter hour in
the night, and upon his frightful calf
' Trenck, are you there ? ' he must each
time answer, and start up frightened
from his weary and to him no longer
refreshing slumber ; under these fearful
torments his strength begins already to
faU, already he has become a horrible
caricature, and, if a saving hand does
not soon enter his prison, there will
only be left in the hands of his tormen¬
tors a frantic old man."
Tears now gushed from the eyes of
old Dubois. The narrative of Herr
von Riedt had so affected him, that he
could no longer keep back his easily
excited sympathy.
" The poor, poor man 1 " cried he,
weeping. " How can one help him, how
can one free an imprisoned officer from
the hands of the Prussians ? "
" Oh," answered Herr von Riedt,
briskly, " only our most gracious Em¬
press Maria Theresa can accomplish
that wonder. And who can move her
magnanimous heart thereto ? It is Du¬
bois, the man of honor, the brave friend
of aU the unfortunate, in whom the
empress has the greatest confidence.
Through your truthfulness and hon¬
esty, you have acquired the right to
speak to the empress in a familiar hour,
when her head and heart are not occu¬
pied with absorbing state affairs, and
when she willingly hears a word from
your mouth, about the suffering of the
afflicted, that reaches her great heart.
If the empress were graciously disposed
to entreat for Trenck with the King of
Prussia—^if, in the name of humanity,
and also, perhaps, because the Baron
von Trenck is an Austrian subject, she
would address an interceding word to
King Frederick—then we would reach
266
THAHTA THERESA AND HER ElREMAN.
our point, noble Dubois ! We are con¬
vinced tbat a word from the Empress
Maria Theresa would sufiSce to move the
mind of King Frederick and dispose him
to the duty of releasing Trenck ; for the
right of the empress to reclaim her sub¬
ject could not be combated, "and, since
the conclusion of peace between Prus¬
sia and Austria, the Prussian king
would be still more willing to bind
the Empress of Austria through a fa¬
vor."
" The empress, indeed, always called
him a bad man I " answered Dubois,
while his face worked itself into doubt¬
ful furrows. " But you may know,
Herr von Eiedt," continued he, with a
gentle and good-natured expression, " I
will leave nothing untried to influence
the empress in this affair. For if they
do call me at the most a bear—yet I
have nothing of Master Bruin about
my heart."
Herr von Eiedt could not resist em¬
bracing the excellent Dubois, and
pressing a kiss upon his yellow, wrin¬
kled cheeks.
" I shall soon do all, my dear Herr
von Eiedt ! " said Dubois, whose dis¬
torted ugliness at this moment had al¬
most vanished, and who appeared beau-
tifled almost, through the noble and
tender feelings that shone upon his
coimtenance. " But it will not be ac¬
complished so quickly as perhaps your
grace has imagined. I want four
mornings in order to prepare the em¬
press in some measme for it, and bring
her to a conclusion, inasmuch as the
weather is changeable, and her imperial
favor depends very much upon wheth¬
er I have made too much or too little
heat—^for the window must be open in
the middle of winter. But I hope to
have it in shape in four days ; only you
must not press me, Herr von Eiedt,
and further, you must not speak to me
again about money, for I am a good
fellow—otherwise you would make me
wicked indeed, and I withdraw from
the whole business abruptly."
"My dear Dubois," answered the
other, " our thanks will not be obtruded
upon you against - your will. That
which the father magnanimously re¬
jects, perhaps we can venture to pre¬
sent to the daughter, without being re¬
fused ? "
" NTo, no ! " cried Dubois, with the
greatest vehemence. " The daughter can
be helped without this. All sorrow is
not so poor as to let itself be bribed to
a good deed. Herewith I have the
honor quite obsequiously to order your
honor to depart."
"With which, Master Dubois, waving
"the cap which he wore on his head,
withdrew from Herr von Eiedt, who
left the palace with a glad heart.
V.
elizabeth.
Shoktlt after this, Dubois went out
to take a long walk through the city.
He had found, now, a little leisure
from his business, which he usually
spent in visiting his daughter Eliza¬
beth, the darling of his heart.
Elizabeth was boarding with a re¬
spectable family in one of the distant
Wburbs of Vienna, where her father
ELIZABETH.
267
had for Bome time provided for her in
order not to have her in his own dwell¬
ing, which he occupied in the rear of
the palace. For he feared the tempta¬
tions to which his daughter might ea¬
sily he exposed in the crowd at the
court, and so he preferred to use his
savings to prepare for his beloyed child
a proper and safe asylum in the bosom
of a quiet citizen family, where she
could devote herself quietly and undis¬
turbed to her studies, for which he had
provided her the best masters in Vi¬
enna.
Dubois was always happy when he
could be on his way to his dearly-be¬
loved daughter. He then travelled the
streets of Vienna with an almost youth¬
ful haste, and his whole being became
exalted and elastic. He hummed a
lively tune under his beard, as he
reached the Kohlmarckt, and hastened
over the canal in order to arrive
through a labyrinth of little streets at
the desired suburb among the houses
of which stood the dwelling in which
abode the lovely Elizabeth.
Dubois became thoughtful and quiet
as he entered the house, and mounted
the little steps which led to the apart¬
ment of his daughter. While he lis¬
tened for a moment at the door, it
seemed to him as though he heard a
spirited conversation within, and then
a violent sobbing and weeping, that
made him attentive and alarmed him.
He now suddenly opened the door,
and perceived his daughter sitting on
the sofa beside a yoimg oflScer, and, as
it appeared, very sad and touching
emotions were expressed on the coun¬
tenances of both of them.
Elizabeth immediattdy approached
her father, but not with the same joy¬
ful cheerfulness with which she for¬
merly delighted to greet him. She
had such a painful, dovracast expres¬
sion in her face, her serene, blue eyes
were weeping and sad, and her white
forehead was wrinkled with sorrow.
Not less sad was the young man who
sat beside her, and now stood up, with
an earnest, shy reserve, vrithout ap¬
proaching old Dubois. He seemed ex¬
ceedingly sorrowful, and could not im¬
mediately control himself, although
Dubois tapped him on the shoulder in
a friendly way, and raised up his head
in his good-natured, rough manner,
looking at him long and sharply.
" Now, children, you look to me to¬
day like spoiled onion-soup," said Du¬
bois, whilst, astonished, he contem¬
plated one after the other. "When
two young lovers are together, they do
not thus indulge in weeping, as though
some fearful sorrow had come down
from the clouds upon them. Now, teU
me, Louis, Elizabeth—you were once
such brave and gaUant lovers and be¬
trothed—why are you so sad to-day,
and hang your heads in this manner, as
though you had already been quarrel¬
ling before the wedding ? "
At this speech of old Dubois, the
young officer of hussars found himself
in a dilemma, and he quickly dropped
his countenance to the floor, without
answering a word.
But Elizabeth could no longer con¬
tain herself; she began to sob again
vehemently, and leaned for support on
her father's shoulder, while she reached
her hand to her betrothed, and permit-
868 MARIA THERESA .
ted it to remain in his own, looking at
him long and searchingly.
The young officer, who was a man
of a peculiar, martial beauty, and bore
in his young, characteristic face the
expression of a good and amiable dis¬
position, took the beautiful hand, and
with a warm pressure raised it to his
lips.
Elizabeth blushed a lovely purple,
and said, quickly withdrawing her
hand, and fondly pressing herself to
her father: "We have quarrelled al¬
ready before the wedding, did you say,
father ? Ah, then truly we have quar¬
relled long before the time. For we
count upon it, Louis and I, that our
wedding will never take place—that
we can never be in a position which
would make our union possible."
" Ah, see there I " answered Dubois,
roughly, " you comical people are
vexed about it, for you can truly no
longer wait the time when you will be
married. Tour eyes overflow from
sorrow and lon^ng, and you both
stand there with grief and fear in your
faces,, and have already become pale
like poor sinners, as though you soon
expected the resurrection."
" No," began Elizabeth, in a passion¬
ate voice, whUe her whole lovely face
blushed deeply, " no, of that there has
been no talk, for we can weU wait the
time, but that fine gentleman there.
Lieutenant Louis Weidemann, really
thought he must release me, because as
a man of honor he could no longer rec¬
oncile it to his conscience thus to bind
me, as he says, and to waste my youth
without any future. But not so, father,
that is a crafty speech, which never
ND HER FIREMAN.
can do good, and by which one la¬
ments bitterly at heart without in the
least advancing his truth and love."
Old Dubois's face began now to
wither and contract, and the young
officer seemed to apprehend with evi¬
dent anxiety an outburst of strong dis¬
pleasure toward him. But it was
rather a frightful and perplexing recol¬
lection by which Dubois at this mo¬
ment felt himself overcome, and which
began to make his heart heavy. He
stared before him, bit his fingers, and
looked at the two young people with
great earnestness.
