The Project Gutenberg EBook of The German Classics Of The Nineteenth And Twentieth Centuries, Volume 12, by Various This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.net Title: The German Classics Of The Nineteenth And Twentieth Centuries, Volume 12 Author: Various Release Date: December 26, 2004 [EBook #14470] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GERMAN CLASSICS, V12 *** Produced by Stan Goodman and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team VOLUME XII GUSTAV FREYTAG THEODOR FONTANE [Illustration: FREDERICK THE GREAT PLAYING THE FLUTE _From the Painting by Adolph von Menzel_] THE GERMAN CLASSICS OF THE NINETEENTH AND TWENTIETH CENTURY Masterpieces of German Literature TRANSLATED INTO ENGLISH EDITOR-IN-CHIEF KUNO FRANCKE, PH.D., LL.D., LITT.D. Professor of the History of German Culture, Emeritus, and Honorary Curator of the Germanic Museum, Harvard University ASSISTANT EDITOR-IN-CHIEF WILLIAM GUILD HOWARD, A.M. Professor of German, Harvard University In Twenty Volumes Illustrated ALBANY, N.Y. J.B. LYON COMPANY PUBLISHERS Copyright 1914 CONTRIBUTORS AND TRANSLATORS VOLUME XII Special Writers ERNEST F. HENDERSON, Ph.D., L.H.D., Author of _The History of Germany in the Middle Ages; Short History of Germany_, etc.: The Life of Gustav Freytag. WILLIAM A. COOPER, A.M., Associate Professor of German, Leland Stanford Junior University: The Life of Theodor Fontane. Translators ERNEST F. HENDERSON, Ph.D., L.H.D., Author of _The History of Germany in the Middle Ages; Short History of Germany_, etc.: The Journalists. WILLIAM A. COOPER, A.M., Associate Professor of German, Leland Stanford Junior University: Effi Briest; Extracts from "My Childhood Days." E.H. BABBITT, A.B., Assistant Professor of German, Tufts College: Doctor Luther; Frederick the Great. MARGARETE MÜNSTERBERG: Sir Ribbeck of Ribbeck; The Bridge by the Tay. CONTENTS OF VOLUME XII GUSTAV FREYTAG The Life of Gustav Freytag. By Ernest F. Henderson The Journalists. Translated by Ernest F. Henderson Doctor Luther. Translated by E.H. Babbitt Frederick the Great. Translated by E.H. Babbitt THEODOR FONTANE The Life of Theodor Fontane. By William A. Cooper Effi Briest. Translated by William A. Cooper Extracts from "My Childhood Days." Translated by William A. Cooper Sir Ribbeck of Ribbeck. Translated by Margarete Münsterberg The Bridge by the Tay. Translated by Margarete Münsterberg ILLUSTRATIONS--VOLUME XII Frederick the Great Playing the Flute. By Adolph von Menzel. _Frontispiece_ Gustav Freytag. By Stauffer-Bern At the Concert. By Adolph von Menzel Nature Enthusiasts. By Adolph von Menzel On the Terrace. By Adolph von Menzel In the Beergarden. By Adolph von Menzel Lunch Buffet at Kissingen. By Adolph von Menzel Luther Monument at Worms. By Ernst Rietschel Frederick William I Inspecting a School. By Adolph von Menzel Court Ball at Rheinsberg. By Adolph von Menzel Frederick the Great and His Round Table. By Adolph von Menzel Frederick the Great on a Pleasure Trip. By Adolph von Menzel Theodor Fontane. By Hanns Fechner Fontane Monument at Neu-Ruppin A Sunday in the Garden of the Tuileries. By Adolph von Menzel Divine Service in the Woods at Kösen. By Adolph von Menzel A Street Scene at Paris. By Adolph von Menzel Procession at Gastein. By Adolph von Menzel High Altar at Salzburg. By Adolph von Menzel Bathing Boys. By Adolph von Menzel Frau von Schleinitz "At Home." By Adolph von Menzel Supper at a Court Ball. By Adolph von Menzel EDITOR'S NOTE This volume, containing representative works by two of the foremost realists of midcentury German literature, Freytag and Fontane, brings, as an artistic parallel, selections from the work of the greatest realist of midcentury German painting: Adolph von Menzel. KUNO FRANCKE. THE LIFE OF GUSTAV FREYTAG By ERNEST F. HENDERSON, PH.D., L.H.D. Author of _A History of Germany in the Middle Ages; A Short History of Germany, etc._ It is difficult to assign to Gustav Freytag his exact niche in the hall of fame, because of his many-sidedness. He wrote one novel of which the statement has been made by an eminent French critic that no book in the German language, with the exception of the Bible, has enjoyed in its day so wide a circulation; he wrote one comedy which for years was more frequently played than any other on the German stage; he wrote a series of historical sketches--_Pictures of the German Past_ he calls them--which hold a unique place in German literature, being as charming in style as they are sound in scholarship. Add to these a work on the principles of dramatic criticism that is referred to with respect by the very latest writers on the subject, an important biography, a second very successful novel, and a series of six historical romances that vary in interest, indeed, but that are a noble monument to his own nation and that, alone, would have made him famous. As a novelist Freytag is often compared with Charles Dickens, largely on account of the humor that so frequently breaks forth from his pages. It is a different kind of humor, not so obstreperous, not so exaggerated, but it helps to lighten the whole in much the same way. One moment it is an incongruous simile, at another a bit of sly satire; now infinitely small things are spoken of as though they were great, and again we have the reverse. It is in his famous comedy, _The Journalists_, which appeared in 1853, that Freytag displays his humor to its best advantage. Some of the situations themselves, without being farcical, are exceedingly amusing, as when the Colonel, five minutes after declaiming against the ambition of journalists and politicians, and enumerating the different forms under which it is concealed, lets his own ambition run away with him and is won by the very same arts he has just been denouncing. Again, Bolz's capture of the wine-merchant Piepenbrink at the ball given under the auspices of the rival party is very cleverly described indeed. There is a difference of opinion as to whether or not Bolz was inventing the whole dramatic story of his rescue by Oldendorf, but there can be no difference of opinion as to the comicality of the scene that follows, where, under the very eyes of his rivals and with the consent of the husband, Bolz prepares to kiss Mrs. Piepenbrink. The play abounds with curious little bits of satire, quaint similes and unexpected exaggerations. "There is so much that happens," says Bolz in his editorial capacity, "and so tremendously much that does not happen, that an honest reporter should never be at a loss for novelties." Playing dominoes with polar bears, teaching seals the rudiments of journalism, waking up as an owl with tufts of feathers for ears and a mouse in one's beak, are essentially Freytagian conceptions; and no one else could so well have expressed Bolz's indifference to further surprises--they may tell him if they will that some one has left a hundred millions for the purpose of painting all negroes white, or of making Africa four-cornered; but he, Bolz, has reached a state of mind where he will accept as truth anything and everything. Freytag's greatest novel, entitled _Soll und Haben_ (the technical commercial terms for "debit" and "credit"), appeared in 1856. _Dombey and Son_ by Dickens had been published a few years before and is worth our attention for a moment because of a similarity of theme in the two works. In both, the hero is born of the people, but comes in contact with the aristocracy not altogether to his own advantage; in both, looming in the background of the story, is the great mercantile house with its vast and mysterious transactions. The writer of this short article does not hesitate to place _Debit and Credit_ far ahead of _Dombey and Son_. That does not mean that there are not single episodes, and occasionally a character, in _Dombey and Son_ that the German author could never have achieved. But, considered as an artistic whole, the English novel is so disjointed and uneven that the interest often flags and almost dies, while many of the characters are as grotesque and wooden as so many jumping-jacks. In Freytag's work, on the other hand, the different parts are firmly knitted together; an ethical purpose runs through the whole, and there is a careful subordination of the individual characters to the general plan of the whole structure. It is much the same contrast as that between an old-fashioned Italian opera and a modern German tone-drama. In the one case the effects are made through senseless repetition and through _tours de force_ of the voice; in the other there is a steady progression in dramatic intensity, link joining link without a gap. But to say that _Debit and Credit_ is a finer book than _Dombey and Son_ is not to claim that Freytag, all in all, is a greater novelist than Dickens. The man of a single fine book would have to be superlatively great to equal one who could show such fertility in creation of characters or produce such masterpieces of description. Dickens reaches heights of passion to which Freytag could never aspire; in fact the latter's temperament strikes one as rather a cool one. Even Spielhagen, far inferior to him in many regards, could thrill where Freytag merely interests. Freytag's _forte_ lay in fidelity of depiction, in the power to ascertain and utilize essential facts. It would not be fair to say that he had little imagination, for in the parts of _The Ancestors_ that have to do with remote times, times of which our whole knowledge is gained from a few paragraphs in old chronicles and where the scenes and incidents have to be invented, he is at his best. But one of his great merits lies in his evident familiarity with the localities mentioned in the pages as well as with the social environment of his personages. The house of T.D. Schröter in _Debit and Credit_ had its prototype in the house of Molinari in Breslau, and at the Molinaris Freytag was a frequent visitor. Indeed in the company of the head of the firm he even undertook just such a journey to the Polish provinces in troubled times as he makes Anton take with Schröter. Again, the life in the newspaper office, so amusingly depicted in _The Journalists_, was out of the fulness of his own experience as editor of a political sheet. A hundred little natural touches thus add to the realism of the whole and make the figures, as a German critic says, "stand out like marble statues against a hedge of yew." The reproach has been made that many of Freytag's characters are too much alike. He has distinct types which repeat themselves both in the novels and in the plays. George Saalfeld in _Valentine_, for instance, is strikingly like Bolz in _The Journalists_ or Fink in _Debit and Credit_. Freytag's answer to such objections was that an author, like any other artist, must work from models, which he is not obliged constantly to change. The feeling for the solidarity of the arts was very strong with him. He practically abandoned writing for the stage just after achieving his most noted success and merely for the reason that in poetic narration, as he called it, he saw the possibility of being still more dramatic. He felt hampered by the restrictions which the necessarily limited length of an evening's performance placed upon him, and wished more time and space for the explanation of motives and the development of his plot. In his novel, then, he clung to exactly the same arrangement of his theme as in his drama--its initial presentation, the intensification of the interest, the climax, the revulsion, the catastrophe. Again, in the matter of contrast he deliberately followed the lead of the painter who knows which colors are complementary and also which ones will clash. [Illustration: GUSTAV FREYTAG. STAUFFER-BERN] What, now, are some of the special qualities that have made Freytag's literary work so enduring, so dear to the Teuton heart, so successful in every sense of the word? For one thing, there are a clearness, conciseness and elegance of style, joined to a sort of musical rhythm, that hold one captive from the beginning. So evident is his meaning in every sentence that his pages suffer less by translation than is the case with almost any other author. Freytag's highly polished sentences seem perfectly spontaneous, though we know that he went through a long period of rigid training before achieving success. "For five years," he himself writes, "I had pursued the secret of dramatic style; like the child in the fairy-tale I had sought it from the Sun, the Moon, and the Stars. At length I had found it: my soul could create securely and comfortably after the manner which the stage itself demanded." He had found it, we are given to understand, in part through the study of the French dramatists of his own day of whom Scribe was one just then in vogue. From them, says a critic, he learned "lightness of touch, brevity, conciseness, directness, the use of little traits as a means of giving insight into character, different ways of keeping the interest at the proper point of tension, and a thousand little devices for clearing the stage of superfluous figures or making needed ones appear at the crucial moment." Among his tricks of style, if we may call them so, are inversion and elision; by the one he puts the emphasis just where he wishes, by the other he hastens the action without sacrificing the meaning. Another of his weapons is contrast--grave and gay, high and low succeed each other rapidly, while vice and virtue follow suit. No writer ever trained himself for his work more consciously and consistently. He experimented with each play, watched its effect on his audiences, asked himself seriously whether their apparent want of interest in this or that portion was due to some defect in his work or to their own obtuseness. He had failures, but remarkably few, and they did not discourage him; nor did momentary success in one field prevent him from abandoning it for another in which he hoped to accomplish greater things. He is his own severest critic, and in his autobiography speaks of certain productions as worthless which are only relatively wanting in merit. Freytag's orderly treatment of his themes affords constant pleasure to the reader. He proceeds as steadily toward his climax as the builder does toward the highest point of his roof. He had learned much about climaxes, so he tells us himself, from Walter Scott, who was the first to see the importance of a great final or concluding effect. We have touched as yet merely on externals. Elegance of style, orderliness of arrangement, consecutiveness of thought alone would never have given Freytag his place in German literature. All these had first to be consecrated to the service of a great idea. That idea as expressed in _Debit and Credit_ is that the hope of the German nation rests in its steady commercial or working class. He shows the dignity, yes, the poetry of labor. The nation had failed to secure the needed political reforms, to the bitter disappointment of numerous patriots; Freytag's mission was to teach that there were other things worth while besides these constitutional liberties of which men had so long dreamed and for which they had so long struggled. Incidentally he holds the decadent noble up to scorn, and shows how he still clings to his old pretensions while their very basis is crumbling under him. It is a new and active life that Freytag advocates, one of toil and of routine, but one that in the end will give the highest satisfaction. Such ideas were products of the revolution of 1848, and they found the ground prepared for them by that upheaval. Freytag, as Fichte had done in 1807 and 1808, inaugurated a campaign of education which was to prove enormously successful. A French critic writes of _Debit and Credit_ that it was "the breviary in which a whole generation of Germans learned to read and to think," while an English translator (three translations of the book appeared in England in the same year) calls it the _Uncle Tom's Cabin_ of the German workingman. A German critic is furious that a work of such real literary merit should be compared to one so flat and insipid as Mrs. Stowe's production; but he altogether misses the point, which is the effect on the people of a