Meantime the young officer ap¬
proached him, and, seizing his hand,
said solemnly: "My dear father. Du.
bois, hear me for a moment calmly, be
fore you blame me 1 You know well
that my sincere desire—I can say at
once earnestly and painfully—^is di¬
rected to the moment when I will be
united at the altar in eternal bonds
with Elizabeth, whom I have so long
loved truly. And there is nothing to
prevent our union but the terrible
property regulation laid upon us offi-
eers, and which we no longer have any
hope of procuring. At ffi-st, the death
of my uncle permitted me to hope that
I would inherit sufficient means for
this purpose, and to-day the wiU has
been published. Lieutenant Louis
Weidemann has been placed only upon
a small allowance, for his uncle carried
an old dislike he bore him even to hii
grave. And who can blame me for
surrendering myself to despair ? At
the same time my honor dictated a
strong and mournful resolution. I mujl
tell my beloved Elizabeth, for I cannot
ELIZABETH.
269
gratify my wishes and nourish my heart
with the loss to her of her youth, her
future, her entire life's happiness.
Therefore I said to Elizabeth to-day :
' You shall no longer wait for me, al¬
though I would be happy to have the
watching of your heart. Let us part
from each other—^thrust me from you,
Elizabeth, I can be imhappy for myself
alone, but you shall not pine in the
sweet bloom of youth.' "
"And was not that an abominable
word from him ? " interrupted Eliza¬
beth, with angry zeal, whilst she turned
to her father with this question ; " Must
we not quarrel, then, for do you not
know that whoever speaks thus, or
even can think thus, no longer loves
me, and that I have already become al¬
together indiflFerent tp his heart I And
quite properly have we quarrelled ;
my heart almost bleeds over it, and,
father, I will never again be contented
and happy ! "
Dubois still continued in his peculiar
rigorous silence, and looked down be¬
fore him, and did not appear to give
the least attention tc the persons around
him.
Still motionless and staring, he now
said, as though conversing to himself,
out of a deep reflection, "You are both
fools, children, and I am grieved to see
you thus. I do not like it that two
persons who are designed for one
another, should spit their bitter grief
in each other's faces, and torment
themselves to death with pure love.
Now, Louis 1 the thing has not yet
come to an end ; and Elizabeth, all joy
18 not yet extinguished. "Wait both of
you till New-Year's day, and think of
the old piece, ' The tables are turned,'
which again at that time will be hap¬
pily played and performed. Who
knows but I myself can help you ?
How you will be helped I do not quite
know myself, but I have half reckoned
that four thousand louis d'ors might
suffice for the whole business 1 But
four thousand louis d'ors I four thousand
louis d'ors ! "
Dubois now stammered and turned
pale, while he again murmured the
sum to himself under his beard. He
sank into a gloomy .stare, and seemed
to struggle with his resolution. At
last the cold sweat stood upon his fore¬
head, which he wiped off in a sorrow¬
ful and very oppressed manner.
" One could perhaps do much," mur¬
mured he, " if one did not wish to re¬
main a conscientious man."
And now Elizabeth and Louis sur¬
rounded him with their fond embraces,
in which they both joined, and thereby
appeared to have become reconciled to
each other. For the more eagerly they
advanced toward the old man with
their adulation and prayer—imploring
hira to assist them with advice and
counsel—the more they made known
how strongly their hearts yet beat for
one another, and confessed their ardent
desire for a speedy reunion.
Dubois now, with a heavy sigh, with¬
drew from the embrace of his children,
and hastened out of the door, with¬
out making any other appointment
vdth them. They looked after him
with renewed sadness, for they had
hoped that at last he would declare
himself ready to apply to the empress
in their behalf, a thing that heretofore
210
MARU THERESA AHD HER FIREMAN.
he had always repelled as impossible,
and which itself would endanger his
situation with Maria Theresa.
Dubois had again gone into the
street, and he ran as far as his unfortu¬
nate bodily constitution would permit,
in stormy haste and without looking
round him. He seemed as though he
were staggering in a dream. "Were one
to see the hunchback looking so dark¬
ly, and striding away with such strange
eagerness, and at the same time in such
deep thought, one would take him for
a mischief-brooding dreamer, who had
evil designs, and was proceeding to
prosecute some horrible act.
But Dubois only meditated in his
heart what was beautiful and good,
while he continued incessantly along
the streets of Vienna. He had now
taken the resolution to dismiss his
stubbornness, and to renounce the prin¬
ciples so long maintained with pride
and obstinacy. The figure of the stran¬
ger again appeared to him with re¬
newed enticement. It occurred to him
that, at the time of his last visit, he had
mentioned his dweUing, which he had
taken in one of the best hotels in Vien¬
na. Dubois thought he would now go
to him, would again declare himself
ready, and would accept the offer which
he before had made, in such a wonder¬
ful manner. These thoughts seemed to
comfort him for a moment, for he be¬
lieved that now he could dry the tears
of Elizabeth and her betrothed.
It was the " Hotel of the Wild Man,"
at which Herr von Eiedt was staying,
and where he had arranged with Du¬
bois to meet him, should he have any
thing to communicate. Dubois was
already in the street in which was the
hotel, but his strong will could not
control his legs and make him enter
the doorway, and take the steps neces¬
sary to find out the stranger. More
than once already had Dubois gone
straight to the hotel, and each time
had vowed quite determinedly to enter
immediately, but he had always gone
back to the same place, without being
able to obey his wilL It seemed as
though his legs had become rooted fast
—^he could no longer control them;
and at last he stood helpless before the
door of the hotel, while the large, state¬
ly porter, strutting in silver tassels,
showed his displeasm-e at seeing such
a repulsive, misshapen fellow stationed
before the door. But just as he was
about driving him away, a man came
between them, who just now had come
down the steps, to whom the figure of
the fireman appeared to be well known
and welcome.
It was Herr von Eiedt himself who
called and beckoned to Dubois. The
old fireman now trembled violently,
and did not dare to lift up his eyes to
his strange patron. He stood before
him timidly and with downcast looks,
and to the friendly question of Herr
von Eiedt, " whether he wished to see
him and whether, perhaps, he had
brought a favorable report ? " he could
only murmur a vague, unintelligible
answer.
The timely presence of Herr von
Eiedt was calculated to quickly make
him more confident and communicative,
and Dubois must at once have perceived
that he was fortunate in meeting Von
Eiedt at this moment. But his lips
THE EMPRESS
AND DUBOIS.
271
would not utter the words that he had
come hither to speak. His tongue re¬
fused this service, and with sullen, con¬
fused looks he confined his conversa¬
tion to telling Herr von Riedt that he
would certainly commence his first trial
with the most gracious empress on the
following morning. But he did not
venture to speak of the money. He
had not courage for that. His whole
face glowed as if plunged in fire. Sud¬
denly, after an awkward salutation, he
departed, leaving Herr von Riedt stand¬
ing, who looked after him inquiringly,
and then swung himself into his cabrio¬
let that had been waiting at the door.
" The poor ones, they cannot marry
now ! " groaned Dubois, as he took the
road to the imperial palace.
VI.
the empkess and dubois.
The empress was this morning
awake upon her couch at the accus¬
tomed hour, and she observed with sat¬
isfaction that, as ever, the inaudible
although clearly-observed rule of her
faithful Dubois had already begun
around her in her chamber. The
flames already crackled in the chimney,
in a comfortable, subdued tone, as if
the fire had learned something of the
discretion of its master, and had like¬
wise assumed, like a tractable element,
his sUence and caution in the service of
the empress.
The empress listened pleasurably to
the low but incessant snapping of the
flames, and seemed only by degrees to
be aroused by the noise. The hastily-
moving form of old Dubois, which
a
passed rapidly now here, now there,
and busied itself everywhere in the
chamber with an ever-useful manage¬
ment, did not disturb the empress in
the light after-slumber wliich would
yet steal lightly over her eyelashes.
Often already had she, at such a time,
begun her morning conversations with
Dubois, to whom, perhaps, she pro¬
pounded a question, which he usually
took care to, answer the empress with
often uncommonly diverting mother-wit
and sound common-sense. This for
many years had been the happiest man¬
ner in which Maria Theresa awoke,
and then often her disposition for the
whole day was made propitious.
" Heyday, Dubois ! " the empress
now suddenly began, while she looked
around her with her bright eyes and
perceived the fireman standing not far
from her bed. " Ton have, then, not
told me your opinion concerning the
peace I have made with the King of
Prussia. And you well know, Dubois,
that your opinion concerning every
thing is not less weighty than if the
court and state chancellor, the Prince
von Kaunitz, had spoken something ! "
Dubois delayed answering for a mo¬
ment. The question of the empress ev¬
idently filled him with great joy, and
he saw the desired opportunity ap¬
proaching when he might introduce
the subject which he secretly had in
view. But from prudence he concluded
not immediately to pass over to the
thing he would arrive at, for Maria
Theresa was quick to conceive a sus¬
picion toward those around her.
.272
MARIA THERESA AND HER FIREMAN
"What in the whole world shall I
say about the peace, your majesty ? "
he therefore answered, in a quite indif¬
ferent tone. " Besides," continued he,
laughing cunningly, " am I ever given
to meddling in such matters?—I, the
fireman, Dubois ? "
" Well, now," answered the empress,
who to-day again was quite disposed
to chat with her fireman, "you wiU
keep behind the mountain and not let
your political wisdom shine on me to¬
day. But tell me, at least, my old
Wend, whether you are not happy and
contented since I have at last made
peace ? "
Dubois had already slipped back
again to the chimney, where a displaced
piece of wood had for some time
caused disturbance. But in an instant
almost he again stood near the em¬
press and answered with his own deep
and important earnestness. " I am
happy and satisfied therewith, if the
treaty of peace is satisfactory to your
majesty."
" And how can you believe," answer¬
ed the empress, astonished, " that to me
the treaty of peace is not satisfactory ? "
" How can I know," replied the fire¬
man, this time in a gruff, sullen tone,
" what gives satisfaction to the great ?
If it were I, then I would know, but
the great—oh, my God ! that is quite*
another thing ! Who can guess what
concerns these, who can ever under¬
stand them ? "
" Oh," answered Maria Theresa, with
an honest turning up of her eyes, " you
mean, then, that I also, perhaps, may
not be rejoiced at having peace ? Tou
i.hink that I have no love for my sub¬
jects, and do not enjoin every thing that
can be for their interests ? "
" Ah, pardon me, your majesty," an¬
swered Dubois, bowing submissively,
" I weU know that you are not only the
greatest, but also the best and most
gracious sovereign in the whole world !
The Empress Maria Theresa is truly
mother of us all ! But—"
"What, then, would you say with
the lut ? " asked Maria Theresa, glan¬
cing at him surprisedly, while, with in¬
creasing astonishment, she observed his
strange, gloomy deportment.
Dubois now stood erect, and raising
his forefinger with a sullen gesture,
said : " Do the great princes, then, al¬
ways do what they will, and how they
will ? Do they not sometimes also do
that which they would really rather not
do ? and is it becoming, then, for us
poor people to pass judgment on such
things ? If one speaks to me of the de¬
signs of your royal highness, I will an¬
swer for it. But when your majesty
makes peace, or when your majesty
makes war, how in all the world shall
I know why it is done ? Can I know
surely whether that was really done
which your majesty wished would be
done ? Of all this I know nothing—al¬
together nothing. I therefore only ex¬
press my wishes and vows for your ma¬
jesty, and believe that I am doing best
if I remain silent as to aU the rest."
"WeU, now," answered Maria The¬
resa, in her kind, magnificent voice,
" you have suddenly become a wonder¬
ful screech-owl ; but you shall always
have your privilege of being strange,
and the more so, since with you there
always lurks, behind, a reason. But as
THE MORNING CONVERSATION OF MARIA THERESA.
273
regards the peace which I have con¬
cluded with the King of Prussia, you
cannot question, Dubois, that I am very
happy because of it, on account of my
beloved subjects I "
" Oh, your majesty," answered Du¬
bois, now in a lower tone of voice,
" you certainly desire that all your sub¬
jects should be happy I And yet are
they always so Î Does this always de¬
pend on your majesty ? And if it so
depends—?"
Here Dubois prudently broke off his
speech, and sank into a gravelike still¬
ness, staring at the empress at a dis¬
tance.
Maria Theresa, surprised, seemed to
reflect over this last question of the old
Savoyard. She then gave him the ac¬
customed sign to depart, as the empress
desired to pass over to her toilet.
Dubois departed with his usual
quickness and quietness. He believed
that he already had made quite an ad¬
vantageous beginning, and, as he knew
the empress well, he hoped on the mor¬
row to prosecute the matter to the end.
Satisfied with himself, he returned to
his little dwelling in the rear of the
palace, where he hid himself all day
long in sad loneliness. For the thought
of his daughter living there in pain
tormented him ; but he had now taken
his determination, to which he would
hold fast, and from which he intended
never again to depart. From the fa¬
vor of heaven alone, would he now ex¬
pect a happy time in the fortunes of
poor Elizabeth.*
• S. Thlébanlt, " Pwvenira de Vingt Ana d'un
Séjonr à Berlin," vor. iv., p. 221.
IS
VH.
the moening conversation oe maria
theresa.
The following morning, when Du¬
bois again found himself in the cham¬
ber of the empress, Maria Theresa al¬
ready appeared to have expected the
entrance of the fireman. The empress,
already for some time sleepless, had
looked for the entrance of the fireman,
and as soon as the clock struck the
sii^th hour, he threw open the doors,
and with his lighted candle entered
the chamber.
Dubois quickly lighted the tapers
which stood on the table of the em¬
press, and then glided with hasty steps
to the chimney, in order, as soon as
possible, to kindle the fire, for it
was somewhat cold without, to-day,
and the chilled - through chamber re¬
quired a good warming against the ris¬
ing of the empress.
But in the same instant Dubois was
called by the empress, who, with her ac¬
customed " Heyday, Dubois 1 " showed
that she was already awake, and was
not disinclined toward a conversation
with her fireman.
"You appeared to compliment me
yesterday, Dubois," said the empress,
and immediately added with some has¬
tiness, " but afterward I convinced my¬
self that in reality you only reproved
me."
" I truly feel sad that your majesty
condescended to receive only the half
of what I said 1 " answered the hunch¬
back, while with much skill he affected
terror and astonishment.
"Tell me quite frankly, Dubois,"
274 MARIA THERESA J
2ontinued the empress, with a very
earnest and severe expression, " what
did you mean to express yesterday
with the strange phrase which you em¬
ployed—' if it so depends ? ' "
" Oh," answered Dubois, with a half-
natural true-heartedness, " as to that,
your majesty, I could have meant very
many things."
" Now, let us hear, Dubois," said the
empress, inclining herself toward him
with an attentive ear.
" What will it serve, your majesty,
to speak about it Î " asked Dubois, rais¬
ing his cunning, twinkling eyes to the-
empress.
" But you shall explain exactly what
you would have said thereby," com¬
manded the empress again.
Dubois, with imperturbable coolness,
behind which looked so much shyness,
now stood opposite the empress, and
said, with a cunning laugh, which ap¬
peared stiU furthef to excite her : " Are
there not, then, a thousand considera¬
tions and reflections in politics, which
can repeatedly estrange even the sover¬
eign, who for the most part desires the
welfare of his subjects. And the pri¬
vate opportunities? And the many
relatives who assert their wishes and
influence ? And then the diversions of
■ the court ? "
" Now hear, for once," said the em¬
press, with a certain earnestness, " I am
to-day much obliged to his excellence,
my fireman, for he appears to me to
wish to read the Levâtes something
strong. You assert also that I do not
care for the welfare of my subjects,
even though I can, and although I
would. Explain me that now ! "
HD HER FIREMAN.
" Ah, Holy Virgin ! " answered Du¬
bois, now with a troubled, depressed
manner. "Tour majesty always does
the best you can, when it touches such
affairs of your subjects as are connected
with your own great affairs ; but these
concerns are so important that one can¬
not get your majesty diverted from
them, or bring you to forget them I
But there are a great many other cases
that concern your subjects, or even a
single one of them, even a poor unfor-
ttmate, who, perhaps, innocently suffers
in a dark dungeon, when your majesty
does not feel herself prompted to order
inquiry and exercise the highest grace
of the empress."
"Ton then believe the fact," an,
swered Maria Theresa, with an angry
expression, " that the private affairs of
my subjects are quite indiflerent to
me?"
" Indifferent ? " replied Dubois, in a
very insolent tone : " In that respect
there could easily be much deficiency,
for I told you myself that your majesty
did right willingly, and desired speed¬
ily to do, every thing possible for all
your subjects, far and near ; but to de¬
sire to do something, and to do some¬
thing quickly, are two different things,
your majesty ! "
" How ! " cried the empress, wno
began to be still more offended by the
strange manner of her fireman. " Who,
then, will prevent my doing what I
wish and what I will ? "
" Ah," answered Dubois, with a cun¬
ning laugh, " that I well know. There
are such a great number of other em¬
ployments that divert you and lay
claim to your attention, and then comes
THE MORNING ■ CONVERSATION OF MARIA THERESA.
the necessity of repose, and the politi¬
cal motives which cannot he disre¬
garded."
" You always get back to your polit¬
ical motives, and to your diversions!
my Over-wise Mend and fireman," said
Maria Theresa, almost angry; for the
great influence which Master Dubois
had acquired over the empress, through
his peculiar manner, consisted also in
this—that his objection contributed to
vex her, and that she often permitted
herself to be vexed by his answers, in
order then to yield the more willingly
to his views and petitions,
"But what, then, are the political
motives upon which you lay such stress,
and on which you continually dwell î "
asked she, further, while she raised
herself upon her couch, and stretched
out toward him her full, snow-white
arm.
"Ah," answered Dubois, with the
same dauntless equanimity, " are there
not, then, many motives for the body
politic, and many duties toward other
powers that demand forbearance and
estrange your majesty fi-om a thousand
good purposes and actions ? "
"And now be so good as to name
the diversions which would make me
follow your opinion, and tell me gently
enough, and delicately, wherein these
diversions consist ? " the empress now
asked, in an earnest tone, turning a coy,
side-glance upon the strange Dubois.