spirited defense of those who had hitherto had no advocate. Freytag has been called an opportunist, but the term should not be considered one of reproach. It certainly was opportune that his great work appeared at the moment when it was most needed, a moment of discouragement, of disgust at everything high and low. It brought its smiling message and remained to cheer and comfort. _The Journalists_, too, was opportune, for it called attention to a class of men whose work was as important as it was unappreciated. Up to 1848, the year of the revolution, the press had been under such strict censorship that any frank discussion of public matters had been out of the question. But since then distinguished writers, like Freytag himself, had taken the helm. Even when not radical, they were dreaded by the reactionaries, and even Freytag escaped arrest in Prussia only by hastily becoming a court official of his friend the Duke of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha--within whose domains he already owned an estate and was in the habit of residing for a portion of each year--and thus renouncing his Prussian citizenship. Even Freytag's _Pictures from the German Past_ may be said to have been opportune. Already, for a generation, the new school of scientific historians--the Rankes, the Wattenbachs, the Waitzs, the Giesebrechts--had been piling up their discoveries, and collating and publishing manuscripts describing the results of their labors. They lived on too high a plane for the ordinary reader. Freytag did not attempt to "popularize" them by cheap methods. He served as an interpreter between the two extremes. He chose a type of facts that would have seemed trivial to the great pathfinders, worked them up with care from the sources, and by his literary art made them more than acceptable to the world at large. In these _Pictures from the German Past_, as in the six volumes of the series of historical romances entitled _The Ancestors_, a patriotic purpose was not wanting. Freytag wished to show his Germans that they had a history to be proud of, a history whose continuity was unbroken; the nation had been through great vicissitudes, but everything had tended to prove that the German has an inexhaustible fund of reserve force. Certain national traits, certain legal institutions, could be followed back almost to the dawn of history, and it would be found that the Germans of the first centuries of our era were not nearly so barbarous as had been supposed. And so with a wonderful talent for selecting typical and essential facts and not overburdening his narrative with detail he leads us down the ages. The hero of his introductory romance in _The Ancestors_ is a Vandal chieftain who settles among the Thuringians at the time of the great wandering of the nations--the hero of the last of the series is a journalist of the nineteenth century. All are descendants of the one family, and Freytag has a chance to develop some of his theories of heredity. Not only can bodily aptitudes and mental peculiarities be transmitted, but also the tendency to act in a given case much as the ancestor would have done. It cannot be denied that as Freytag proceeds with _The Ancestors_ the tendency to instruct and inform becomes too marked. He had begun his career in the world by lecturing on literature at the University of Breslau, but had severed his connection with that institution because he was not allowed to branch out into history. Possibly those who opposed him were right and the two subjects are incapable of amalgamation. Freytag in this, his last great work, revels in the fulness of his knowledge of facts, but shows more of the thoroughness of the scholar than of the imagination of the poet. The novels become epitomes of the history of the time. No type of character may be omitted. So popes and emperors, monks and missionaries, German warriors and Roman warriors, minstrels and students, knights, crusaders, colonists, landskechts, and mercenaries are dragged in and made to do their part with all too evident fidelity to truth. We owe much of our knowledge of Freytag's life to a charming autobiography which served as a prefatory volume to his collected works. Freytag lived to a ripe old age, dying in 1895 at the age of seventy-nine. Both as a newspaper editor and as a member of parliament (the former from 1848 to 1860, the latter for the four years from 1867 to 1871) he had shown his patriotism and his interest in public affairs. Many of his numerous essays, written for the _Grenzboten_, are little masterpieces and are to be found among his collected works published in 1888. As a member of parliament, indeed, he showed no marked ability and his name is associated with no important measure. Not to conceal his shortcoming it must be said that Freytag, at the time of the accession to the throne of the present head of the German Empire, laid himself open to much censure by attacking the memory of the dead Emperor Frederick who had always been his friend and patron. In conclusion it may be said that no one claims for Freytag a place in the front rank of literary geniuses. He is no Goethe, no Schiller, no Dante, no Milton, no Shakespeare. He is not a pioneer, has not changed the course of human thought. But yet he is an artist of whom his country may well be proud, who has added to the happiness of hundreds of thousands of Germans, and who only needs to be better understood to be thoroughly enjoyed by foreigners. England and America have much to learn from him--the value of long, careful, and unremitting study; the advantage of being thoroughly familiar with the scenes and types of character depicted; the charm of an almost unequaled simplicity and directness. He possessed the rare gift of being able to envelop every topic that he touched with an atmosphere of elegance and distinction. His productions are not ephemeral, but are of the kind that will endure. * * * * * _GUSTAV FREYTAG_ * * * * * #THE JOURNALISTS# DRAMATIS PERSONÆ BERG, _retired Colonel_. IDA, _his daughter_. ADELAIDE RUNECK. SENDEN, _landed proprietor_. _ PROFESSOR OLDENDORF, _editor-in-chief_. | | CONRAD BOLZ, _editor_. | | BELLMAUS, _on the staff._. | | KÄMPE, _on the staff_. } of the newspaper | _The Union_. KÖRNER, _on the staff_. | | PRINTER HENNING, _owner_. | | MILLER, _factotum_. _| _ BLUMENBERG, _editor_. | } of the newspaper SCHMOCK, _on the staff_. _| _Coriolanus_. PIEPENBRINK, _wine merchant and voter_. LOTTIE, _his wife_. BERTHA, _their daughter_. KLEINMICHEL _citizen and voter_. FRITZ, _his son_. JUDGE SCHWARZ. _A foreign ballet-dancer._ KORB, _secretary for Adelaide's estate_. CARL, _the Colonel's man-servant._ _A waiter._ _Club-guests._ _Deputations of citizens_. _Place of action: A provincial capital._ THE JOURNALISTS[1] (1853) TRANSLATED BY ERNEST F. HENDERSON, PH.D., L.H.D. ACT I SCENE I _A summer parlor in the_ COLONEL'S _house. Handsome furnishings. In the centre of rear wall an open door, behind it a verandah and garden; on the sides of rear wall large windows. Right and left, doors; on the right, well in front, a window. Tables, chairs, a small sofa_. IDA _is sitting in front on the right reading a book. The_ COLONEL _enters through centre door with an open box in his hand in which are dahlias_. COLONEL. Here, Ida, are the new varieties of dahlias our gardener has grown. You'll have to rack your brains to find names for them. Day after tomorrow is the Horticultural Society meeting, when I am to exhibit and christen them. IDA. This light-colored one here should be called the "Adelaide." COLONEL. Adelaide Buneck, of course. Your own name is out of the running, for as a little dahlia you have long been known to the flower-trade. IDA. One shall be called after your favorite writer, "Boz." COLONEL. Splendid! And it must be a really fine one, this yellow one here with violet points. And the third one--how shall we christen that? IDA (_stretching out her hand entreatingly to her father_). "Edward Oldendorf." COLONEL. What! The professor? The editor? Oh no, that will not do! It was bad enough for him to take over the paper; but that he now has allowed himself to be led by his party into running for Parliament--that I can never forgive him. IDA. Here he comes himself. COLONEL (_aside_). It used to be a pleasure to me to hear his footstep; now I can hardly keep from being rude when I see him. _Enter_ OLDENDORF. OLDENDORF. Good morning, Colonel! IDA (_with a friendly greeting_). Good morning, Edward. Help me to admire the new dahlias that father has grown. COLONEL. But do not trouble the professor. Such trifles no longer interest him; he has bigger things in his head. OLDENDORF. At all events I have not lost my ability to enjoy what gives you pleasure. COLONEL (_grumbling to himself_). You have not given me much proof of that. I fear you take pleasure in doing the very things that vex me. You are doubtless quite busy now with your election, Mr. Future Member of Parliament! OLDENDORF. You know, Colonel, that I myself have less than any one else to do with it. COLONEL. Oh, I don't believe that! It is the usual custom in such elections, I imagine, to pay court to influential persons and shake hands with the voters, to make speeches, scatter promises, and do all the other little devil's tricks. OLDENDORF. You yourself do not believe, Colonel, that I would do anything discreditable? COLONEL. Not? I am not so sure, Oldendorf. Since you have turned journalist, edit your _Union_ and daily reproach the State with its faulty organization, you are no longer what you used to be. OLDENDORF (_who up to this point has been conversing with_ IDA _about the flowers, but now turns to the_ COLONEL). Does what I now say or write conflict with my former views? It would be hard to convince me of that. And still less can you have noticed any change in my feelings or in my conduct toward you. COLONEL (_obdurate_). Well, I don't see what reason you would have for that. I am not going to spoil my morning by quarreling. Ida may try to straighten things out with you. I am going to my flowers. [_Takes the box and exit toward the garden._] OLDENDORF. What has put your father in such a bad humor? Has something in the newspaper vexed him again? IDA. I do not think so. But it annoys him that now in politics you again find it necessary to advocate measures he detests and attack institutions he reveres. (_Shyly._) Edward, is it really impossible for you to withdraw from the election? OLDENDORF. It is impossible. IDA. I should then have you here, and father could regain his good humor; for he would highly appreciate the sacrifice you were making for him, and we could look forward to a future as peaceful as our past has been. OLDENDORF. I know that, Ida, and I feel anything but pleasure at the prospect of becoming member for this town; yet I cannot withdraw. IDA (_turning away_). Father is right. You have changed entirely since becoming editor of the paper. OLDENDORF. Ida! You too! If this is going to cause discord between us I shall indeed feel badly. IDA. Dear Edward! I am only grieving at losing you for so long. OLDENDORF. I am not yet elected. If I do become member and can have my way, I will take you to the capital and never let you leave my side again. IDA. Ah, Edward, we can't think of that now! But do spare father. OLDENDORF. You know how much I stand from him; and I don't give up hope of his becoming reconciled to me. The election once over, I will make another appeal to his heart. I may wrest from him a favorable answer that will mean our marriage. IDA. But do humor his little foibles. He is in the garden near his dahlia bed; express your delight over the gay colors. If you go at it skilfully enough perhaps he may still call one the "Edward Oldendorf." We have been talking of it already. Come! [_Exeunt both._] _Enter_ SENDEN, BLUMENBERG, CARL, SCHMOCK. SENDEN (_entering_). Is the Colonel alone? CARL. Professor Oldendorf is with him. SENDEN. Take in our names. [_Exit_ CARL.] This everlasting Oldendorf! I say, Blumenberg, this connection of the old gentleman with the _Union_ must stop. We cannot really call him one of us so long as the professor frequents this house. We need the Colonel's influential personality. BLUMENBERG. It is the best-known house in town--the best society, good wine, and art. SENDEN. I have my private reasons, too, for bringing the Colonel over to our side. And everywhere the professor and his clique block our way. BLUMENBERG. The friendship shall cease. I promise you that it shall cease, gradually, within the next few weeks. The first step has already been taken. The gentlemen of the _Union_ have fallen into the trap. SENDEN. Into what trap? BLUMENBERG. The one I set for them in our paper. [_Turning upon_ SCHMOCK _who is standing in the doorway._] Why do you stand here, Schmock? Can't you wait at the gate? SCHMOCK. I went where you did. Why should I not stand here? I know the Colonel as well as you do. BLUMENBERG. Don't be forward and don't be impudent. Go and wait at the gate, and when I bring you the article, quickly run with it to the press--understand? SCHMOCK. How can I help understanding when you croak like a raven? [_EXIT_.] [Illustration: _Permission F Bruckmann, A -G, Munich_ AT THE CONCERT ADOLPH VON MENZEL.] BLUMENBERG (_to_ SENDEN). He is a vulgar person, but he is useful! Now that we are alone, listen! The other day when you brought me to call here, I begged the Colonel just to write down his ideas on the questions of the day. SENDEN. Yes, alas! You piled on the flattery much too thick, but the old gentleman did, nevertheless, at last take fire. BLUMENBERG. We begged him to read to us what he had written; he read it to us, we praised it. SENDEN. It was very tiresome all the same. BLUMENBERG. I begged it of him for our paper. SENDEN. Yes, unfortunately! And now I must carry these bulky things to your press. These articles are too heavy; they won't do the _Coriolanus_ any good. BLUMENBERG. Yet I printed them gladly. When a man has written for a paper he becomes a good friend of that paper. The Colonel at once subscribed for the _Coriolanus_, and, the next day, invited me to dinner. SENDEN (_shrugging his shoulders_). If that is all you gain by it! BLUMENBERG. It is merely the beginning.--The articles are clumsy; why should I not say so? SENDEN. God knows they are! BLUMENBERG. And no one knows who the author is. SENDEN. That was the old gentleman's stipulation. I imagine he is afraid of Oldendorf. BLUMENBERG. And precisely what I anticipated has come to pass. Oldendorf's paper has today attacked these articles. Here is the latest issue of the _Union_. SENDEN. Let me look at it. Well, that will be a fine mix-up! Is the attack insulting? BLUMENBERG. The Colonel will be sure to consider it so. Don't you think that that will help us against the professor? SENDEN. Upon my honor you are the slyest devil that ever crept out of an inkstand! BLUMENBERG. Give it to me, the Colonel is coming. _Enter the_ COLONEL. COLONEL. Good morning, gentlemen!