The form of the hunchbacked gnome
now raised itself in a wonderful man¬
ner. He looked earnest, and com¬
manded respect, seemed to have im¬
proved, and to have acquired unusual
spirit.
" Ah ! that is the trouble- -what are
they ? " he now cried, with an emphatic
gesture of the hand. " Are there not,
then, constantly, congratulations, that
must be answered through gracious
compliments which mean nothing ?
Amd then come solemn deputations,
which wait on speeches in which there
are many phrases that oblige one to say
nothing. And the public amusements,
the plays, the feasts that one must, at¬
tend to show one's self, and waste one's
time—to be greeted now here, now
there, and to die of ennui. Truly, your
royal grace, I pity you fi-om my very
heart—but the poor, unfortunate peo¬
ple whose life's happiness you now
could promote by the opportunity of
peace, what in the world will become
of them in the midst of such a whirl¬
pool of dissipations and claims ? Alas !
these poor ones will be forgotten, and
the opportunity will have been lost to
interest yourself in their behalf, and to
do the least thing for them."
The fireman stood before the empress
like a rebuking demon. His face was
sufiiised with a dark heat, and fi:om his
eyes shot wild, malignant flames, which
made his appearance gloomy and
threatening.
Maria Theresa now turned herself
away from the overflowing eloquence
of her fireman, and made the usual sign
that she desired to go to her toilet.
With a lightning - quick motion, and
without once looking back, Dubois
had now disappeared fl-om the chamr
her.*
♦ Tbiébault, "Souvenirs de Vingt Ans d^un Sé'
joor à Berlin," vol. iv., p. 823.
276 MARU THERESA .
vin.
continuation of the xnteevrew.
The following morning, however,
the empress resumed the conversation,
and said to Dubois : " You spoke to me
yesterday of the good works which the
peace now afforded me an opportunity
to perform. Now, then, if you know
any such, let me hear them, and you
may he assured I shall favorably receive
whatever you may have to tell me."
Dubois's expression now suddenly
changed. The greatest indifference
stood written upon his face, and with
an air of unconcerned tranquillity he
said to Maria Theresa : " How in the
world, then, should I know any thing
to tell you ? I, poor knave, can only
see things in the world in gross and in
general ; details do not belong to me, and
do not at aU concern me. These are
the business of your majesty or of your
ministers ! "
" Truly, my Mend," answered Maria
Theresa, in a fretful tone, "you ever
speak in a circle, and I believe you in¬
deed no longer know what you speak 1 "
" Oh yes, your majesty," answered
Dubois, now with renewed zeal ; " par¬
don me, that I know very well. Have
I, then, not lived long enough in the
world, to know how much good your
majesty could do, especially in a mo¬
ment like the present ? Do I not
know, that there are thousands—yea,
more than thousands of men, who have
just cause to lament, and desire help ?
And can it now be imknown to me
that you would do all that depends on
you to lighten the pains, and atone for
ND HER FIREMAN.
the injustice of any—even did a cry
pierce through the deep, dark walls of
a prison to you ? And if it does not
depend upon you, but perchance on
some other prince, there is even no sov¬
ereign on the earth who would not
grant all that your majesty might de¬
mand of him. But when your-majesty
requires that I should quote something
single and alone, which I cannot know,
and of which your majesty and her
ministers alone could have knowledge,
that would be, really, as if your majesty
commanded me to carry water to the
Danube !"
The empress had observed him with
a sharp, searching look. The whole
appearance of her old Savoyard seemed
to her extremely mysterious. But by
a new effort she hoped to get some¬
thing (Jut of him.
"You fatigue yourself Mghtfully, to
escape me," said the empress, after a
pause. " You speak stupid stuff in the
air, and you would, indeed, do better
by keeping quiet, or else by informing
me truly of some good act which, in
your opinion, I can perform—and then
I command you to speak, and for fear
of my displeasure no longer to keep
back your business."
" Oh, your majesty," said Dubois,
now with an expression of great confu¬
sion on his face, " from whence shall
I get what you desire of me ? I know
that your majesty could at this moment
perform a thousand good acts. No
one can take this thought out of my
head, as no one could make me doubt
that your majesty has the greatest de¬
sire to perform these acts, and yet they
wül not be performed, because, without
CONTINUATION OF THE INTERVIEW.
277
doubt, your ministers will give you no
information about them, although th^y
nevertheless could do so. This thought
is terrible, your majesty, terrible for all
your subjects and admirers, but it is
true, your majesty, it is true 1 "
The empress turned herself away
from him with an angry gesture, and re¬
mained silent for a moment thinking,
while she held her head turned toward
the wall. Then with a motion of her
hand she gave the usual sign, that de¬
termined him on instant departure from
the apartment of the empress.*
On the fourth day, the empress awoke
almost at the very moment when her
fireman, who at the last interview had
suggested such strange thoughts to her,
entered her chamber.
Maria Theresa called him at once,
when she perceived him at the chim¬
ney, and said : " Listen to me, Dubois.
Our last conversation yesterday has
been running in my head ever since.
Ton can, therefore, see that the dis¬
course with you is notindiflerent to me,
and although you have been stubborn,
stiU. I think you will gradually leam
reason and will make your empress see
more clearly what you would tell with
aU your strange tricks. You have truly
directed me to my minister, from whom
I might demand information as to
what good acts I could accomplish in
the opportunity afforded by the peace."
"Ah, my most gracious empress,"
now answered Dubois, as he raised up
his head, " that would be hard on your
♦ Thiébault, iv., 228. Thiébault repeats these
conversations of the Empress Maria Theresa with
her flreman, Irom a pretended communication
which he had from Trenck himself, in Paris.
humble servant the fireman 1 I only
know that which all the world knows
already ; and the things which I have
arrived at only by accident are surely
much better known to others than to
me. If I should quote an example to
your majesty, I would in the end, per¬
haps, only light upon an old story, of
which at least I may have been badly
informed. Besides, I must seek for it
in my head again, and God knows what
I would find there."
" Then seek for it in your head now,"
cried the empress, good-naturedly,
" and teU me, quite speedily, what you
have found in it."
" Oh," cried the fireman, now trem¬
bling, as he looked down before him
with a troubled expression, " what then
will happen to me if I advance foolish
stuff, which perhaps I considered some¬
thing quite rational ? how would your
majesty receive that ? Would your ma¬
jesty be well mindful that I had only
obeyed your majesty's will ; and woiild
I be pardoned ? "
" Calm yourself as to this, entirely,"
said Maria Theresa, quickly, "I cer¬
tainly will always let justice be done
your good intentions."
"Well, then," said Dubois, resolute¬
ly, " a long story comes even now into
my memory, but if it should too much
fall in with politics—^how would it be
with it then, most powerful empress ? "
" Only speak at last," cried the em¬
press, impatiently, " and fear nothing ! "
"Well, then, your majesty I will
obey," said Dubois, drawing a deep
breath. "Your majesty has in Hun¬
gary a family whose name is Trenck,
In this family there was a man who
218
MARIA THERESA AND HER FIREMAN.
had rendered you the greatest service,
especially in your wars against Freder¬
ick. With the four thousand lancers or
pandours which Trenck had recruited
in his home, he placed the French in
terror from the Rhine to Paris. And
what reward did he receive for his bold
heroism, for his sacrificing love for the
empress and for Austria ? His enemies
succeeded in persuading you that
Trenck was a godless man, a traitor,
or a fool, or perhaps all these together.
You ordered him to be shut up in one
of your fortresses, from whence he can
no longer boast; one hears no more
death words from him, for Trenck died
there in the greatest misery. And after
the death of poor Trenck what was
done for him ? Nothing, your majesty
—absolutely nothing I They did not
praise his memory, his family received
no kind of consolation, they let him
fall entirely and forever into oblivion.
Another branch of this family settled
in Prussia ; a cousin of this unfortunate
Trenck—even more unfortunate than
he—^has languished for I know not how
many years in a Prussian prison. And
what crime is charged against this
poor Baron von Trenck in Prussia?
lione I This Trenck is even as innocent
as was the other, as his cousin, the cap¬
tain of pandours, and while they surely
know nothing against him, they have
charged him with having surrendered
to your majesty the plans of the forts
of the king, with whom you have just
concluded peace. Now, our most gra¬
cious empress and mistress, you certainly
know best that this is not true ; and
they generally affirm that the Baron von
Trenck, who is imprisoned in the Prus¬
sian fortress like a heinous criminal nas
delivered you nothing—^nothing. Yom
majesty knows that this Trenck is not
guilty, and yet must yom* illustrious
name serve as a pretext for all his inhu¬
man sufferings. On your account it is
that an unfortunate man must perish in
the bottom of an abominable prison.