--[_aside_] and that Oldendorf should just happen to be here! If only he will remain in the garden! Well, Mr. Editor, how is the _Coriolanus_? BLUMENBERG. Our readers admire the new articles marked with an arrow. Is there any chance that some more-- COLONEL (_drawing a manuscript from his pocket and looking round_). I rely on your discretion. As a matter of fact I wanted to read it through again on account of the structure of the sentences. BLUMENBERG. That can best be done in the proof-reading. COLONEL. I think it will do. Take it; but not a word-- BLUMENBERG. You will let me send it at once to press. [_At the door._] Schmock! [SCHMOCK _appears at the door, takes the manuscript and exit quickly._] SENDEN. Blumenberg is keeping the sheet up to the mark, but, as he has enemies, he has to fight hard to defend himself. COLONEL (_amused_). Enemies? Who does not have them? But journalists have nerves like women. Everything excites you; every word that any one says against you rouses your indignation! Oh come, you are sensitive people! BLUMENBERG. Possibly you are right, Colonel. But when one has opponents like this _Union_-- COLONEL. Oh, yes, the _Union_. It is a thorn in the flesh to both of you. There is a great deal in it that I cannot praise; but, really when it comes to sounding an alarm, attacking, and pitching in, it is cleverer than your paper. The articles are witty; even when they are on the wrong side one cannot help laughing at them. BLUMENBERG. Not always. In today's attack on the best articles the _Coriolanus_ has published in a long time I see no wit at all. COLONEL. Attack on what articles? BLUMENBERG. On yours, Colonel. I must have the paper somewhere about me. [_Searches, and gives him a copy of the Union._] COLONEL. Oldendorf's paper attacks my articles! [_Reads._] "We regret such lack of knowledge--" BLUMENBERG. And here-- COLONEL. "It is an unpardonable piece of presumption"--What! I am presumptuous? BLUMENBERG. And here-- COLONEL. "One may be in doubt as to whether the naïveté of the contributor is comical or tragical, but at all events he has no right to join in the discussion"--[_Throwing down the paper._] Oh, that is contemptible! It is a low trick! _Enter_ IDA _and_ OLDENDORF _from the garden._ SENDEN (_aside_). Now comes the cloud-burst! COLONEL. Professor, your newspaper is making progress. To bad principles is now added something else--baseness. IDA (_frightened_). Father! OLDENDORF (_coming forward_). Colonel, how can you justify this insulting expression? COLONEL (_holding out the paper to him_). Look here! That stands in your paper! In your paper, Oldendorf! OLDENDORF. The tone of the attack is not quite as calm as I could have wished-- COLONEL. Not quite so calm? Not really? OLDENDORF. In substance the attack is justified. COLONEL. Sir! You dare say that to me! IDA. Father! OLDENDORF. Colonel, I do not comprehend this attitude, and I beg you to consider that we are speaking before witnesses. COLONEL. Do not ask for any consideration. It would have been your place to show consideration for the man whose friendship you are otherwise so ready to claim. OLDENDORF. But, first of all, tell me frankly what is your own connection with the articles attacked in the _Coriolanus_? COLONEL. A very chance connection, too insignificant in your eyes to deserve your regard. The articles are by me! IDA. Heavens! OLDENDORF (_vehemently_). By you? Articles in the paper of this gentleman? IDA (_entreating him_). Edward! OLDENDORF (_more calmly_). The _Union_ has attacked not you but an unknown person, who to us was merely a partisan of this gentleman. You would have spared us both this painful scene had you not concealed from me the fact that you are a correspondent of the _Coriolanus_. COLONEL. You will have to stand my continuing not to make you a confidant of my actions. You have here given me a printed proof of your friendship, which does not make me long for other proofs. OLDENDORF (_taking up his hat_). I can only say that I deeply regret the occurrence, but do not feel myself in the least to blame. I hope, Colonel, that, when you think the matter over calmly, you will come to the same conclusion. Good-by, Miss Ida. Good day to you. [_Exit as far as centre door._] IDA (_entreating_). Father, don't let him leave us that way! COLONEL. It is better than to have him stay. _Enter_ ADELAIDE. ADELAIDE (_entering in elegant traveling costume, meets_ OLDENDORF _at the door_). Not so fast, Professor! [OLDENDORF _kisses her hand and leaves._] IDA. }(_together_ Adelaide! [_Falls into her arms._]). COLONEL. } Adelaide! And at such a moment! ADELAIDE (_holding_ IDA _fast and stretching out her hand to the_ COLONEL). Shake hands with your compatriot. Aunt sends love, and Rosenau Manor, in its brown autumn dress, presents its humble compliments. The fields lie bare, and in the garden the withered leaves dance with the wind.--Ah, Mr. von Senden! COLONEL (_introducing_). Mr. Blumenberg, the editor. SENDEN. We are delighted to welcome our zealous agriculturist to the city. ADELAIDE. And we should have been pleased occasionally to meet our neighbor in the country. COLONEL. He has a great deal to do here. He is a great politician, and works hard for the good cause. ADELAIDE. Yes, indeed, we read of his doings in the newspaper. I drove through your fields yesterday. Your potatoes are not all in yet. Your steward didn't get through with the work. SENDEN. You Rosenau people are privileged to get through a week earlier than any one else. ADELAIDE. On the other hand, we have nothing to do but to farm. (_Amicably._) The neighbors send greetings. SENDEN. Thank you. We must relinquish you now to friends who have more claim on you than we have. But will you not receive me in the course of the day so that I can ask for the news from home? [ADELAIDE _inclines her head._] SENDEN. Good-by, Colonel. (_To_ IDA.) My respectful compliments, Miss Berg. [_Exit together with_ BLUMENBERG.] IDA (_embracing_ ADELAIDE). I have you at last. Now everything will be all right! ADELAIDE. What is to be all right? Is anything not all right? Back there some one passed me more quickly than usual, and here I see glistening eyes and a furrowed brow. [_Kisses her on the eyes._] They shall not ruin your pretty eyes. And you, honored friend, turn a more friendly countenance to me. COLONEL. You must stay with us all winter; it will be the first you have given us in a long time; we shall try to deserve such a favor. ADELAIDE (_seriously_). It is the first one since my father's death that I have cared to mingle with the world again. Besides, I have business that calls me here. You know I came of age this summer, and my legal friend, Judge Schwarz, requires my presence. Listen, Ida, the servants are unpacking, go and see that things are properly put away. (_Aside._) And put a damp cloth over your eyes for people can see that you have been crying. [_Exit_ IDA _to the right._ ADELAIDE _quickly goes up to the_ COLONEL.] What is the matter with Ida and the professor? COLONEL. That would be a long story. I shall not spoil my pleasure with it now. We men are at odds; our views are too opposed. ADELAIDE. But were not your views opposed before this, too? And yet you were on such good terms with Oldendorf! COLONEL. They were not so extremely opposed as now. ADELAIDE. And which of you has changed his views? COLONEL. H'm! Why, he, of course. He is led astray in great part by his evil companions. There are some men, journalists on his paper, and especially there is a certain Bolz. ADELAIDE (_aside_). What's this I hear? COLONEL. But probably you know him yourself. Why, he comes from your neighborhood. ADELAIDE. He is a Rosenau boy. COLONEL. I remember. Your father, the good old general, could not endure him. ADELAIDE. At least he sometimes said so. COLONEL. Since then this Bolz has become queer. His mode of life is said to be irregular, and I fear his morals are pretty loose. He is Oldendorf's evil genius. ADELAIDE. That would be a pity!--No, I do not believe it! COLONEL. What do you not believe, Adelaide? ADELAIDE (_smiling_). I do not believe in evil geniuses. What has gone wrong between you and Oldendorf can be set right again. Enemies today, friends tomorrow--that is the way in politics; but Ida's feelings will not change so quickly. Colonel, I have brought with me a beautiful design for a dress. That new dress I mean to wear this winter as bridesmaid. COLONEL. No chance of it! You can't catch me that way, girl. I'll carry the war into the enemy's country. Why do you drive other people to the altar and let your own whole neighborhood joke you about being the Sleeping Beauty and the virgin farmer? ADELAIDE (_laughing_). Well, so they do. COLONEL. The richest heiress in the whole district! Courted by a host of adorers, yet so firmly intrenched against all sentiment; no one can comprehend it. ADELAIDE. My dear Colonel, if our young gentlemen were as lovable as certain older ones--but, alas! they are not. COLONEL. You shan't escape me. We shall hold you fast in town, until we find one among our young men whom you will deem worthy to be enrolled under your command. For whoever be your chosen husband, he will have the same experience I have had--namely, that, first or last, he will have to do your bidding. ADELAIDE (_quickly_). Will you do my bidding with regard to Ida and the professor? Now I have you! COLONEL. Will you do me the favor of choosing your husband this winter while you are with us? Yes? Now I have _you_! ADELAIDE. It's a bargain! Shake hands! [_Holds out her hand to him._] COLONEL (_puts his hand in hers, laughing_). Well, you're outwitted. [_Exit through centre door._] ADELAIDE (_alone_). I don't think I am. What, Mr. Conrad Bolz! Is that your reputation among people! You live an irregular life? You have loose morals? You are an evil genius?-- _Enter_ KORB. KORB (_through the centre door with a package_). Where shall I put the account-books and the papers, Miss Adelaide? ADELAIDE. In my apartment. Tell me, dear Korb, did you find your room here in order? KORB. In the finest order. The servant has given me two wax candles; it is pure extravagance. ADELAIDE. You need not touch a pen for me this whole day. I want you to see the town and look up your acquaintances. You have acquaintances here, I suppose? KORB. Not very many. It is more than a year since I was last here. ADELAIDE (_indifferently_). But are there no people from Rosenau here? KORB. Among the soldiers are four from the village. There is John Lutz of Schimmellutz-- ADELAIDE. I know. Have you no other acquaintance here from the village? KORB. None at all, except him, of course-- ADELAIDE. Except him? Whom do you mean? KORB. Why, our Mr. Conrad. ADELAIDE. Oh, to be sure! Are you not going to visit him? I thought you had always been good friends. KORB. Going to visit him? That is the first place I am going to. I have been looking forward to it during the whole journey. He is a faithful soul of whom the village has a right to be proud. ADELAIDE (_warmly_). Yes, he has a faithful heart. KORB (_eagerly_). Ever merry, ever friendly, and so attached to the village! Poor man, it is a long time since he was there! ADELAIDE. Don't speak of it! KORB. He will ask me about everything--about the farming-- ADELAIDE (_eagerly_). And about the horses. The old sorrel he was so fond of riding is still alive. KORB. And about the shrubs he planted with you. ADELAIDE. Especially about the lilac-bush where my arbor now stands. Be sure you tell him about that. KORB. And about the pond. Three hundred and sixty carp! ADELAIDE. And sixty gold-tench; don't forget that. And the old carp with the copper ring about his body, that he put there, came out with the last haul, and we threw him back again. KORB. And how he will ask about you, Miss Adelaide! ADELAIDE. Tell him I am well. KORB. And how you have carried on the farming since the general died; and that you take his newspaper which I read aloud to the farm-hands afterward. ADELAIDE. Just that you need not tell him. [_Sighing, aside._] On these lines I shall learn nothing whatever. [_Pause, gravely._] See here, dear Korb, I have heard all sorts of things about Mr. Bolz that surprise me. He is said to live an irregular life. KORB. Yes, I imagine he does; he always was a wild colt. ADELAIDE. He is said to spend more than his income. KORB. Yes, that is quite possible. But I am perfectly sure he spends it merrily. ADELAIDE (_aside_). Small consolation I shall get from him! (_Indifferently._) He has now a good position, I suppose; won't he soon be looking for a wife? KORB. A wife? No, he is not doing that. It is impossible. ADELAIDE. Well, I heard something of the kind; at least he is said to be much interested in a young lady. People are talking of it. KORB. Why, that would be--no, I don't believe it. (_Hastily._) But I'll ask him about it at once. ADELAIDE. Well, he would be the last person to tell you. One learns such things from a man's friends and acquaintances. The village people ought to know it, I suppose, if a Rosenau man marries. KORB. Of course they should. I must get at the truth of that. ADELAIDE. You would have to go about it the right way. You know how crafty he is. KORB. Oh, I'll get round him all right. I'll find some way. ADELAIDE. Go, dear Korb! [_Exit_ KORB.] Those were sad tidings with which the Colonel met me. Conrad--immoral, unworthy? It is impossible! A noble character cannot change to that extent. I do not believe one word of what they say! [_EXIT_.] SCENE II _Editorial room of the "Union." Doors in the centre and on both sides. On the left, in the foreground, a desk with newspapers and documents. On the right, a similar, smaller table. Chairs._ _Enter_ BOLZ, _through the side door on the right, then_ MILLER _through the centre door._ BOLZ (_eagerly_). Miller! Factotum! Where is the mail? MILLER (_nimbly with a package of letters and newspapers_). Here is the mail, Mr. Bolz; and here, from the press, is the proof-sheet of this evening's issue to be corrected. BOLZ (_at the table on the left quickly opening, looking through, and marking letters with a pencil_). I have already corrected the proof, old rascal! MILLER. Not quite. Down here is still the "Miscellaneous" which Mr. Bellmaus gave the type-setters. BOLZ. Let us have it! [_Reads in the newspaper._] "Washing stolen from the yard"--"Triplets born"--"Concert"--"Concert"--"Meeting of an Association"--"Theatre"--all in order--"Newly invented engine"--"The great sea-serpent spied." [_Jumping up._] What the deuce is this? Is he bringing up the old sea-serpent again? It ought to be cooked into a jelly for him, and he be made to eat it cold. [_Hurries to the door on the right._] Bellmaus, monster, come out! _Enter_ BELLMAUS. BELLMAUS (_from the right, pen in hand_). What is the matter! Why all this noise? BOLZ (_solemnly_). Bellmaus, when we did you the honor of intrusting you with the odds and ends for this newspaper, we never expected you to bring the everlasting great sea-serpent writhing through the columns of our journal!--How could you put in that worn-out old lie? BELLMAUS. It just fitted. There were exactly six lines left. BOLZ. That is an excuse, but not a good one. Invent your own stories. What are you a journalist for? Make a little "Communication," an observation, for instance, on human life in general, or something about dogs running around loose in the streets; or choose a bloodcurdling story such as a murder out of politeness, or how a woodchuck bit seven sleeping children, or something of that kind. So infinitely much happens, and so infinitely much does not happen, that an honest newspaper man ought never to be without news. BELLMAUS. Give it here, I will change it. [_Goes to the table, looks into a printed sheet, cuts a clipping from it with large shears, and pastes it on the copy of the newspaper._] BOLZ. That's right, my son, so do, and mend thy ways. [_Opening the door on the right._] Kämpe, can you come in a moment? (_To_ MILLER, _who is waiting at the door._) Take that proof straight to the press! [MILLER _takes the sheet from_ BELLMAUS _and hurries off._] _Enter_ KÄMPE. KÄMPE. But I can't write anything decent while you are making such a noise. BOLZ. You can't? What have you just written, then? At most, I imagine, a letter to a ballet-dancer or an order to your tailor. BELLMAUS. No, he writes tender letters. He is seriously in love, for he took me walking in the moonlight yesterday and scorned the idea of a drink. KÄMPE (_who has seated himself comfortably_). Gentlemen, it is unfair to call a man away from his work for the sake of making such poor jokes. BOLZ. Yes, yes, he evidently slanders you when he maintains that you love anything else but your new boots and to some small degree your own person. You yourself are a love-spurting nature, little Bellmaus. You glow like a fusee whenever you see a young lady. Spluttering and smoky you hover around her, and yet don't dare even to address her. But we must be lenient with him; his shyness is to blame. He blushes in woman's presence, and is still capable of lovely emotions, for he started out to be a lyric poet. BELLMAUS. I don't care to be continually reproached with my poems. Did I ever read them to you? BOLZ. No, thank Heaven, that audacity you never had. (_Seriously._) But, now, gentlemen, to business. Today's number is ready. Oldendorf is not yet here, but meanwhile, let us hold a confidential session. Oldendorf _must_ be chosen deputy from this town to the next Parliament; our party and the _Union must_ put that through. How does our stock stand today? KÄMPE. Remarkably high. Our opponents agree that no other candidate would be so dangerous for them, and our friends everywhere are most hopeful. But you know how little that may signify. Here is the list of the voters. Our election committee sends word to you that our calculations were correct. Of the hundred voters from our town, forty surely ours. About an equal number are pledged to the other party; the remnant of some twenty votes are undecided. It is clear that the election will be determined by a very small majority. BOLZ. Of course we shall have that majority--a majority of from eight to ten votes. Just say that, everywhere, with the greatest assuredness. Many a one who is still undecided will come over to us on hearing that we are the stronger. Where is the list of our uncertain voters? [_Looks it over._] KÄMPE. I have placed a mark wherever our friends think some influence might be exerted. BOLZ. I see two crosses opposite one name; what do they signify? KÄMPE. That is Piepenbrink, the wine-dealer Piepenbrink. He has a large following in his district, is a well-to-do man, and, they say, can command five or six votes among his adherents. BOLZ. Him we must have. What sort of a man is he? KÄMPE. He is very blunt, they say, and no politician at all. BELLMAUS. But he has a pretty daughter. KÄMPE. What's the use of his pretty daughter? I'd rather he had an ugly wife--one could get at him more easily. BELLMAUS. Yes, but he has one--a lady with little curls and fiery red ribbons in her cap. BOLZ. Wife or no wife, the man must be ours. Hush, some one is coming; that is Oldendorf's step. He needn't know anything of our conference. Go to your room, gentlemen. To be continued this evening. KÄMPE (_at the door_). It is still agreed, I suppose, that in the next number I resume the attack on the new correspondent of the _Coriolanus_, the one with the arrow. BOLZ. Yes, indeed. Pitch into him, decently but hard. Just now, on the eve of the election, a little row with our opponents will do us good; and the articles with the arrow give us a great opening. [_Exeunt_ KÄMPE _and_ BELLMAUS.] _Enter_ OLDENDORF _through centre door._ OLDENDORF. Good-day, Conrad. BOLZ (_at the table on the right, looking over the list of voters_). Blessed be thy coming! The mail is over there; there is nothing of importance. OLDENDORF. Do you need me here today? BOLZ. No, my darling. This evening's issue is ready. For tomorrow Kämpe is writing the leading article. OLDENDORF. About what? BOLZ. A little skirmish with the _Coriolanus_. Another one against the unknown correspondent with the arrow who attacked our party. But do not worry; I told Kämpe to make the article dignified, very dignified. OLDENDORF. For Heaven's sake, don't! The article must not be written. BOLZ. I fail to comprehend you. What use are political opponents if you cannot attack them? OLDENDORF. Now see here! These articles were written by the Colonel; he told me so himself today. BOLZ. Thunder and lightning! OLDENDORF (_gloomily_). You may imagine that along with this admission went other intimations which place me just now in a very uncomfortable position as regards the Colonel and his family. BOLZ (_seriously_). And what does the Colonel want you to do? OLDENDORF. He will be reconciled to me if I resign the editorship of this paper and withdraw as candidate for election. BOLZ. The devil! He is moderate in his demands! OLDENDORF. I suffer under this discord; to you, as my friend, I can say so. BOLZ (_going up to him and pressing his hand_). Solemn moment of manly emotion! OLDENDORF. Don't play the clown just now. You can imagine how unpleasant my position in the Colonel's house has become. The worthy old gentleman either frigid or violent; the conversation spiced with bitter allusions; Ida suffering--I can often see that she has been crying. If our party wins and I become member for the town, I fear I shall lose all hope of marrying Ida. BOLZ (_vehemently_). And if you withdraw it will be a serious blow to our party. (_Rapidly and emphatically._) The coming session of Parliament will determine the fate of the country. The parties are almost equal. Every loss is a blow of a vote to our cause. In this town we have no other candidate but you, who is sufficiently popular to make his election probable. If you withdraw from the contest, no matter what the reason, our opponents win. OLDENDORF. Unfortunately what you say is true. BOLZ (_with continued vehemence_). I won't dwell on my confidence in your talents. I am convinced that, in the House, and, possibly, as one of the ministers, you will be of service to your country. I merely ask you, now, to remember your duty to our political friends, who have pinned their faith on you, and to this paper and ourselves, who for three years have worked for the credit of the name of Oldendorf which heads our front page. Your honor is at stake, and every moment of wavering is wrong. OLDENDORF (_dignified_). You are exciting yourself without reason. I too deem it wrong to retire now when I am told that our cause needs me. But in confessing to you, my friend, that my decision means a great personal sacrifice, I am not compromising either our cause or ourselves as individuals. BOLZ (_soothingly_). Right you are! You are a loyal comrade. And so peace, friendship, courage! Your old Colonel won't be inexorable. OLDENDORF. He has grown intimate with Senden, who flatters him in every way, and has plans, I fear, which affect me also. I should feel still more worried but for knowing that I have now a good advocate in the Colonel's house. Adelaide Runeck has just arrived. BOLZ. Adelaide Runeck? She into the bargain! (_Quickly calling through the door on the right._) Kämpe, the article against the knight of the arrow is not to be written. Understand? _Enter_ KÄMPE. KÄMPE (_at the door, pen in hand_). But what is to be written, then? BOLZ. The devil only knows! See here! Perhaps I can induce Oldendorf to write the leading article for tomorrow himself. But at all events you must have something on hand. KÄMPE. But what? BOLZ (_excitedly_). For all I care write about emigration to Australia; that, at any rate, will give no offense. KÄMPE. Good! Am I to encourage it or advise against it? BOLZ (_quickly_). Advise against it, of course; we need every one who is willing to work here at home. Depict Australia as a contemptible hole. Be perfectly truthful but make it as black as possible--how the Kangaroo, balled into a heap, springs with invincible malice at the settler's head, while the duckbill nips at the back of his legs; how the gold-seeker has, in winter, to stand up to his neck in salt water while for three months in summer he has not a drop to drink; how he may live through all that only to be eaten up at last by thievish natives. Make it very vivid and end up with the latest market prices for Australian wool from the _Times_. You'll find what books you need in the library. [_Slams the door to._] OLDENDORF (_at the table_). Do you know Miss Runeck? She often inquires about you in her letters to Ida. BOLZ. Indeed? Yes, to be sure, I know her. We are from the same village--she from the manor-house, I from the parsonage. My father taught us together. Oh, yes, I know her! OLDENDORF. How comes it that you have drifted so far apart? You never speak of her. BOLZ. H'm! It is an old story--family quarrels, Montagues and Capulets. I have not seen her for a long time. OLDENDORF (_smiling_). I hope that you too were not estranged by politics. BOLZ. Politics did, indeed, have something to do with our separation; you see it is the common misfortune that party life destroys friendship. OLDENDORF. Sad to relate! In religion any educated man will tolerate the convictions of another; but in politics we treat each other like reprobates if there be the slightest shade of difference of opinion between us. BOLZ (_aside_). Matter for our next article! (_Aloud._) "The slightest shade of difference of opinion between us." Just what I think! We must have that in our paper! (_Entreating)_. Look! A nice little virtuous article: "An admonition to our voters--Respect our opponents, for they are, after all, our brothers!" (_Urging him more and more._) Oldendorf, that would be something for you--there is virtue and humanity in the theme; writing will divert you, and you owe the paper an article because you forbade the feud. Please do me the favor! Go into the back room there and write. No one shall disturb you. OLDENDORF (_smiling_). You are just a vulgar intriguer! BOLZ (_forcing him from his chair_). Please, you'll find ink and paper there. Come, deary, come! [_He accompanies him to the door on the left. Exit_ OLDENDORF. BOLZ _calling after him._] Will you have a cigar? An old Henry Clay? [_Draws a cigar-case from his pocket._] No? Don't make it too short; it is to be the principal article! [_He shuts the door, calls through the door on the right._] The professor is writing the article himself. See that nobody disturbs him! [_Coming to the front._] So that is settled.--Adelaide here in town! I'll go straight to her! Stop, keep cool, keep cool! Old Bolz, you are no longer the brown lad from the parsonage. And even if you were, _she_ has long since changed. Grass has grown over the grave of a certain childish inclination. Why are you suddenly thumping so, my dear soul? Here in town she is just as far off from you as on her estates. [_Seating himself and playing with a pencil._] "Nothing like keeping cool," murmured the salamander as he sat in the stove fire. _Enter_ KORB. KORB. Is Mr. Bolz in? BOLZ (_jumping up_). Korb! My dear Korb! Welcome, heartily welcome! It is good of you not to have forgotten me. [_Shakes hands with him._] I am very glad to see you. KORB. And I even more to see you. Here we are in town. The whole village sends greetings! From Anton the stable-boy--he is now head man--to the old night watchman whose horn you once hung up on the top of the tower. Oh, what a pleasure this is! BOLZ. How is Miss Runeck? Tell me, old chap! KORB. Very well indeed, now. But we have been through much. The late general was ill for four years. It was a bad time. You know he was always an irritable man. BOLZ. Yes, he was hard to manage.-- KORB. And especially during his illness. But Miss Adelaide took care of him, so gentle and so pale, like a perfect lamb. Now, since his death, Miss Adelaide runs the estate, and like the best of managers. The village is prospering again. I will tell you everything, but not until this evening. Miss Adelaide is waiting for me; I merely ran in quickly to tell you that we are here. BOLZ. Don't be in such a hurry, Korb.--So the people in the village still think of me! KORB. I should say they did! No one can understand why you don't come near us. It was another matter while the old gentleman was alive, but now-- BOLZ (_seriously_). My parents are dead; a stranger lives in the parsonage. KORB. But we in the manor-house are still alive! Miss Runeck would surely be delighted-- BOLZ. Does she still remember me? KORB. Of course she does. This very day she asked about you. BOLZ. What did she ask, old chap? KORB. She asked me if it was true what people are saying, that you have grown very wild, make debts, run after girls, and are up to the devil generally. BOLZ. Good gracious! You stood up for me, I trust? KORB. Of course! I told her that all that might be taken for granted with you. BOLZ. Confound it! That's what she thinks of me, is it? Tell me, Korb, Miss Adelaide has many suitors, has she not? KORB. The sands of the sea are as nothing to it. BOLZ (_vexed_). But yet she can finally choose only one, I suppose. KORB (_slyly_). Correct! But which one? That's the question. BOLZ. Which do you think it will be? KORB. Well, that is difficult to say. There is this Mr. von Senden who is now living in town. If any one has a chance it is probably he. He fusses about us like a weasel. Just as I was leaving he sent to the house a whole dozen of admission cards to the great fête at the club. It must be the sort of club where the upper classes go arm-in-arm with the townspeople. BOLZ. Yes, it is a political society of which Senden is a director. It is casting out a great net for voters. And the Colonel and the ladies are going? KORB. I hear they are. I, too, received a card. BOLZ (_to himself_). Has it come to this? Poor Oldendorf!--And Adelaide at the club fête of Mr. von Senden! KORB (_to himself_). How am I going to begin and find out about his love-affairs? (_Aloud._) Oh, see here, Mr. Conrad, one thing more! Have you possibly some real good friend in this concern to whom you could introduce me? BOLZ. Why, old chap? KORB. It is only--I am a stranger here, and often have commissions and errands where I need advice. I should like to have some one to consult should you chance to be away, or with whom I could leave word for you. BOLZ. You will find me here at almost any time of day. [_At the door._] Bellmaus! [_Enter_ BELLMAUS.] You see this gentleman here. He is an honored old friend of mine from my native village. Should he happen not to find me here, you take my place.--This gentleman's name is Bellmaus, and he is a good fellow. KORB. I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Bellmaus. BELLMAUS. And I to make yours. You have not told me his name yet. BOLZ. Korb. He has had a great deal to carry in his life, and has often carried me on his back, too. BELLMAUS. I too am pleased, Mr. Korb. [_They shake hands._] KORB. Well, that is in order, and now I must go or Miss Adelaide will be waiting. BOLZ. Good-by! Hope to see you very soon again. [_Exit_ KORB; _exit_ BELLMAUS _through door on the right._] BOLZ (_alone_). So this Senden is courting her! Oh, that is bitter! _Enter_ HENNING, _followed by_ MILLER. HENNING (_in his dressing-gown, hurriedly, with a printed roll in his hand_). Your servant, Mr. Bolz! Is "opponent" spelt with one p or with two p's? The new proofreader has corrected it one p. BOLZ (_deep in his thoughts_). Estimable Mr. Henning, the _Union_ prints it with two p's. HENNING. I said so at once. [_To_ MILLER.] It must be changed; the press is waiting. [_Exit_ MILLER _hastily._] I took occasion to read the leading article. Doubtless you wrote it yourself. It is very good, but too sharp, Mr. Bolz. Pepper and mustard--that will give offense; it will cause bad blood. BOLZ (_still deep in his thoughts, violently_). I always did have an antipathy to this man! [Illustration: _Permission Union Deutsche Verlagsgesellschaft, Stuttgart_. NATURE ENTHUSIASTS. ADOLPH VON MENZEL] HENNING (_hurt_). How? What? Mr. Bolz? You have an antipathy to me? BOLZ. To whom? No, dear Mr. Henning, you are a good fellow and would be the best newspaper owner in the world, if only you were not often as frightened as a hare. [_Embraces him._] My regards to Mrs. Henning, sir, and leave me alone. I am thinking up my next article. HENNING (_while he is being thrust out_). But do, please, write very moderately and kindly, dear Mr. Bolz. BOLZ (_alone, walking to and fro again_). Senden avoids me whenever he can. He stands things from me that any one else would strongly resent. Is it possible that he suspects-- _Enter_ MILLER. MILLER (_hurriedly_). A lady I don't know wishes to pay her respects to you. BOLZ. A lady! And to me? MILLER. To the editor. [_Hands him a card._] BOLZ (_reads_). Leontine Pavoni-Gessler, _née_ Melloni from Paris. She must have to do with art. Is she pretty? MILLER. H'm! So, so! BOLZ. Then tell her we are very sorry that we cannot have the pleasure, that it is the editor's big washing-day. MILLER. What? BOLZ (_vehemently_). Washing, children's washing. That we are sitting up to the elbows in soapsuds. MILLER (_laughing_). And I am to-- BOLZ (_impatiently_). You're a blockhead! [_At the door._] Bellmaus! [_Enter_ BELLMAUS.] Stay here and receive the visitor. [_Gives him the card._] BELLMAUS. Ah, that is the new ballet-dancer who is expected here. [_Inspecting his coat._] But I'm not dressed for it! BOLZ. All the more dressed she will be. [_To_ MILLER.] Show the lady in. [_Exit_ MILLER.] BELLMAUS. But really I cannot-- BOLZ (_irritably_). Oh the devil, don't put on airs! [_Goes to the table, puts papers in the drawer, seizes his hat._] _Enter_ MADAME PAVONI. MADAME PAVONI. Have I the honor of seeing before me the editor of the _Union_? BELLMAUS (_bowing_). To be sure--that is to say--won't you kindly be seated? [_Pushes up chairs._] BOLZ. Adelaide is clear-sighted and clever. How can she possibly fail to see through that fellow? MADAME PAVONI. Mr. Editor, the intelligent articles about art which adorn your paper--have prompted me-- BELLMAUS. Oh, please! BOLZ. (_having made up his mind_). I must gain entrance into this club-fête! [_Exit with a bow to the lady._ BELLMAUS _and_ MADAME PAVONI _sit facing each other._] ACT II SCENE I _The_ COLONEL'S _summer parlor. In the foreground on the right_ IDA _and_ ADELAIDE, _next to_ ADELAIDE _the_ COLONEL, _all sitting. In front of them a table with coffee set._ COLONEL (_in conversation with_ ADELAIDE, _laughing_). A splendid story, and cleverly told! I am heartily glad that you are with us, dear Adelaide. Now, at any rate, we shall talk about something else at table besides this everlasting politics! H'm! The professor has not come today. He never used to miss our coffee-hour. [_Pause;_ ADELAIDE _and_ IDA _look at each other._ IDA _sighs._] ADELAIDE. Perhaps he has work to do. IDA. Or he is vexed with us because I am going to the fête tonight. COLONEL (_irritably_). Nonsense, you are not his wife nor even openly his fiancée. You are in your father's house and belong in my circle.