Can you well endure that, your majes¬
ty ? And can you not now, with the
favorable opportunity which the peace
with Prussia presents, write a few lines
to the King of Prussia with your own
gracious hands, and say to him therein
that this man is innocent of the crime
which is charged against him, that you
wiU answer with your own royal word
for his innocence in this resirect, that it
causes you constant grief to think that
you are the pretext for all his suffer¬
ings, and that you hope the King of
Prussia will (now that peace is again
restored between his Prussian majesty
and yourself, and such friendly rela¬
tions now exist between yourself and
Prussia), not refuse justice to an unfor¬
tunate one, and deprive you of the
agreeable satisfaction derived there¬
from. Your majesty well knows that
the King of Prussia, by such means
as this, would not decline a wish by
which you reclaim a former subject of
the empire. And what better proof of
your returning favor could you give
the family of Trenck, who have suf¬
fered such unmerited misfortunes ?
The most ardent blessings of this brave
people would follow you through your
whole life, your majesty; and would
not your great, magnanimous heart
find in the deed its highest elevation
and reward ? See, your majesty, this
PETITION OF MARIA THERESA TO FREDERICK THE GREAT. 279
rs the example that has come into my
head, and for which you have granted
beforehand your gracious pardon."
Dubois here broke short his narra¬
tive, which he had given with an ex¬
pression of uncommon true-hearted-
ness and natural emotion, and which to
all appearance had produced an imu-
sual effect upon the empress.
Maria Theresa was sunk in deep re¬
flection, and sat upright on her couch,
silent. Dubois knew already, for he
had so long studied the features of the
empress, that her heart, as so often, had
again obtained the victory, and that a
favorable decision might be expected
from her.
"It is good, Dubois," said the em¬
press, at last. " I shall give this matter
attention, and see what I can do. You
shall hear from me. Go now and
leave the room."
Dubois made a courtesy which really
expressed heart-felt thanks. He had
almost given vent to his joy in a loud
cry, but he preferred, as most agree¬
able to the empress, to vanish from
thence unobserved and trackless.
rx.
the petition of makia. theeesa to
fredekick the great.
The empress had early risen from
her couch, and with the help of her
.adies'-maids had, in a few moments,
finished her morning toilet.
Maria Theresa then repaired first to
her chapel to hear mass, as was her
usual custom. The chapel was situa¬
ted quite near the private apartment
of the empress, and often, when her de¬
vout heart longed for it, Maria Theresa
would step from her work-table over
into her chapel for a few moments, and
always would return to the same re¬
freshed and encouraged.
When Maria Theresa again returned
to her chamber her face beamed with a
still magnanimous expression, and upon
her forehead there stood a beautiful
resolution which she seemed to wish
promptly and immediately to carry out.
Without further delay, Maria The¬
resa now seated herself at the table,
folded a sheet of paper, and without
reflection instantaneously wrote off the
following epistle :
"Sire,—The peace concluded be¬
tween us must be even worse than the
lately-finished war, if from it there has
not proceeded renewed, mutual confi¬
dence in our dispositions. It is this
conviction which renders it a real
pleasure to me to utter the following
wish to your majesty.
" For a long time your majesty has
concealed in one of your fortresses an
unfortunate state prisoner, who belongs
to a noble family in my kingdom, and
one well deserving. This captive is
the Baron von Trenck, who, it is said,
must, in the dungeon at Magdeburg,
atone for a heavy suspicion which has
fallen upon him.
" It is said, sire, that Trenck is com¬
pelled to suffer fearful pains, because it
is charged against him that he, in the
war which by God's help is just ended,
had delivered to me the plans of the
fortress of your majesty. If this is his
280
MARIA THERESA AND HER FIREMAN.
crime, then I can confidently venture to
pray your majesty to hear a word from
me in behalf of the imfortunate man.
" For Trenck has not committed the
crime. He has, on my imperial word,
made me communication of this kind
in no way, and I beseech your majesty
for him.
" Will your majesty, then, have the
grace to order that this Trenck, who is
a man of a good, royal family, shall be
given me free again—that he may be
able to return again to my country?
As the committed crime by no means
weighs upon him, I implore your ma¬
jesty for justice to this valiant ofiScer,
and look soon for your majesty's favor¬
able decision. With thankful heart
and sincere respect,
"Maria Theresa."
The empress folded the sheet, as she
read it over again with beaming eyes,
and nodded quickly, with a cordial,
touching expression.
Aiter the empress had closed the
letter with her hand-seal, and had
placed upon it an autographic inscrip¬
tion to King Frederick XL, of Prussia,
she let the letter lie near her for a fewv
moments, and, with her head support¬
ed on her arm, resigned herself to
thoughtful reflection. But it was no
troubled reflection which now stole
upon the empress, for she quickly
turned aside to the breakfast-table
near her, and sipped her cup of coffee
with great pleasure, which tiU now, in
the impulse of letter-writing, she had
not touched.
At this moment the chamberlain en¬
tered the apartment of the empress.
and announced that Herr vot Eiedt
was waiting in the antechamber, to
apply for the permitted audience this
morning with the empress.
Herr von Riedt, who had been ap¬
pointed attache to the imperial embassy
at the Prussian court, had already been
intrusted with several affairs in his last
sojourn at Berlin ; and his presence in
Vienna at this time, besides his secret
purposes which he had successfully
accomplished, had also for its ostensi¬
ble purpose the delivery of dispatches
to the imperial court at Vienna.
The main object now was the situa¬
tion in which the cabinets of Austria
and Prussia stood toward each other,
after the conclusion of peace. It was
desired to deflne certain disputed
points more precisely, and to interpret
throughout the terms of peace in the
best and most benevolent sense.
To this end Herr von Riedt had
been ordered to-day again to a parting
audience with the empress, in order to
receive her final wishes concerning a
few disputed points, in order to bring
the Austrian embassy at Berlin to a
proper mode of decision in the prem¬
ises.
But the empress, this time, opened
the conversation with her ambassador
on an entirely new subject.
She lifted up the letter which lay
upon the writing-table before her, and
said in an emphatic tone, " Here is a
letter which I charge you to carry to
the King of Prussia at Berlin, and far¬
ther charge you to immediately deliver
it into the hands of the monarch him¬
self. I desire that, if necessary, you
support the therein mentioned affair
BROTHEß AND SISTER.
281
with King Frederick, with all your
power. It concerns the release of the
state-prisoner at Magdeburg, Baron
von Trenck, for whose release I have,
myself, in this letter, applied. I had
heard of the excessively cruel treat¬
ment— cruel beyond all measure—
which Trenck, who is the innocent
victim of a dark intrigue, suffers in the
Prussian fortress. In the name of hu¬
manity, as well as of my subjects, I
wished to reclaim Trenck, for I surely
could no longer endure it that a man
who still stands in the imperial service,
should be carried off and withheld
froiù me, and be so cruelly tortured.
If King Frederick does not consent to
my petition without any further cere¬
mony, then you are charged, Herr von
Riedt, to go behind the matter of the
treaty itself, and let it be understood
that it cannot stand thus—^that Aus¬
trian subjects shall not be so held in
Prussian lands, which, inverted, an
Austrian magistrate would never dare
toward a subject of his Prussian majes¬
ty. But let him take care that he does
not refuse the well-grounded petition
of Maria Theresa."
"With a beaming smile, which almost
discovered to her his strong joy, Herr
von Riedt had received this communi¬
cation from the gracious hand of the
empress. He would have now sunk on
his knees in order to thank the em¬
press for her enlarging grace toward
the unfortunate Trenck:—to mention
his own relationship to Trenck, and to
acknowledge his own interest in this
affair, but foresighted diplomacy won
the ascendency over him, and reminded
liim not to take any premature step.
X.
BBOTHEB ABU 8ISTEE.
A MONTH had passed away since
Princess Amelia had dispatched her
negotiator to the fireman of the em¬
press, and she was still without a deci¬
sive report. Once only had General
von Riedt come to see her in order to
tell her that he had succeeded in inter¬
esting the Savoyard in the fate of
Trenck, and that he had undertaken to
remind the empress of the unfortunate
captive.
This was the only report which the
princess had received from Vienna;
hence was her heart sorrowful and dis¬
couraged. Trenck still sat in his sub¬
terranean prison at Magdeburg, and
Amelia could scarcely venture longer
to hope for deliverance.
It was a dark, stormy November day.
The princess stood at the window, and
looked at the whirling snow-fiakes, and
listened to the whistling howl of the
storm, which seemed to her like the
fierce songs of sneering fiends, and
filled her with a kind of spiteful joy.
" To-day again many ships will sink
upon the ocean, and much property
and wealth be destroyed ! " murmured
she, with a hoarse laugh. " God sends
his darling daughter the howling
wind's bride, that she may sing a song
to men of their meannesses and misera¬
ble actions, and punish them a little in
that in which alone they are sensitive
—their property. Hence the roar and
whistle of the wind delight me ; it is
the voice of the great world-spirit
which travels thither in the thunder.
282
MARIA THERESA AîîD HER FIREMAN.
and makes faint-hearted men tremble.
They deserve nothing better, for they
are worthless and contemptible. I
despise them ; I hate them all, aU, and
only when I see them suffer do I feel
myself reconciled to them.
" Ah I on' yonder dde of the street
the storm has seized a beautifnlly-
dressed lady. Hei ! how it whirls her
round, hurls up her dress, and ex¬
poses her false and affected modesty.
Miserable, variegated butterfly, thou
thinkest, perhaps, thou art a goddess
of grace and of beauty, but the storm
teaches thee that thou art only a poor
insect, an impotent atom, that crawls
in the universe like any other misera¬
ble insect I And yet the storm takes
only thy clothing and thy costly hat 1
But only wait, some day it will also
seize thy heart, and whirl it round, and
shatter it, and no one wül have mercy
upon thee, but every one wiU deride
and insult thee. For misfortune is a
disgrace which is never pardoned
among men I
"It is cold here," said she, shudder¬
ing ; " I believe I shall never be warm
again. I am always freezing, and al¬
ready has this horrible frost made my
soul and heart quite numb. I would
like to know whether I shall be cold in
the grave also."
She walked slowly back from the
window, and moved through the wide,
solitary room to the chimney, in which
large pieces of wood were burning,
now flaring up in bright flames, now
sinking together into glowing heat.
Amelia took the fron poker and
amused herself with it, boring it round
in the flre, and watching the dancing.
hissing flames. The flre' threw its
glowing streaks of light over her whole
figure, and illuminated her decayed,
faded face with a reddish glimmer.
She stared into the fire and murmured
to herself abrupt, broken words; at
times a scornful smile played round her
lips, and again she would heave a
heavy sigh. Perhaps she told the flre
of the fearful flames which racked her
heart; or was she a witch, who imder-
stood the language of the flickering
fire-tongues, and answered their burn¬
ing questions ?
The violent opening of the door
awoke her from her dreams. Her
page appeared at the door, and cried
with a loud, solemn voice : " His ma¬
jesty the king ! "
Princess Amelia bowed her head
consentingly, and stepped slowly and
with almost a harsh countenance
toward the king, who just appeared on
the sfrl of the door.^
" Can I enter, my sister, or do you
command me to return 1 " asked the
king, smiling.
" The king has never to ask permis¬
sion," answered Amelia, earnestly. " He
is everywhere master, and for him the
doors of all prisons are open as well as
mine."
Frederick beckoned the pages to re¬
tire, and shut the door ; then he
stepped briskly toward his sister, and
reaching her his hand, escorted her to
the divan, on which he took a seat be¬
side her.
" Ton look upon me, then, as a sort
of jailor ? " he then asked, taking up
her words with the appearance of ten¬
der love.
BROTHER AND SISTER.
283
' Is a king, then, any thiag else,
sire ? " cried Amelia, with a harsh
»augh. " Those who displease him he
permits to be thrown into prison, and
no one among his subjects is sure that
he may not one day displease him."
" Now, my sister, you at least have
not this to fear, and yet you previously
Called this a prison."
" And it is one, sire ! "
" And I am the jailer here ? "
" No, my brother, life is my jailer."
" There you are right, Amelia," said
the king, sadly. " Life is the jailer of
us all, from whom death alone can free
us. The world truly is but a great
prison, and only fools fancy themselves
free. But already we have entered
into an earnest philosophical conversa¬
tion ; and I come to you, my sister, in
order to rest myself from all business,
and to talk with you serenely, as in
earlier and more happy days. Let us,
then, chatter ! Tell me a little of your
life, of your welfare, of your occupa¬
tions, of your friends ! "
"That is easily and quickly dis¬
patched," said Amelia, roughly. " Of
my life, I have already said what you
have said of it—it is my jailer, and I
expect that death will free me from it.
Of my welfare, there is nothing to say,
for it does not go well with me, but
badly enough. As to my occupations,
they are very monotonous. I sleep al¬
ways, night and day ; and why should
I be awake ? There is nothing for me
to do, and nothing to accomplish. I
am a superfluous piece of furniture in
this palace, and you will all be glad
when one day I shall be placed in the
lumber-room. I am an old maid, or.
if you wUl, an old wall-toad, that has
nothing further to do than to squat
in its hole, and having no other pleas¬
ure than sometimes to squirt up its
poison on the passers-by. And lastly,
as to my joys, I also can say nothing
of these, for I have no joys 1 I hate all
men, and they hate me ; and if one
should appear to love me, I am always
on my guard, for I know then that I
have to do with a villain or a traitor,
who ever bears a selfish wish toward
me."
" Poor sister," said the king, sadly,
" how unhappy you must be to be able
to speak thus I And can I do nothing
to mitigate your unhappiness ? "
Amelia laughed aloud. " Pardon
me," she then said, " but the question
reminds me of a charming, merry tale
that I have lately read. It was about
a cannibal, who is on the point of eat¬
ing up a girl. The poor child be¬
seeches imploringly for her life, but
that was naturally pardonable. ' I
cannot give you life,' said the cannibal,
' but I will grant you a favor. Think
you quickly of a petition, and be sure
that I will grant it you.' But what
with fear and pain the poor girl could
not so soon collect her thoughts.
' Then,' said the cannibal, ' I can wait
no longer. I am very hungry! But
to give you time to reflect still long¬
er over the favor you would ask
from me, I will not, as I usually do, de¬
vour the head first, but I will begin at
the legs.' So saying, he took off the
legs first and ate them, and with each
limb, as he took it off, he asked the
poor whimpering creature, ' Reflect,
now! is there no favor which I can
284
MARIA THERESA AED HER FIREMAN.
give you?' Say, yourself, sire, was
not that a very magnanimous canni¬
bal?"
The king laughed unrestrainedly,
and did not at aU appear to have un¬
derstood the bitter allusions of his sis¬
ter. " You are right," said he, " that
is a merry tale, which causes the tears
to flow from one's eyes, he knows not
whether from laughing or weeping.
But where have you read this tale ? "
" The jack-o'-lantems which jump up
and down the chimney there, have told
it me. Oh, they are merry company,
sire, and often and often. When it is
quite lonely here, and I am sitting
there in the great arm-chair by the
chimney, they bend themselves to me
and chatter with me of past times, and
days that wiU come again."
" I fear, then, that you have nothing
very merry to tell them," said the
king, sighing, " scarcely any thing
very interesting. Whoever, like us, has
passed the prime of life and is step¬
ping downward, is always exposed to
flattery, and he no longer has any
great surprises to expect. The farther
he goes, the more lonely and still it be¬
comes around him, and at last he is
glad when he has arrived in the vale
where the still grave awaits him. But
so long as one is on the journey, he
should not lay his hands on his lap,
but ought to do and work ! And you,
too, sister, should work and act. There
is occasion for it now more than ever,
for the Abbess of Quedlinburg is dead,
and you, till now coadjutor, succeed to
her place. Your salary, as abbess
amounts to seventeen thousand dollars,
and I think this increase of money will
be welcome to you, for you will now
have a yearly rental of forty thousand
doUars."
" And free living and fire-wood be¬
sides ! " said Amelia, with a cutting
laugh. " So you see, sire, I have noth¬
ing to complain of ; my hospital is en¬
dowed brilliantly, and if perchance I
shall ever become avaricious, it may
really be possible to scrape together
and lay by a few dollars yearly."
" I shall take good care that you are
able to lay by more than a few dollars,
and I pray you therefore that from now
on I may raise it six thousand dollars
more yearly."
Princess AmeUa looked at him with
a mistrusting, piercing glance. "You
are very gracious toward me to-day,
brother," said she. " You bestow be¬
fore I have asked. I confess to you
that it alarms me. Perhaps you have
some bad report to bring, and, fearing
to crush me with it, you anticipate,
and beforehand you already lay balsam
upon the wound."
The king looked at her with a coun¬
tenance full of sad sympathy, "Poor
Amelia, you never believe in my true
inclinations," said he, mildly. "You
distrust all, even me, your brother !
Ah, Amelia, how life and time have
hardened and benumbed us both !
With what illusions have we not both
gone out into the world, which ap¬
peared to us so divinely beautiful, and
which we now look upon with sobei
eyes ! Where have our ideals remained,
Amelia, and what have become of the
dreams of our youth ? "
"The storm-wind has dashed them
to pieces," cried Amelia, laughing.
BROTHER AND SISTER.
285
' The evil fiend has passed over them,
and has changed the arable land of our
youth into heaps of ashes. To me it
is right that it is so, for I love rather
to go about imder actual wrecks and
ruins, than under buildings whose
cracks and rents I do not see, and yet
which some day might tumble togeth¬
er over me. When one wanders among
ruins, he is more careful that he is not
crushed. But this I can say of myself
not of you, not of the renowned king
who has so astonished the world with
his victories, and who now still more
astonishes it by the wisdom with
which he rules his land and his sub¬
jects."
" My child," said the king, " glory
has no longer any charm for me ; Nero
also has become a famous man, al¬
though he ordered cities and temples
to be burned, and tortured Seneca to
death. And Erostratus, too, has suc¬
ceeded in making his name immortal.
Whether the world is astonished at my
wisdom and power, is to me quite in¬
different. I only do my duty as king.