--H'm! I see he treasures it up against me that I did some plain speaking the other day. I think I was a little impatient. ADELAIDE (_nodding her head_). Yes, a little, I hear. IDA. He is worried about the way you feel, dear father. COLONEL. Well, I have reason enough to be vexed; don't remind me of it. And that, in addition, he lets himself be mixed up in these elections, is unpardonable. [_Walks up and down._] But you had better send for him, Ida. IDA _rings. Enter_ CARL. IDA. Our compliments to the professor and we are waiting coffee for him. [_Exit_ CARL.] COLONEL. Well, that about waiting was not quite necessary. Why, we have finished our coffee. ADELAIDE. Ida has not finished yet. IDA. Hush! ADELAIDE. Why did he ever let himself be put up as candidate? He has plenty to do as it is. COLONEL. Pure ambition, girls. The devil of ambition possesses these young men. He impels them as steam does a locomotive. IDA. No, father, _he_ never thought of himself in the matter. COLONEL. It does not stand out quite so nakedly as, "I must make a career for myself," or "I wish to become a famous man." The procedure is more delicate. The good friends come along and say: "Your duty to the good cause requires you to--it is a crime against your country if you do not--it is a sacrifice for you but we demand it." And so a pretty mantle is thrown around vanity, and the candidate issues forth--from pure patriotism of course! Don't teach an old soldier worldly wisdom. We, dear Adelaide, sit calmly by and laugh at such weaknesses. ADELAIDE. And are indulgent toward them when we have so good a heart as you. COLONEL. Yes, one profits by experience. _Enter_ CARL. CARL. Mr. von Senden and two other gentlemen. COLONEL. What do they want? Pleased to see them! [_Exit_ CARL.] Allow me to have them shown in here, children. Senden never stays long. He is a roving spirit. [_The ladies rise._] IDA. The hour is again spoiled for us. ADELAIDE. Don't mind it; we shall have all the more time to dress. [_Exeunt_ IDA _and_ ADELAIDE _on the left._] _Enter_ SENDEN, BLUMENBERG, _a third gentleman._ SENDEN. Colonel, we come on behalf of the committee for the approaching election to notify you that that committee has unanimously voted to make you, Colonel, our party's candidate. COLONEL. _Me?_ SENDEN. The committee begs you to accept this nomination so that the necessary announcement can be made to the voters at this evening's fête. COLONEL. Are you in earnest, dear Senden? Where did the committee get such an idea? SENDEN. Colonel, our president, who had previously agreed to run for our town, found that it would be more advantageous to be candidate from a provincial district; apart from him no one of our townsmen is so well known and so popular with the citizens as yourself. If you accede to our request our party is certain of victory; if you refuse, there is every probability that our opponents will have their own way. You will agree with us that such an eventuality must be avoided under all circumstances. COLONEL. I see all that; but, on personal grounds, it is impossible for me to help our friends in this matter. SENDEN (_to the others_). Let me explain to the Colonel certain things which will possibly make him look favorably on our request. [_Exeunt_ BLUMENBERG _and the other gentlemen into the garden, where they are visible from time to time._] COLONEL. But, Senden, how could you put me in this embarrassing position! You know that for years Oldendorf has frequented my house and that it will be extremely unpleasant for me openly to oppose him. SENDEN. If the professor is really so devoted to you and your household, he has now the best opportunity to show it. It is a foregone conclusion that he will at once withdraw. COLONEL. I am not quite so sure of that; he is very stubborn in many ways. SENDEN. If he do not withdraw such egotism can scarcely still be called stubbornness. And in such a case you would scarcely be under obligations to him; obligations, Colonel, which might work injury to the whole country. Besides, he has no chance of being elected if you accept, for you will defeat him by a majority not large but sure. COLONEL. Are we so perfectly certain of this majority! SENDEN. I think I can guarantee it. Blumenberg and the other gentlemen have made very thorough inquiries. COLONEL. It would serve the professor quite right if he had to withdraw in my favor.--But no--no; it will not do at all, my friend. SENDEN. We know, Colonel, what a sacrifice we are asking of you, and that nothing could compensate you for it save the consciousness of having done your country a great service. COLONEL. To be sure. SENDEN. It would be so regarded in the capital, too, and I am convinced that your entering the House would also cause pleasure in other circles than those of your numerous friends and admirers. COLONEL. I should meet there many old friends and comrades. (_Aside_.) I should be presented at Court. SENDEN. The minister of war asked very warmly after you the other day; he too must have been one of your companions in arms. COLONEL. Yes indeed! As young blades we served in the same company and played many mad pranks together. It would be a pleasure to see him now in the House, drawing his honest face into dark lines. He was a wild devil in the regiment, but a fine boy. SENDEN. Nor will he be the only one to receive you with open arms. COLONEL. In any case, I should have to think the matter over. SENDEN. Don't be angry, Colonel, if I urge you to decide. This evening we have to introduce their candidate to our citizen guests. It is high time, or all is lost. COLONEL (_hesitating_). Senden, you put a knife to my throat! [SENDEN, _from the door, motions the gentlemen in the garden to come in_.] BLUMENBERG. We venture to urge you, knowing that so good a soldier as you, Colonel, makes up his mind quickly. COLONEL (_after struggling inwardly_). Well, so be it, gentlemen, I accept! Tell the committee I appreciate their confidence. This evening we will talk over details. BLUMENBERG. We thank you, Colonel. The whole town will be rejoiced to hear of your decision. COLONEL. Good-by until this evening. [_Exeunt the visitors_; COLONEL _alone, thoughtfully_.] I fear I ought not to have accepted so quickly; but I had to do the minister of war that favor. What will the girls say to it? And Oldendorf? [_Enter_ OLDENDORF.] There he is himself. [_Clears his throat_.] He will be astonished. I can't help it, he must withdraw. Good morning, Professor, you come just at the right moment. OLDENDORF (_hastily_). Colonel, there is a report in town that Mr. von Senden's party have put you up as their candidate. I ask for your own assurance that you would not accept such a nomination. COLONEL. And, supposing the proposition had been made to me, why should I not accept as well as you? Yes, rather than you; for the motives that would determine me are sounder than your reasons. OLDENDORF. So there is some foundation then to the rumor? COLONEL. To be frank, it is the truth. I have accepted. You see in me your opponent. OLDENDORF. Nothing so bad has yet occurred to trouble our relations. Colonel, could not the memory of a friendship, hearty and undisturbed for years, induce you to avoid this odious conflict? COLONEL. Oldendorf, I could not act otherwise, believe me. It is your place now to remember our old friendship. You are a younger man, let alone other relationships; you are the one now to withdraw. OLDENDORF (_more excitedly_). Colonel, I have known you for years. I know how keenly and how deeply you feel things and how little your ardent disposition fits you to bear the petty vexations of current politics, the wearing struggle of debates. Oh, my worthy friend, do listen to my exhortations and take back your consent. COLONEL. Let that be my concern. I am an old block of hard timber. Think of yourself, dear Oldendorf. You are young, you have fame as a scholar; your learning assures you every success. Why, in another sphere of activity, do you seek to exchange honor and recognition for naught but hatred, mockery, and humiliation? For with such views as yours you cannot fail to harvest them. Think it over. Be sensible, and withdraw. OLDENDORF. Colonel, could I follow my own inclinations I should do so on the spot. But in this contest I am under obligations to my friends. I cannot withdraw now. COLONEL (_excitedly_). Nor can I withdraw, lest I harm the good cause. We are no further now than in the beginning. (_Aside_.) Obstinate fellow! [_Both walk up and down on opposite sides of the stage._] You have not the least chance whatever of being elected, Oldendorf; my friends are sure of having the majority of the votes. You are exposing yourself to a public defeat. (_Kindly_.) I should dislike having you of all people beaten by me; it will cause gossip and scandal. Just think of it! It is perfectly useless for you to conjure up the conflict. OLDENDORF. Even if it were such a foregone conclusion as you assume, Colonel, I should still have to hold out to the end. But as far as I can judge the general sentiment, the result is by no means so certain. And think, Colonel, if you should happen to be defeated-- COLONEL (_irritated_). I tell you, that will not be the case. OLDENDORF. But if it should be? How odious that would be for both of us! How would you feel toward me then! I might possibly welcome a defeat in my heart; for you it would be a terrible mortification, and, Colonel, I dread this possibility. COLONEL. For that very reason you should withdraw. OLDENDORF. I can no longer do so; but there is still time for you. COLONEL (_vehemently_). Thunder and lightning, sir, I have said yes; I am not the man to cap it with a no! [_Both walk up and down._] That appears to end it, Professor! My wishes are of no account to you; I ought to have known that! We must go our separate ways. We have become open opponents; let us be honest enemies-- OLDENDORF (_seizing the_ COLONEL'S _hand_). Colonel, I consider this a most unfortunate day; for I see sad results to follow. Rest assured that no circumstances can shake my love and devotion for you. COLONEL. We are drawn up in line of battle, as it were. You mean to let yourself be defeated by an old military man. You shall have your desire. OLDENDORF. I ask your permission to tell Miss Ida of our conversation. COLONEL (_somewhat uneasy_). You had better not do that just now, Professor. An opportunity will come in due time. At present the ladies are dressing. I myself will say what is necessary. OLDENDORF. Farewell, Colonel, and think of me without hard feelings. COLONEL. I will try my best, Professor. [_Exit_ OLDENDORF.] He has not given in! What depths of ambition there are in these scholars! _Enter_ IDA, ADELAIDE. IDA. Was not that Edward's voice? COLONEL. Yes, my child. ADELAIDE. And he has gone away again! Has anything happened? COLONEL. Well, yes, girls. To make a long story short, Oldendorf does not become member for this town, but I. ADELAIDE} (_together_.) You, Colonel? IDA } You, father? IDA. Has Edward withdrawn? ADELAIDE. Is the election over? COLONEL. Neither one nor the other. Oldendorf has proved his much-vaunted devotion to us by not withdrawing, and election day is not yet past. But from what I hear there is no doubt that Oldendorf will be defeated. IDA. And you, father, have come out before everybody as his opponent? ADELAIDE. And what did Oldendorf say to that, Colonel? COLONEL. Don't excite me, girls! Oldendorf was stubborn, otherwise he behaved well, and as far as that is concerned all is in order. The grounds which determined me to make the sacrifice are very weighty. I will explain them to you more fully another time. The matter is decided; I have accepted; let that suffice for the present. IDA. But, dear father-- COLONEL. Leave me in peace, Ida, I have other things to think of. This evening I am to speak in public; that is, so to say, the custom at such elections. Don't worry, my child, we'll get the better of the professor and his clique. [_Exit_ COLONEL _toward the garden_. IDA _and_ ADELAIDE _stand facing each other and wring their hands._] IDA. What do you say to that? ADELAIDE. You are his daughter--what do _you_ say? IDA. Not possible!--Father! Scarcely had he finished explaining to us thoroughly what petty mantles ambition assumes in such elections-- ADELAIDE. Yes, he described them right vividly, all the little wraps and cloaks of vanity. IDA. And within an hour he lets them throw the cloak about himself. Why, it is terrible! And if father is not elected? It was wrong of Edward not to give in to father's weakness. Is that your love for me, Professor? He, too, never thought of me! ADELAIDE. Shall I tell you what? Let us hope that they both fail. These politicians! It was bad enough for you when only one was in politics; now that both have tasted of the intoxicating drink you are done for. Were I ever to come into a position to make a man my master, I should impose upon him but one condition, the wise rule of conduct of my old aunt: Smoke tobacco, my husband, as much as you please; at most it will spoil the walls; but never dare to look at a newspaper--that will spoil your character. [KORB _appears at the door_.] What news do you bring, Korb? KORB (_hastily, mysteriously_). It isn't true! ADELAIDE (_the same_). What isn't true? KORB. That he has a fiancée. He has no idea of it. His friend says he has but one lady-love. ADELAIDE (_eagerly_). Who is she? KORB. His newspaper. ADELAIDE (_relieved_). Ah, indeed. (_Aloud_.) One can see by that how many falsehoods people tell. It is good, dear Korb. [_Exit_ KORB.] IDA. What isn't true? ADELAIDE (_sighing_). Well, that we women are cleverer than men. We talk just as wisely and I fear are just as glad to forget our wisdom at the first opportunity. We are all of us together poor sinners! IDA. You can joke about it. You never knew what it was to have your father and the man you loved oppose each other as enemies. ADELAIDE. Do you think so! Well, I once had a good friend who had foolishly given her heart to a handsome, high-spirited boy. She was a mere child and it was a very touching relationship: knightly devotion on his part and tender sighings on hers. Then the young heroine had the misfortune to become very jealous, and so far forgot poetry and deportment as to give her heart's chosen knight a box on the ear. It was only a little box, but it had fateful consequences. The young lady's father had seen it and demanded an explanation. Then the young knight acted like a perfect hero. He took all the blame upon himself and told the alarmed father that he had asked the young lady to kiss him--poor fellow, he never had the courage for such a thing!