But I will tell you, my child, even a
king, in some comer of his being, still
remains a man, and sometimes the poor
creature cries out, and demands for
himself a personal happiness and sat¬
isfaction. One may be very rich as
king, and yet very poor and famished
as man. But—no more of these sad
thoughts 1 We were speaking of your
money matters, Amelia. Let us return
to this theme. I cannot prevent it
that your heart suffers, but I at least
have no desire to see you famish.
Your income tiU now has been small,
and you must have found it hard to
live. Tell me how much debt you
have incurred ; I will pay it."
" Indeed, sire, you have really fallen
into this room like a golden shower.
But there is no Danae here, except the
old one, who, however, is quite ready
to catch up the golden rain. Never¬
theless your majesty gives me credit for
a good memory, if you think I know
the amount of my indebtedness. In
fact, I only know the sum that is in my
chest."
" And what does this amount to ? "
" To a cipher, sire, for your majesty
knows, doubtless, that this is the end
of the month."
" I know it, Amelia, and on this ac¬
count I pray you to receive from me
to-day a small payment. I dreamed
last night that you had given away
four thousand louis d'ors in—some af¬
fair. The dream appeared to me to be
full of meaning. It came to me like a
monition to give you this sum. There¬
fore I immediately directed my treas¬
urer to pay you these four thousand
louis d'ors."
Amelia looked at him with astonish¬
ment. " And do you, then, know how
I have applied this sum ? " she asked,
trembling.
" Of this my dream told me nothing,"
said the king, standing up. " It only
said to me that you wanted this sum,
nothing further. Were I inquisitive,
perhaps I would ask your page, who
has a very delicate hearing, and for
whom no keyhole is too small."
"Ah! he, too, betrays me?'' mur¬
mured Amelia to herself.
The king did not regard it. He
took his hat and reached his hand for
286
MABIA THERESA AND HER FIREMAN.
a parting press. Amelia did not seem
to notice it. She stood in the middle
of the room, astounded, and when the
king stepped toward the door, she fol¬
lowed him slowly and mechanically.
Suddenly, when he had almost
reached the door, the king stood still,
and turned again to his sister. " Ah, I
had almost forgotten to impart to you
some news," said he, then, listlessly—
" a piece of news, Amelia, which will
perhaps interest you. Just at this
hour, while we are speaking, a captive
will be released from his prison, and
receive his freedom. The Empress
Maria Theresa herself has interceded
with me for him, and they say she was
persuaded thereto by her fireman."
Princess Amelia uttered a loud cry,
and, falling down befora the king, she
seized his arm with both her trembling
hands.
"Brother," said she, "be merciful;
practise no cruel sport upon me. I have
sent to the fireman of the empress by
General Eiedt. I offered him four thou¬
sand louis d'ors if he would interest
himself with her for Trenck. I see that
you know all, and it helps nothing now
to deny it. Tes, I have done it, and if
this is a crime—^well, sentence me to
death, but do not compel me to bear
such tortures beforehand. Do not in¬
sult my grief, but have, at least, a little
mercy upon me. Look at me, brother ;
behold my withered limbs, my disfig¬
ured countenance. Alas! I am pun¬
ished enough, torture me no longer !
You give back to me the sum which I
sent to Vienna. And this means that
you have discovered my negotiator and
destroyed his plans. Is it so, brother ?
Have you the heart to carry on this
cruel jest with me, and say that Trenck
is free, after you have frustrated my
last attempt Î ''
She still held fast the arms of the
king, and, half sinking to her knees,
stared up at him, breathless.
" No, Amelia," cried the king, and
his voice trembled with emotion ; " no, I
have not such a cruel heart. I told you
the truth ! The clock upon your chim¬
ney points to twelve. At this moment
Trenck leaves Magdeburg in a closed
coach with two gendarmes by his side.
The day after to-morrow he will arrive
at Prague ; then he can leave the car¬
riage and go wherever he wishes, only
not into my territory ! Trenck is
free 1 "
" Trenck is free ! " exclaimed Amelia,
with a cry of joy, as she sprang up from
her knees to embrace the king, to weep
upon his neck such tears as she had
not wept for years, tears of joy, of hap-
j)hiess, of holy ecstasy. Then all at
once she let him free again and ran
quickly up and down her chamber, in
the midst of her weeping breaking
out into loud laughter that sounded
as fresh as an echo from her distant
youth.
" Trenck is free ! " she cried again,
" and it is I who have freed him. No,
not I, but a poor Savoyard, who did it
because he wished to marry his daugh¬
ter. Ah, you great ones of the earth,
speak to me no more of power and
magnificence ! A poor Savoyard was
stronger than all of us. But, no, no,
what am I saying ? You, my brothei;
you are he who has freed him. Trenck
now thanks you for his life, his fr-ee-
THE BRAVE MAN.
287
dorn ; I thank you that these terrible
chains which held my soul in bondage
have fallen from me, that I can again
breathe freely, and must not think that
my every breath finds its echo in a deep
dungeon. You have released me, my
brother, and for this will I now love
you," she continued more vehemently—
" love you with unchangeable love. In
all that you do, you will have a true ally
in me. And I can be of use to you,
brother ! I will become your spy,
Frederick. I cannot work for you, but
I can listen for you and watch—and
this I will do. Yes, I vnll become your
domestic spy, and all they say I win
tell you again, and wiU betray to you
even their thoughts."
She broke out into a wild convulsive
laugh, and continued in a triumphant
voice : " Yes, yes, I will become your
domestic spy."
The king became uneasy and sad in
her presence ; he shuddered at her
scornful laugh, which seemed to him
sadder than the loudest weeping. He
nodded his sister a silent adieu, and,
fleeing as though from some terrible
object, he hastened out of the apart¬
ment. Princess Amelia did nof detain
him. She had sunk upon a stool, and,
her trembling lips murmured lightly :
" Trenck is free ! Life is his again.
Trenck is free ! I shall and will live
until I have seen him again. Then,
when my eyes have once again looked
on him, then can I die. " *
♦ After the death of King Frederick, Trenck re¬
ceived permission from his successor, Frederick
William IL, to return to Berlin. Trenck went
thither immediately and was very politely received
at court. His first visit, before he presented him-
seif to the king, was to the Princess Amelia. She
XL
the brave man.
The Empress Maria Theresa had,
this morning, concluded her conversa¬
tion with her faithful Dubois so sud¬
denly, and had been so reticent toward
him, that the poor Savoyard became
troubled' about it, and at last went
out of the chamber quite sad.
Maria Theresa seemed to be laboring
under a heavy sorrow, and got up from
her couch, only to pass over to her toi¬
let, and to her usual occupations. In
this sorrow, even the former compan¬
ion of her morning hour had found
no favor ; yes, the ill-humor of the em¬
press appeared to show itself even to
Dubois, and espeeially to be aimed at
him. The brave fireman puzzled his
head to think what he had done, by
which, to every appearanee, he had
provoked the empress so mueh toward
received him in the eame room in which, forty-
seven years before, they had passed so many happy
hours. Upon the same spot, where they then
swore eternal love, they stood now in old age, op¬
posite each other, vainly seeking in their feded
and decayed features the beautiful countenances
they once so much loved. Trenck remained with
her several hours. He had so much to tell her, he
must inform her of his whole fantastical and adven¬
turous life, and Amelia listened to him with a
pleasant smile, and her looks acquitted him of all
errors and all sins. At his departure he had to
promise the princess to bring his eldest daughter
to her, whom Amelia promised to care for as a
mother. But death prevented the realization of
this promise. It appeared as though this meeting
had consumed the last energy of her expiring ex¬
istence. Princess Amelia died a few days after
her interview with Trenck (1786). Trenck survived
her a few years. He went to France, and died there
(1793) by the guillotine. When he sat upon the
cart with his companions in adversity, he said to the
staring multitude: " tUn^ eh Men! De quoi
'VOUS émerveillez-vouet Ceci ji^est qiCune cornée
die à la / "—These were his last
words. A few minutes later his head fell from the
guillotihe into the basket
288
MARTA THERESA AND HER FIREMAN
him, but he could not at all account
for her cold and repulsive demeanor
toward him. •
When Maria Theresa, to-day, had
risen and heard mass in her chapel
she resigned herself to the incessant de¬
mands of her work-table with an almost
passionate impetuosity, in which she
seemed to desire to sink the disagree¬
able thoughts with which she felt her¬
self tormented, in the surrounding
piles of papers and fragments of acts.
The lackey now entered the cabinet,
and announced that Herr von Eiedt
had returned firom Berlin, and desired
an audience, in order to deliver into
the hands of the empress an autograph
letter from his majesty the King of
Prussia.
The dark shadows on Maria Theresa's
brow became still darker as she learned
this announcement.
" Herr von Eiedt shall enter immedi¬
ately ! " she cried out, with an angry
gesture, whUe she continued working
at the papers before her.
The empress had her eyes cast down
upon the paper, and continued writing,
unmoved, when Herr von Eiedt entered
the cabinet and stood at the door re¬
spectfully, waiting the bidding of the
empress.
At length Maria Theresa raised her
faee to him, on which was expressed
great dissatisfaction and displeasure.
Without greeting him, she extended
her hand toward the letter which Herr
von Eiedt had taken out of the port¬
folio in order formally to present it to
the empress.