--and the blow had been her answer. A stern man was the father; he treated the lad very harshly. The hero was sent away from his family and his home, and the heroine sat lonely in her donjon-tower and mourned her lost one. IDA. She ought to have told her father the truth. ADELAIDE. Oh, she did. But her confession made matters only worse. Years have gone by since then, and the knight and his lady are now old people and have become quite sensible. IDA (_smiling_). And, because they are sensible, do they not love each other any longer? ADELAIDE. How the man feels about it, dear child, I cannot tell you exactly. He wrote the lady a very beautiful letter after the death of her father--that is all I know about it. But the lady has greater confidence than you, for she still hopes. (_Earnestly_.) Yes, she hopes; and even her father permitted that before he died--you see, she still hopes. IDA (_embracing her_). And who is the banished one for whom she still hopes? ADELAIDE. Hush, dearest, that is a dark secret. Few persons living know about it; and when the birds on the trees of Rosenau tell each other the story they treat it as a dim legend of their forefathers. They then sing softly and sorrowfully, and their feathers stand on end with awe. In due time you shall learn all about it; but now you must think of the fête, and of how pretty you are going to look. IDA. On the one hand the father, on the other the lover--how will it end? ADELAIDE. Do not worry. The one is an old soldier, the other a young statesman; two types that we women have wound around our little fingers from time immemorial! [_Both leave_.] SCENE II _Side room of a public hall. The rear wall a great arch with columns, through which one looks into the lighted hall and through it into another. On the left, toward the front, a door. On the right, tables and chairs; chandeliers. Later, from time to time distant music. In the hall ladies and gentlemen walking about or standing in groups_. SENDEN, BLUMENBERG, _behind them_ SCHMOCK _coming from the hall_. SENDEN. All is going well. There is a splendid spirit in the company. These good townspeople are delighted with our arrangements. It was a fine idea of yours, Blumenberg, to have this fête. BLUMENBEEG. Only hurry and get people warmed up! It's a good thing to begin with some music. Vienna waltzes are best on account of the women. Then comes a speech from you, then some solo singing, and, at supper, the introduction of the Colonel, and the toasts. It can't help being a success; the men must have hearts of stone if they don't give their votes in return for such a fête. SENDEN. The toasts have been apportioned. BLUMENBERG. But the music?--Why has the music stopped? SENDEN. I am waiting for the Colonel to arrive. BLUMENBERG. He must be received with a blare of trumpets. It will flatter him, you know. SENDEN. That's what I ordered. Directly after, they start up a march and we bring him in procession. BLUMENBERG. First rate! That will lend solemnity to his entrance. Only think up your speech. Be popular, for today we are among the rabble. _Enter guests, among them_ HENNING. SENDEN (_doing the honors with BLUMENBERG_). Delighted to see you here! We knew that you would not fail us. Is this your wife? GUEST. Yes, Mr. von Senden, this is my wife. SENDEN. You here, too, Mr. Henning? Welcome, my dear sir! HENNING. I was invited by my friend and really had the curiosity to come. My presence, I hope, will not be unpleasant to any one? SENDEN. Quite the contrary. We are most pleased to greet you here. [_Guests leave through centre door_; SENDEN _goes out in conversation with them._] BLUMENBERG. He knows how to manage people. It's the good manners of these gentlemen that does it. He is useful--useful to me too. He manages the others, and I manage him. [_Turning, he sees_ SCHMOCK, _who is hovering near the door_.] What are you doing here? Why do you stand there listening? You are not a door-keeper! See that you keep out of my vicinity. Divide yourself up among the company. SCHMOCK. Whom shall I go to if I know none of these people at all? You are the only person I know. BLUMENBERG. Why must you tell people that you know me? I consider it no honor to stand next to you. SCHMOCK. If it is not an honor it's not a disgrace either; But I can stay by myself. BLUMENBERG. Have you money to get something to eat? Go to the restaurant-keeper and order something charged to me. The committee will pay for it. SCHMOCK. I don't care to go and eat. I have no need to spend anything. I have had my supper. [_Blare of trumpets and march in the distance. Exit_ BLUMENBERG. SCHMOCK _alone, coming forward, angrily_.] I hate him! I'll tell him I hate him, that I despise him from the bottom of my heart! [_Turns to go, comes back._] But I cannot tell him so, or he will cut out all I send in for the special correspondence I write for his paper! I will try to swallow it down! _[Exit through centre door_.] _Enter_ BOLZ, KÄMPE, BELLMAUS _by side door_. BOLZ (_marching in_). Behold us in the house of the Capulets! [_Pretends to thrust a sword into its scabbard._] Conceal your swords under roses. Blow your little cheeks up, and look as silly and innocent as possible. Above all, don't let me see you get into a row, and if you meet this Tybaldus Senden be so good as to run round the corner. [_The procession is seen marching through the rear halls_.] You, Romeo Bellmaus, look out for the little women. I see more fluttering curls and waving kerchiefs there than are good for your peace of mind. KÄMPE. I bet a bottle of champagne that if one of us gets into a row it will be you. BOLZ. Possibly. But I promise you that you shall surely come in for your share of it. Now listen to my plan of operations. You Kämpe--[_Enter_ SCHMOCK.] Stop! Who is that? Thunder! The factotum of the _Coriolanus_! Our _incognito_ has not lasted long. SCHMOCK (_even before the last remark, has been seen looking in at the door, coming forward_). I wish you good evening, Mr. Bolz. BOLZ. I wish you the same and of even better quality, Mr. Schmock. SCHMOCK. Might I have a couple of words with you? BOLZ. A couple? Don't ask for too few, noble armor-bearer of the _Coriolanus_! A couple of dozen words you shall have, but no more. SCHMOCK. Could you not employ me on your paper. BOLZ (_to_ KÄMPE _and_ BELLMAUS). Do you hear that? On our paper? H'm! 'Tis much you ask, noble Roman! SCHMOCK. I am sick of the _Coriolanus_. I would do any kind of work you needed done. I want to be with respectable people, where one can earn something and be treated decently. BOLZ. What are you asking of us, slave of Rome? We to entice you away from your party--never! We do violence to your political convictions? Make you a renegade? We bear the guilt of your joining our party? No, sir! We have a tender conscience. It rises in arms against your proposition! SCHMOCK. Why do you let that trouble you? Under Blumenberg I have learned to write whichever way the wind blows. I have written on the left and again on the right. I can write in any direction. BOLZ. I see you have character. You would be a sure success on our paper. Your offer does us honor, but we cannot accept it now. So momentous an affair as your defection needs deep consideration. Meanwhile you will have confided in no unfeeling barbarian. (_Aside to the others_.) We may be able to worm something out of him. Bellmaus, you have the tenderest heart of us three; you must devote yourself to him today. BELLMAUS. But what shall I do with him? BOLZ. Take him into the restaurant, sit down in a corner with him, pour punch into every hollow of his poor head until his secrets jump out like wet mice. Make him chatter, especially about the elections. Go, little man, and take good care not to get overheated yourself and babble. BELLMAUS. In that case I shall not see much of the fête. BOLZ. That's true, my son! But what does the fête mean to you? Heat, dust, and stale dance-music. Besides, we will tell you all about it in the morning; and then you are a poet, and can imagine the whole affair to be much finer than it really was. So don't take it to heart. You may think you have a thankless role, but it is the most important of all, for it requires coolness and cleverness. Go, mousey, and look out about getting overheated. BELLMAUS. I'll look out, old tom-cat.--Come along Schmock! [BELLMAUS _and_ SCHMOCK _leave_.] BOLZ. We might as well separate, too. KÄMPE. I'll go and see how people feel. If I need you I'll look you up. BOLZ. I had better not show myself much. I'll stay around here. [_Exit_ KÄMPE.] Alone at last! [_Goes to centre door_.] There stands the Colonel, closely surrounded. It is she! She is here, and I have to lie in hiding like a fox under the leaves.--But she has falcon eyes,--perhaps--the throng disperses--she is walking through the hall arm-in-arm with Ida--(_Excitedly_.) They are drawing nearer! (_Irritably_.) Oh, bother! There is Korb rushing toward me! And just now! _Enter_ KORB. KORB. Mr. Conrad! I can't believe my eyes! You here, at this fête! BOLZ (_hastily_). Hush, old chap! I'm not here without a reason. I can trust you--you're one of us, you know. KORB. Body and soul. Through all the talking and fiddling I've kept saying to myself, "Long live the _Union!"_ Here she is! [_Shows him a paper in his pocket_.] BOLZ. Good, Korb, you can do me a great favor. In a corner of the refreshment room Bellmaus is sitting with a stranger. He is to pump the stranger, but cannot stand much himself and is likely to say things he shouldn't. You'll do the party a great service if you will hurry in and drink punch so as to keep Bellmaus up to the mark. You have a strong head--I know it from of old. KORB (_hastily_). I go! You are as full of tricks as ever, I see. You may rely on me. The stranger shall succumb, and the _Union_ shall triumph. [_Exit quickly. The music ceases_.] BOLZ. Poor Schmock! [_At the door_.] Ah, they are still walking through the hall. Ida is being spoken to, she stops, Adelaide goes on--(_Excitedly_.) she's coming, she's coming alone! ADELAIDE (_makes a motion as though to pass the door, but suddenly enters_. BOLZ _bows_). Conrad! My dear doctor! [_Holds out her hand_. BOLZ _bends low over it_.] ADELAIDE (_in joyous emotion_). I knew you at once from a distance. Let me see your faithful face. Yes, it has changed but little--a scar, browner, and a small line about the mouth. I hope it is from laughing. BOLZ. If at this moment I feel like anything but laughing it is only a passing malignity of soul. I see myself double, like a melancholy Highlander. In your presence my long happy childhood passes bodily before my eyes. All the joy and pain it brought me I feel as vividly again as though I were still the boy who went into the wood for you in search of wild adventures and caught robin-red-breasts. And yet the fine creature I see before me is so different from my playmate that I realize I am only dreaming a beautiful dream. Your eyes shine as kindly as ever, but--(_Bowing_.) I have scarcely the right still to think of old dreams. ADELAIDE. Possibly I, too, am not so changed as you think; and changed though we both be, we have remained good friends, have we not? BOLZ. Rather than give up one iota of my claim to your regard, I would write and print and try to sell malicious articles against myself. ADELAIDE. And yet you have been too proud all this time even to come and see your friend in town. Why have you broken with the Colonel? BOLZ. I have not broken with him. On the contrary, I have a very estimable position in his house--one that I can best keep by going there as seldom as possible. The Colonel, and occasionally Miss Ida, too, like to assuage their anger against Oldendorf and the newspaper by regarding me as the evil one with horns and hoofs. A relationship so tender must be handled with care--a devil must not cheapen himself by appearing every day. ADELAIDE. Well, I hope you will now abandon this lofty viewpoint. I am spending the winter in town, and I hope that for love of your boyhood's friend you will call on my friends as a denizen of this world. BOLZ. In any role you apportion me. ADELAIDE. Even in that of a peace-envoy between the Colonel and Oldendorf? BOLZ. If peace be at the cost of Oldendorf's withdrawal, then no. Otherwise I am ready to serve you in all good works. ADELAIDE. But I fear that this is the only price at which peace can be purchased. You see, Mr. Conrad, we too have become opponents. BOLZ. To do anything against your wishes is horrible to me, son of perdition though I be. So my saint wills and commands that Oldendorf do not become member of Parliament? ADELAIDE. I will it and command it, Mr. Devil! BOLZ. It is hard. Up in your heaven you have so many gentlemen to bestow on Miss Ida; why must you carry off a poor devil's one and only soul, the professor? ADELAIDE. It is just the professor I want, and you must let me have him. BOLZ. I am in despair. I would tear my hair were the place not so unsuitable. I dread your anger. The thought makes me tremble that you might not like this election. ADELAIDE. Well, try to stop the election, then. BOLZ. That I cannot do. But so soon as it is over I am fated to mourn and grow melancholy over your anger. I shall withdraw from the world--far, far to the North Pole. There I shall end my days sadly, playing dominoes with polar bears, or spreading the elements of journalistic training among the seals. That will be easier to endure than the scathing glance of your eyes. ADELAIDE (_laughing_). Yes, that's the way you always were. You made every possible promise and acted exactly as you pleased. But before starting for the North Pole, perhaps you will make one more effort to reconcile me here. [KÄMPE _is seen at the door._] Hush!--I shall look forward to your visit. Farewell, my re-found friend! [_EXIT_.] BOLZ. And thus my good angel turns her back to me in anger! And now, politics, thou witch, I am irretrievably in thy power! [_Exit quickly through centre door._] _Enter_ PIEPENBRINK, MRS. PIEPENBRINK, BERTHA _escorted by_ FRITZ KLEINMICHEL, _and_ KLEINMICHEL _through centre door. Quadrille behind the scenes._ PIEPENBRINK. Thank Heaven, we are out of this crowd! MRS. PIEPENBRINK. It is very hot. KLEINMICHEL. And the music is too loud. There are too many trumpets and I hate trumpets. PIEPENBRINK. Here's a quiet spot; we'll sit down here. FRITZ. Bertha would prefer staying in the ball-room. Might I not go back with her? PIEPENBRINK. I have no objection to you young people going back into the ball-room, but I prefer your staying here with us. I like to keep my whole party together. MRS. PIEPENBRINK. Stay with your parents, my child! PIEPENBRINK. Sit down! (_To his wife._) You sit at the corner, Fritz comes next to me. You take Bertha between you, neighbors. Her place will soon be at your table, anyway. [_They seat themselves at the table on the right--at the left corner_ MRS. PIEPENBRINK, _then he himself_, FRITZ, BERTHA, KLEINMICHEL.] FRITZ. When will "soon" be, godfather? You have been saying that this long time, but you put off the wedding day further and further. PIEPENBRINK. That is no concern of yours. FRITZ. I should think it is, godfather! Am I not the man that wants to marry Bertha? PIEPENBRINK. That's a fine argument! Any one can want that. But it's I who am to give her to you, which is more to the point, young man; for it is going to be hard enough for me to let the little wag-tail leave my nest. So you wait. You shall have her, but wait! KLEINMICHEL. He will wait, neighbor. PIEPENBRINK. Well, I should strongly advise him to do so. Hey! Waiter, waiter! [Illustration: _Permission F. Bruckman, A.