After Maria' Tlieresa had finished
reading the letter which Frederick the
Great had sent in answer to hei
own, with visible satisfaction, and in
the reading had almost lost the vexa¬
tious and angry expression on her face,
her eyes fell back upon Herr von
Eiedt, who was standing in speechless
astonishment at his manifestly ungra¬
cious reception.
" In justice, I cannot say any thing
else than that you have executed my
commission to my satisfaction, Herr
von Eiedt," began the empress, now,
while anew an ungracious and angry
look fell from her eyes upon the poor
diplomat. " I had heard already that
the affair had ended well, and that
Trenck, upon my intercession, had ob¬
tained his release. And now the king
sends me, through you, a very comdeous
letter, in which he expresses his thanks
that I had afforded him an opportu¬
nity to give his approval to such an
act. So far the letter is good, and I
rejoice in the fact that it has even been
accomplished. But with you, Herr von
Eiedt, I have still a word to say. Are
they clean things which you have pre¬
pared for me ? It has been written me
from Berlin that the representation is
current at the Prussian court that, act¬
ing for Princess Amelia, you had bribed
my fireman with four thousand louis
d'ors that he should speak to me, as
though from his conscience, about the
story of poor Trenck. Now, then, is it
true that this faithful old servant, whom
I have tried for years, has understood
how to call these things impressively to
memory, and I have been infiuenced as
often before through his talking, for he
has much good sense ; and now tell me,
Eiedt, as a man of honor, which you
THE BRAVE MAN.
289
ftre, wliat condition was there to it ?
Have you, then, really bribed the old
Savoyard to incline my thoughts to the
Baron von Trenck, with his true-
hearted gossiping ? "
"Your majesty," answered Herr von
Riedt, jfrighteped, while the greatest
uneasiness showed itself in his whole
countenance, " never has rumor brought
upon a brave man such great injustice
as has happened in this case. Dubois
is as honorable a man as can be found
in the whole world, and I will always
bow my head toward this noble one. If
he, besieged by my prayers, by the
prayers of the despairing fidends of
Trenck, has been stirred up to venture
himself with these things to the ear of
your majesty, I beg your majesty to
pour out your generous pardon upon
my head—^for I alone am guilty. The
unfortunate — now fortunate Trenck,
throhgh the grace of yoiu majesty—is
my near relative, and to petition for
him, to implore the effectual media¬
tion of your majesty, appeared to me,
and all who interested themselves for
Trenck, to be commended as a high
duty. For deliverance could come only
through our most gracious empress. It
seemed to us that it would be most suc¬
cessful to proceed in a casual way to
reach the heart of your majesty. I
applied mygelf, with the greatest con¬
fidence, to the meanest of your majes¬
ty's servants. By first informing him
fully of Trenck's imparalleled fate I
succeeded in winning him over to this
good deed. For this Dubois cannot be
bribed, and I can affirm on my honor
that he has rejected with the greatest
indignation every idea of a reward for
19
his services, and has remained faithful
in this respect from the beginning un¬
til the present moment. I must frankly
confess to your majesty that I am not
quite innocent of this blameworthy ex¬
periment. A great lady in Berlin—
whose name I pray your majesty not to
mention—took a very lively interest in
the imfortunate Trenck, and had offered
the sum of four thousand louis d'ors for
the release or alleviation of the cap¬
tive. "We very nearly lost Dubois by
offering him this sum for his coopera¬
tion. In this man, a great heart beats
in an ill-shaped body. His repulsive,
adverse appearance conceals the most
delicate mind. He has shown this
again even to-day, for after my return
from Berlin I again thought to press
the reward promised him upon the
honorable man who had acquitted him¬
self so admirably. Dubois has an only
daughter, whom he loves most tenderly,
and about whom he has, for some time,
been much troubled. For the girl is
betrothed to a young lieutenant in your
majesty's army, Louis "Weidemann, a
respectable young man, but too poor to
venture to marry his betrothed because
the necessary dowry is wanting. The
little virtuous family has thereby been
placed in a very sad and unhappy situ¬
ation. I sent the four thousand louis
d'ors to the daughter of Dubois, but
they were returned, on the spot, by the
old man, who had received them, with
an incredibly angry letter. A motive
which Dubois therein makes use of, es¬
tablishes so well the rare disposition of
this man, that I shall venture, submis¬
sively, to communicate it to your ma¬
jesty ; ' This money cannot be received
290
M A BT A THERESA AND HER FEREMAN.
under any circumstances, for it comes
from abroad, and must return thither,
for, otherwise, it would appear as
though foreign money was first neces¬
sary to procure an Austrian subject a
petition of pardon to her majesty the
empress. But every good Austrian
knows the great heart of his empress,
and builds upon this sure founda¬
tion.' "
Maria Theresa had listened with the
greatest attention, and over her face
was traced the progress of that charm¬
ing goodness which could be native
with such a charming expression of her
mind.
" Dubois then is honest, that pleases
me ! Otherwise I must have discharged
him fr'om my service," said the empress,
shaking her head, reflectively. " How¬
ever, I will yet find for him a suitable
reward. This shall be my private
care ! "
Then she kindly dismissed Herr von
Riedt, while she did not forget to add
a word of acknowledgment and en¬
couragement for him.
XH.
the eewaed.
The next morning, as Dubois was
again performing his accustomed du¬
ties in the apartment of the empress,
with his never-faUing punctuality and
carefulness, the empress, already fuU
dressed, stepped toward him from her
writing-table, where she had been sit¬
ting.
This sight almost put the faithful
fireman out of all countenance, for it
was something unusual, and during his
whole service had not happened more
than two or three times, and he did
not like it that the empress had left
her bed in an unwarmed room. He
began, therefore, to pout again, and
show a dissatisfied face to the empress.
"Your majesty," said he, in a tone
almost severe, " can I not be allowed,
in the future, to make a fire an hour
earlier ? It is too cold here, and your
majesty will injure your health by get¬
ting up in an unwarmed room. I can
surely get up an hour earlier, and bet¬
ter provide for aU."
" No, my good Dubois," said the em¬
press, smiling graciously. " You shall
not, in my service, get up at five o'clock
in the morning, for you are no longer a
youth, and you have arrived at an age
when one must be careful of himself,
and when so faithful and trusty a ser¬
vant as you are, Dubois, must be cared
for ! "
The face of the old man was aglow
with true happiness. It was seldom
that the empress, however much favor
she otherwise showed her sympathizing
fireman, addressed him with such flat¬
tering and gracious words. He could
now have run through fire for his impe¬
rial mistress, so much did this gracious
speech move him.
" See here," continued the empress,
reaching him a sheet of paper, " this
we have already written for you, and for
this have we willingly cut short our
morning's rest We would cheerfully
give you a token of our appreciation
of your faithful services, and since you,
as we with joy have been convinced,
THE REWARD.
291
have never taJien any reward, we have
sought to do it in this manner. "With
this you receive the patent wherein I
have commissioned your future son-in-
law, the brave Louis Weidemann, cap¬
tain in our corps of hussars. And
this writing give to your daughter. I
herein undertake her whole dowry im¬
mediately on her marriage with Cap¬
tain Louis Weidemann. Deliver these
to the young people promptly, as soon
.as you have finished here. For you
are right—the cold is beginning to he
quite perceptible here, and it would
not be well to tarry longer before this
fireless chimney."
With this practical allusion to the
chimney, Maria Theresa sought to cut
short the thanks which the highly-sur¬
prised and over-happy Dubois would
now express to his gracious mistress.
The recollection of his current duties
worked instantly upon him ; and, still
stammering the warmest thanks, he
squatted before the chimney, and, with
his usual sMU, built up the firewood
and kindled a fiame.
It seemed as though the overflowing
joy which, to-day, made him happy at
heart, interfered with his skill in his
duties. His fire would not burn at
all, and even went out in a thick
smoke.
• The empress looked at him with a
graeious smile — and scarcely had he
succeeded in kindling a bright and
lasting flame—^than the empress com¬
manded him, without any longer delay,
to start on his way with the pain-cur¬
ing presents to the young couple, wait¬
ing on the verge of despair.
It seemed as though the generous,
gracious empress had known what
deep sorrow reigned in the little room
in which Elizabeth to-day received the
visit of her betrothed. When father
Dubois returned the money offered
them in their need, the poor betrothed
saw the last possibility of accomplish¬
ing their wishes vanish. And to this
was added the unpleasant feeling of
anger at the father, who, without any
regard for the happiness of his chil¬
dren, only followed his own principles.
How astonished they both were,
when they saw him now enter the
room with a joyful and stormy emo¬
tion ! The papers that he held in his
hand he swung high in the air, and
cried that he held their happiness in
his hand; the one was the captain's
commission, the other was the dowry,
through the grace of the empress her¬
self !
Elizabeth and her betrothed grasped
the papers like children in sport. They
soon learned the happy turn that had
taken place in their fate.
Father Dubois stepped to the couple
now so tenderly embraced, and blessed
them, while he mingled with their
blessing thanks for the good empress.
THE END.
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