-G. Munich_ ON THE TERRACE ADOLF VON MENZEL] MRS. PIEPENBRINK. What poor service one gets in such places! PIEPENBRINK. Waiter! [_Waiter comes._] My name is Piepenbrink. I brought along six bottles of my own wine. The restaurant-keeper has them. I should like them here. [_While the waiter is bringing the bottles and glasses_ BOLZ _and_ KÄMPE _appear. Waiter from time to time in the background._] BOLZ (_aside to_ KÄMPE). Which one is it? KÄMPE. The one with his back to us, the broad-shouldered one. BOLZ. And what kind of a business does he carry on? KÄMPE. Chiefly red wines. BOLZ. Good! (_Aloud._) Waiter, a table and two chairs here! A bottle of red wine! [_Waiter brings what has been ordered to the front, on the left._] MRS. PIEPENBRINK. What are those people doing here? PIEPENBRINK. That is the trouble with such promiscuous assemblies, that one never can be alone. KLEINMICHEL. They seem respectable gentlemen; I think I have seen one of them before. PIEPENBRINK (_decisively_). Respectable or not, they are in our way. KLEINMICHEL. Yes, to be sure, so they are. BOLZ (_seating himself with_ KÄMPE). Here, my friend, we can sit quietly before a bottle of red wine. I hardly dare to pour it out, for the wine at such restaurants is nearly always abominable. What sort of stuff do you suppose this will be? PIEPENBRINK (_irritated_). Indeed? Just listen to that! KÄMPE. Let's try it. [_Pours out; in a low voice._] There is a double P. on the seal; that might mean Piepenbrink. PIEPENBRINK. Well, I am curious to know what these greenhorns will have to say against the wine. MRS. PIEPENBRINK. Be quiet, Philip, they can hear you over there. BOLZ (_in a low tone_). I'm sure you are right. The restaurant takes its wine from him. That's his very reason for coming. PIEPENBRINK. They don't seem to be thirsty; they are not drinking. BOLZ (_tastes it; aloud_). Not bad! PIEPENBRINK (_ironically_). Indeed? BOLZ (_takes another sip_). A good, pure wine. PIEPENBRINK (_relieved_). The fellow's judgment is not so bad. BOLZ. But it does not compare with a similar wine that I recently drank at a friend's house. PIEPENBRINK. Indeed? BOLZ. I learned then that there is only one man in town from whom a sensible wine-drinker should take his red wine. KÄMPE. And that is? PIEPENBRINK (_ironically_). I really should like to know. BOLZ. It's a certain Piepenbrink. PIEPENBRINK (_nodding his head contentedly_). Good! KÄMPE. Yes, it is well known to be a very reliable firm. PIEPENBRINK. They don't know that their own wine, too, is from my cellars. Ha! Ha! Ha! BOLZ (_turning to him_). Are you laughing at us, Sir? PIEPENBRINK. Ha! Ha! Ha! No offense. I merely heard you talking about the wine. So you like Piepenbrink's wine better than this here? Ha! Ha! Ha! BOLZ (_slightly indignant_). Sir, I must request you to find my expressions less comical. I do not know Mr. Piepenbrink, but I have the pleasure of knowing his wine; and so I repeat the assertion that Piepenbrink has better wine in his cellar than this here. What do you find to laugh at in that? You do not know Piepenbrink's wines and have no right to judge of them. PIEPENBRINK. I do not know Piepenbrink's wines, I do not know Philip Piepenbrink either, I never saw his wife--do you hear that, Lottie?--And when his daughter Bertha meets me I ask, "Who is that little black-head?" That is a funny story. Isn't it, Kleinmichel? KLEINMICHEL. It is very funny! [_Laughs._] BOLZ (_rising with dignity_). Sir, I am a stranger to you and have never insulted you. You look honorable and I find you in the society of charming ladies. For that reason I cannot imagine that you came here to mock at strangers. As man to man, therefore, I request you to explain why you find my harmless words so astonishing. If you don't like Mr. Piepenbrink why do you visit it on us? PIEPENBRINK _(rising_). Don't get too excited, Sir. Now, see here! The wine you are now drinking is also from Piepenbrink's cellar, and I myself am the Philip Piepenbrink for whose sake you are pitching into me. Now, do you see why I laugh? BOLZ. Ah, is that the way things stand? You yourself are Mr. Piepenbrink? Then I am really glad to make your acquaintance. No offense, honored Sir! PIEPENBRINK. No, no offense. Everything is all right. BOLZ. Since you were so kind as to tell us your name, the next thing in order is for you to learn ours. I'm Bolz, Doctor of Philosophy, and my friend here is Mr. Kämpe. PIEPENBRINK. Pleased to meet you. BOLZ. We are comparative strangers in this company and had withdrawn to this side room as one feels slightly embarrassed among so many new faces. But we should be very sorry if by our presence we in any way disturbed the enjoyment of the ladies and the conversation of so estimable a company. Tell us frankly if we are in the way, and we will find another place. PIEPENBRINK. You seem to me a jolly fellow and are not in the least in my way, Doctor Bolz--that was the name, was it not? MRS. PIEPENBRINK. We, too, are strangers here and had only just sat down. Piepenbrink! [_Nudges him slightly._] PIEPENBRINK. I tell you what, Doctor, as you are already acquainted with the yellow-seal from my cellar and have passed a very sensible verdict upon it, how would it be for you to give it another trial here? Sit down with us if you have nothing better to do, and we will have a good talk together. BOLZ (_with dignity, as throughout this whole scene, during which both he and KÄMPE must not seem to be in any way pushing_). That is a very kind invitation, and we accept it with pleasure. Be good enough, dear Sir, to present us to your company. PIEPENBRINK. This here is my wife. BOLZ. Do not be vexed at our breaking in upon you, Madam. We promise to behave ourselves and to be as good company as lies in the power of two shy bachelors. PIEPENBRINK. Here is my daughter. BOLZ (_to_ MRS. PIEPENBRINK). One could have known that from the likeness. PIEPENBRINK. This is my friend, Mr. Kleinmichel, and this, Fritz Kleinmichel, my daughter's fiancé. BOLZ. I congratulate you, gentlemen, on such delightful society. (_To_ PIEPENBRINK.) Permit me to sit next to the lady of the house. Kämpe, I thought you would sit next to Mr. Kleinmichel. [_They sit down_.] Now we alternate! Waiter! [_Waiter comes to him_.] Two bottles of this! PIEPENBRINK. Hold on! You won't find that wine here. I brought my own kind. You're to drink with me. BOLZ. But Mr. Piepenbrink---- PIEPENBRINK. No remonstrances! You drink with me. And when I ask any one to drink with me, Sir, I don't mean to sip, as women do, but to drink out and fill up. You must make up your mind to that. BOLZ. Well, I am content. We as gratefully accept your hospitality as it is heartily offered. But you must then let me have my revenge. Next Sunday you are all to be my guests, will you? Say yes, my kind host! Punctually at seven, informal supper. I am single, so it will be in a quiet, respectable hotel. Give your consent, my dear Madam. Shake hands on it, Mr. Piepenbrink.--You, too, Mr. Kleinmichel and Mr. Fritz! [_Holds out his hand to each of them_.] PIEPENBRINK. If my wife is satisfied it will suit me all right. BOLZ. Done! Agreed! And now the first toast. To the good spirit who brought us together today, long may he live!--[_Questioning those about him_.] What's the spirit's name? FRITZ KLEINMICHEL. Chance. BOLZ. No, he has a yellow cap. PIEPENBRINK. Yellow-seal is his name. BOLZ. Correct! Here's his health! We hope the gentleman may last a long time, as the cat said to the bird when she bit its head off. KLEINMICHEL. We wish him long life just as we are putting an end to him. BOLZ. Well said! Long life! PIEPENBRINK. Long life! [_They touch glasses_. PIEPENBRINK _to his wife_.] It is going to turn out well today, after all. MRS. PIEPENBRINK. They are very modest nice men. BOLZ. You can't imagine how glad I am that our good fortune brought us into such pleasant company. For although in there everything is very prettily arranged-- PIEPENBRINK. It really is all very creditable. BOLZ. Very creditable! But yet this political society is not to my taste. PIEPENBRINK. Ah, indeed! You don't belong to the party, I suppose, and on that account do not like it. BOLZ. It's not that! But when I reflect that all these people have been invited, not really to heartily enjoy themselves, but in order that they shall presently give their votes to this or that gentleman, it cools my ardor. PIEPENBRINK. Oh, it can hardly be meant just that way. Something could be said on the other side--don't you think so, comrade? KLEINMICHEL. I trust no one will be asked to sign any agreement here. BOLZ. Perhaps not. I have no vote to cast and I am proud to be in a company where nothing else is thought of but enjoying oneself with one's neighbor and paying attention to the queens of society--to charming women! Touch glasses, gentlemen, to the health of the ladies, of the two who adorn our circle. [_All touch glasses_.] PIEPENBRINK. Come here, Lottie, your health is being drunk. BOLZ. Young lady, allow a stranger to drink to your future prosperity. PIEPENBRINK. What else do you suppose they are going to do in there? FRITZ KLEINMICHEL. I hear that at supper there are to be speeches, and the candidate for election, Colonel Berg, is to be introduced. PIEPENBRINK. A very estimable gentleman. KLEINMICHEL. Yes, it is a good choice the gentlemen on the committee have made. ADELAIDE, _who has been visible in the rear, now saunters in_. ADELAIDE. He sitting here? What sort of a company is that? KÄMPE. People say that Professor Oldendorf has a good chance of election. Many are said to be going to vote for him. PIEPENBRINK. I have nothing to say against him, only to my mind he is too young. SENDEN _is seen in the rear, later_ BLUMENBERG _and guests_. SENDEN. You here, Miss Runeck? ADELAIDE. I'm amusing myself with watching those queer people. They act as though the rest of the company were non-existent. SENDEN. What do I see? There sits the _Union_ itself and next to one of the most important personages of the fête! [_The music ceases_.] BOLZ (_who has meanwhile been conversing with_ MRS. PIEPENBRINK _but has listened attentively--to_ MR. PIEPENBRINK). There, you see the gentlemen cannot desist from talking politics after all. (_To_ PIEPENBRINK.) Did you not mention Professor Oldendorf? PIEPENBRINK. Yes, my jolly Doctor, just casually. BOLZ. When you talk of him I heartily pray you to say good things about him; for he is the best, the noblest man I know. PIEPENBRINK. Indeed? You know him? KLEINMICHEL. Are you possibly a friend of his! BOLZ. More than that. Were the professor to say to me today: "Bolz, it will help me to have you jump into the water," I should have to jump in, unpleasant as it would be to me just at this moment to drown in water. PIEPENBRINK. Oho! That is strong! BOLZ. In this company I have no right to speak of candidates for election. But if I did have a member to elect he should be the one--he, first of all. PIEPENBRINK. But you are very much prejudiced in the man's favor. BOLZ. His political views do not concern me here at all. But what do I demand of a member? That he be a man; that he have a warm heart and a sure judgment, and that he know unwaveringly and unquestionably what is good and right; furthermore, that he have the strength to do what he knows to be right without delay, without hesitation. PIEPENBRINK. Bravo! KLEINMICHEL. But the Colonel, too, is said to be that kind of a man. BOLZ. Possibly he is, I do not know; but of Oldendorf I know it. I looked straight into his heart on the occasion of an unpleasant experience I went through. I was once on the point of burning to powder when he was kind enough to prevent it. Him I have to thank for sitting here. He saved my life. SENDEN. He lies abominably! [_Starts forward_.] ADELAIDE (_holding him back_). Be still! I believe there is some truth to the story. PIEPENBRINK. Well now, it was very fine of him to save your life; but that kind of thing often happens. MRS. PIEPENBRINK. Do tell us about it, Doctor! BOLZ. The little affair is like a hundred others and would not interest me at all, had I not been through it myself. Picture to yourself an old house. I am a student living on the third floor. In the house opposite me lives a young scholar; we do not know each other. At dead of night I am awakened by a great noise and a strange crackling under me. If it were mice, they must have been having a torchlight procession for the room was brilliantly illuminated. I rush to the window, the bright flame from the story under me leaps up to where I stand. My window-panes burst about my head, and a vile cloud of smoke rushes in on me. There being no great pleasure under the circumstances in leaning out of the window, I rush to the door and throw it open. The stairs, too, cannot resist the mean impulse peculiar to old wood, they are all ablaze. Up three flights of stairs and no exit! I gave myself up for lost. Half unconscious I hurried back to the window. I heard the cries from the street, "A man! a man! This way with the ladder!" A ladder was set up. In an instant it began to smoke and to burn like tinder. It was dragged away. Then streams of water from all the engines hissed in the flames beneath me. Distinctly I could hear each separate stream striking the glowing wall. A fresh ladder was put up; below there was deathly silence and you can imagine that I, too, had no desire to make much of a commotion in my fiery furnace. "It can't be done," cried the people below. Then a full, rich voice rang out: "Raise the ladder higher!" Do you know, I felt instantly that this was the voice of my rescuer. "Hurry!" cried those below. Then a fresh cloud of vapor penetrated the room. I had had my share of the thick smoke, and lay prostrate on the ground by the window. MRS. PIEPENBRINK. Poor Doctor Bolz! PIEPENBRINK (_eagerly_). Go on! [SENDEN _starts forward_.] ADELAIDE (_holding him back_). Please, let him finish, the story is true! BOLZ. Then a man's hand seizes my neck. A rope is wound round me under the arms, and a strong wrist raises me from the ground. A moment later I was on the ladder, half dragged, half carried; with shirt aflame, and unconscious, I reached the pavement.--I awoke in the room of the young scholar. Save for a few slight burns, I had brought nothing with me over into the new apartment; all my belongings were burned. The stranger nursed me and cared for me like a brother. Not until I was able to go out again did I learn that this scholar was the same man who had paid his visit to me that night on the ladder. You see the man has his heart in the right spot, and that's why I wish him now to become member of Parliament, and why I could do for him what I would not do for myself; for him I could electioneer, intrigue, or make fools of honest people. That man is Professor Oldendorf. PIEPENBRINK. Well, he's a tremendously fine man! [_Rising_.] Here's to the health of Professor Oldendorf! [_All rise and touch glasses_.] BOLZ (_bowing pleasantly to all--to_ MRS. PIEPENBRINK). I see warm sympathy shining in your eyes, dear madam, and I thank you for it. Mr. Piepenbrink, I ask permission to shake your hand; you are a fine fellow. [_Slaps him on the back and embraces him_.] Give me your hand, Mr. Kleinmichel! [_Embraces him_.] And you, too, Mr. Fritz Kleinmichel! May no child of yours ever sit in the fire, but if he does may there ever be a gallant man at hand to pull him out. Come nearer, I must embrace you, too. MRS. PIEPENBRINK (_much moved_). Piepenbrink, we have veal-cutlets tomorrow. What do you think? [_Converses with him in a low tone_.] ADELAIDE. His spirits are running away with him! SENDEN. He is unbearable! I see that you are as indignant as I am. He snatches away our people; it can no longer be endured. BOLZ (_who had gone the rounds of table, returning and standing in front of_ MRS. PIEPENBRINK). It really isn't right to let it stop here. Mr. Piepenbrink, head of the house, I appeal to you, I ask your permission--hand or mouth? ADELAIDE (_horrified, on the right toward the front_). He is actually kissing her! PIEPENBRINK. Sail in, old man, courage! MRS. PIEPENBRINK. Piepenbrink, I no longer know you! ADELAIDE (_at the moment when_ BOLZ _is about to kiss_ MRS. PIEPENBRINK _crosses the stage, passing them casually, as it were, and holds her bouquet between_ BOLZ _and_ MRS. PIEPENBRINK. _In a low tone, quickly to_ BOLZ). You're going too far! You are being watched! [_Passes to the rear on the left, and exit_.] BOLZ. A fairy interferes! SENDEN _(who has already been haranguing some of the other guests, including_ BLUMENBERG, _noisily pushes forward at this moment--to those at the table_). He is presumptuous; he has thrust himself in! PIEPENBRINK (_bringing down his hand on the table and rising_). Oho! I like that! If I kiss my wife or let her be kissed, that is nobody's concern whatever! Nobody's! No man and no woman and no fairy has a right to put a hand before her mouth. BOLZ. Very true! Splendid! Hear! Hear! SENDEN. Revered Mr. Piepenbrink, no offense against you! The company is charmed to see you here. Only to Mr. Bolz we will remark that his presence is causing scandal. So completely opposed are his political principles that we must regard his appearing at this fête as an unwarrantable intrusion! BOLZ. My political principles opposed? In society I know no other political principle than this--to drink with nice people and not to drink with those whom I do not consider nice. With you, Sir, I have not drunk. PIEPENBRINK _(striking the table_). That was a good one! SENDEN _(hotly)_. You thrust yourself in here! BOLZ _(indignantly)_. Thrust myself in? PIEPENBRINK. Thrust himself in? Old man, you have an entrance ticket, I suppose? BOLZ _(frankly)_. Here is my ticket! It is not you I am showing it to, but this honorable man from whom you are trying to estrange me by your attack. Kämpe, give your ticket to Mr. Piepenbrink. He is the man to judge of all the tickets in the world! PIEPENBRINK. Here are two tickets just exactly as valid as my own. Why, you scattered them right and left like sour grape juice. Oho! I see quite well how things stand! I'm not one of your crowd, either, but you want to get me. That's why you came to my house again and again--because you expected to capture me. Because I am a voter, that's why you're after me. But because this honorable man is not a voter he does not count for you at all. We know those smooth tricks! SENDEN. But, Mr. Piepenbrink! PIEPENBRINK _(interrupting him, more angrily)_. Is that any reason for insulting a peaceful guest? Is it a reason for closing my wife's mouth? It is an injustice to this man, and he shall stay here as long as I do. And he shall stay here by my side. And whoever attempts to attack him will have to deal with me! BOLZ. Your fist, good sir! You're a faithful comrade! And so hand-in-hand with you Philip, I defy the Capulet and his entire clan! PIEPENBRINK. Philip! Right you are, Conrad, my boy! Come here! They shall swell with anger till they burst! Here's to Philip and Conrad! _[They drink brotherhood.]_ BOLZ. Long live Piepenbrink! PIEPENBRINK. So, old chum! Shall I tell you what! Since we are having so good a time I think we'll leave all these people to their own devices, and all of you come home with me. I'll brew a punch and we'll sit together as merrily as jackdaws. I'll escort you, Conrad, and the rest of you go ahead. SENDEN _(and guests)_. But do listen, _revered_ Mr. Piepenbrink! PIEPENBRINK. I'll listen to nothing. I'm done with you! _Enter_ BELLMAUS _and other guests_. BELLMAUS _(hurrying through the crowd_). Here I am! BOLZ. My nephew! Gracious Madam, I put him under your protection! Nephew, you escort Madam Piepenbrink. (MRS. PIEPENBRINK _takes a firm grip on_ BELLMAUS'S _arm and holds him securely. Polka behind the scene.)_ Farewell, gentlemen, it's beyond your power to spoil our good humor. There, the music is striking up! We march off in a jolly procession, and again I cry in conclusion, Long live Piepenbrink! THE DEPARTING ONES. Long live Piepenbrink! _[They march off in triumph_. FRITZ KLEINMICHEL _and his fiancée,_ KÄMPE _with_ KLEINMICHEL, MRS. PIEPENBRINK _with_ BELLMAUS, _finally_ BOLZ _with_ PIEPENBRINK.] _Enter_ COLONEL. COLONEL. What's going on here? SENDEN. An outrageous scandal! The _Union_ has kidnapped our two most important voters! ACT III SCENE I _The_ COLONEL'S _Summer Parlor_. _The_ COLONEL _in front, walking rapidly up and down. In the rear_, ADELAIDE _and_ IDA _arm-in-arm, the latter in great agitation. A short pause. Then enter_ SENDEN. SENDEN (_hastily calling through centre door_). All goes well! 37 votes against 29. COLONEL. Who has 37 votes? SENDEN. Why you, Colonel, of course! COLONEL. Of course! (_Exit_ SENDEN.) The election day is unendurable! In no fight in my life did I have this feeling of fear. It is a mean cannon-fever of which any ensign might be ashamed. And it is a long time since I was an ensign! [_Stamping his foot_.] Confound it! [_Goes to rear of stage_.] IDA (_coming forward with_ ADELAIDE). This uncertainty is frightful. Only one thing is sure, I shall be unhappy whichever way this election turns out. [_Leans on_ ADELAIDE.] ADELAIDE. Courage! Courage, little girl! Things may still turn out all right. Hide your anxiety from your father; he is in a state of mind, as it is, that does not please me at all. _Enter_ BLUMENBERG _in haste; the_ COLONEL _rushes toward him_. COLONEL. Now, sir, how do things stand? BLUMENBERG. 41 votes for you, Colonel, 34 for our opponents; three have fallen on outsiders. The votes are being registered at very long intervals now, but the difference in your favor remains much the same. Eight more votes for you, Colonel, and the victory is won. We have every chance now of coming out ahead. I am hurrying back, the decisive moment is at hand. My compliments to the ladies! [_Exit_.] COLONEL. Ida! [IDA _hastens to him_.] Are you my good daughter? IDA. My dear father! COLONEL. I know what is troubling you, child. You are worse off than any one. Console yourself, Ida; if, as seems likely, the professor has to make way for the old soldier, then we'll talk further on the matter. Oldendorf has not deserved it of me; there are many things about him that I do not like. But you are my only child. I shall think of that and of nothing else; but the very first thing to do is to break down the young man's obstinacy. [_Releases_ IDA; _walks up and down again._] ADELAIDE (_in the foreground, aside_). The barometer has risen, the sunshine of pardon breaks through the clouds. If only it were all over! Such excitement is infectious! (_To_ IDA.) You see you do not yet have to think of entering a nunnery. IDA. But if Oldendorf is defeated, how will he bear it! ADELAIDE (_shrugging her shoulders_). He loses a seat in unpleasant company and wins, instead, an amusing little wife. I think he ought to be satisfied. In any case he will have a chance to make his speeches. Whether he makes them in one house or another, what is the difference? I fancy you will listen to him more reverently than any other member. IDA (_shyly_). But Adelaide, what if it really would be better for the country to have Oldendorf elected? ADELAIDE. Yes, dearest, in that case there is no help for the country. Our State and the rest of the European nations must learn to get along without the professor. You have yourself to attend to first of all; you wish to marry him; you come first. [_Enter_ CARL.] What news, Carl? CARL. Mr. von Senden presents his compliments and reports 47 to 42. The head of the election committee, he says, has already congratulated him. COLONEL. Congratulated? Lay out my uniform, ask for the key of the wine-cellar, and set the table; we are likely to have visitors this evening. CARL. Yes, Colonel. [_Exit_.] COLONEL (_to himself in the foreground_). Now, my young professor! My style does not please you? It may be that you are right. I grant you are a better journalist. But here, where it is a serious matter, you will find yourself in the wrong, just for once. [_Pause_.] I may be obliged to say a few words this evening. It used to be said of me in the regiment, indeed, that I could always speak to the point, but these manoeuvres in civilian dress disconcert me a little. Let's think it over! It will be only proper for me to mention Oldendorf in my speech, of course with due respect and appreciation; yes indeed, I must do that. He is an honest fellow, with an excellent heart, and a scholar with fine judgment. And he can be very amiable if you disregard his political theories. We have had pleasant evenings together. And as we sat then around my fat tea-kettle and the good boy began to tell his stories, Ida's eyes would be fixed on his face and would shine with pleasure--yes, and my own old eyes, too, I think. Those were fine evenings! Why do we have them no longer? Bah! They'll come back again! He'll bear defeat quietly in his own way--a good, helpful way. No sensitiveness in him! He really is at heart a fine fellow, and Ida and I could be happy with him. And so, gentlemen and electors--but thunder and lightning! I can't say all that to the voters! I'll say to them-- _Enter_ SENDEN. SENDEN (_excitedly_). Shameful, shameful! All is lost! COLONEL. Aha! (_Instantly draws himself up in military posture_.) ADELAIDE } My presentiment! Father! } [_Hurries to him_]. } (_together_). } IDA } Dear me! SENDEN. It was going splendidly. We had 47, the opponents 42 votes. Eight votes were still to be cast. Two more for us and the day would have been ours. The legally appointed moment for closing the ballot-box had come. All looked at the clock and called for the dilatory voters. Then there was a trampling of feet in the corridor. A group of eight persons pushed noisily into the hall, at their head the vulgar wine-merchant Piepenbrink, the same one who at the fête the other day-- ADELAIDE. We know; go on-- SENDEN. Each of the band in turn came forward, gave his vote and "Edward Oldendorf" issued from the lips of all. Then finally came this Piepenbrink. Before voting he asked the man next to him: "Is the professor sure of it?" "Yes," was the reply. "Then I, as last voter, choose as member of Parliament"--[_Stops._] ADELAIDE. The professor? SENDEN. No. "A most clever and cunning politician," so he put it, "Dr. Conrad Bolz." Then he turned short around and his henchmen followed him. ADELAIDE (_aside, smiling_). Aha! SENDEN. Oldendorf is member by a majority of two votes. COLONEL. Ugh! SENDEN. It is a shame! No one is to blame for this result but these journalists of the _Union_. Such a running about, an intriguing, a shaking of hands with all the voters, a praising of this Oldendorf, a shrugging of the shoulders at us--and at you, dear Sir! COLONEL. Indeed? IDA. That last is not true. ADELAIDE (_to_ SENDEN). Show some regard, and spare those here. COLONEL. You are trembling, my daughter. You are a woman, and let yourself be too much affected by such trifles. I will not have you listen to these tidings any longer. Go, my child! Why, your friend has won, there is no reason for you to cry! Help her, Miss Adelaide! IDA (_is led by_ ADELAIDE _to the side door on the left; entreatingly_.) Leave me! Stay with father! SENDEN. Upon my honor, the bad faith and arrogance with which this paper is edited are no longer to be endured. Colonel, since we are alone--for Miss Adelaide will let me count her as one of us--we have a chance to take a striking revenge. Their days are numbered now. Quite a long time ago, already, I had the owner of the _Union_ sounded. He is not disinclined to sell the paper, but merely has scruples about the party now controlling the sheet. At the club-fête I myself had a talk with him. ADELAIDE. What's this I hear? SENDEN. This outcome of the election will cause the greatest bitterness among all our friends, and I have no doubt that, in a few days, by forming a stock company, we can collect the purchase price. That would be a deadly blow to our opponents, a triumph for the good cause. The most widely-read sheet in the province in our hands, edited by a committee-- ADELAIDE. To which Mr. von Senden would not refuse his aid-- SENDEN. As a matter of duty I should do my part. Colonel, if you would be one of the shareholders, your example would at once make the purchase a sure thing. COLONEL. Sir, what you do to further your political ideas is your own affair. Professor Oldendorf, however, has been a welcome guest in my house. Never will I work against him behind his back. You would have spared me this moment had you not previously deceived me by your assurances as to the sentiments of the majority. However, I bear you no malice. You acted from the best of motives, I am sure. I beg the company to excuse me if I withdraw for today. I hope to see you tomorrow again, dear Senden. SENDEN. Meanwhile I will start the fund for the purchase of the newspaper. I bid you good day. [_Exit_.] COLONEL. Pardon me, Adelaide, if I leave you alone. I have some letters to write, and [_with a forced laugh_] my newspapers to read. ADELAIDE (_sympathetically_). May I not stay with you now, of all times? COLONEL (_with an effort_). I shall be better off alone, now. [_Exit through centre door_.] ADELAIDE (_alone_). My poor Colonel! Injured vanity is hard at work in his faithful soul. And Ida. [_Gently opens the door on the left, remains standing_.] She is writing. It is not difficult to guess to whom. [_Closes the door_.] And for all of this mischief that evil spirit Journalism is to blame. Everybody complains of it, and every one tries to use it for his own ends. My Colonel scorned newspaper men until he became one himself, and Senden misses no opportunity of railing at my good friends of the pen, merely because he wishes to put himself in their place. I see Piepenbrink and myself becoming journalists, too, and combining to edit a little sheet under the title of _Naughty Bolz_. So the _Union_ is in danger of being secretly sold. It might be quite a good thing for Conrad: he would then have to think of something else besides the newspaper. Ah! the rogue would start a new one at once! _Enter_ OLDENDORF _and_ CARL. OLDENDORF (_while still outside of the room_). And the Colonel will receive no one? CARL. No one, Professor. [_Exit_.] ADELAIDE (_going up to_ OLDENDORF). Dear Professor, this is not just the right moment for you to come. We are very much hurt and out of sorts with the world, but most of all with you. OLDENDORF. I am afraid you are, but I must speak to him. _Enter_ IDA _through the door on the left_. IDA (_going toward him_). Edward! I knew you would come! OLDENDORF. My dear Ida! [_Embraces her_.] IDA (_with her arms around his neck_). And what will become of us now? _Enter_ COLONEL _through centre door_. COLONEL (_with forced calmness_). You shall remain in no doubt about that, my daughter! I beg you, Professor, to forget that you were once treated as a friend in this household. I require you, Ida, to banish all thought of the hours when this gentleman entertained you with his sentiments. (_More violently_.) Be still! In my own house at least I submit to no attacks from a journalist. Forget him, or forget that you are my daughter. Go in there! [_Leads_ IDA, _not ungently, out to the left, and places himself in front of the door_.] On this ground, Mr. Editor and Member of Parliament, before the heart of my child, you shall not beat me. [_Exit to the left_.] ADELAIDE (_aside_). Dear me! That is bad! OLDENDORF (_as the_ COLONEL _turns to go, with determination_). Colonel, it is ungenerous of you to refuse me this interview. [_Goes toward the door_.] ADELAIDE (_intercepting him quickly_). Stop! No further! He is in a state of excitement where a single word might do permanent harm. But do not leave us this way, Professor; give me just a few moments. OLDENDORF. I must, in my present condition of mind, ask your indulgence. I have long dreaded just such a scene, and yet I hardly feel able to control myself. ADELAIDE. You know our friend; you know that his quick temper drives him into acts for which later he would gladly atone. OLDENDORF. This was more than a fit of temper. It means a breach between us two--a breach that seems to me beyond healing. ADELAIDE. Beyond healing, Professor! If your sentiments toward Ida are what I think they are, healing is not so difficult. Would it not be fitting for you even now--especially now--to accede to the father's wishes. Does not the woman you love deserve that, for once at least, you sacrifice your ambition! OLDENDORF. My ambition, yes; my duty, no. ADELAIDE. Your own happiness, Professor, seems to me to be ruined for a long time, possibly forever, if you part from Ida in this way. OLDENDORF (_gloomily_). Not every one can be happy in his private life. ADELAIDE. This resignation does not please me at all, least of all in a man. Pardon me for saying so, plainly. (_Ingratiatingly_.) Is the misfortune so great if you become member for this town a few years later, or even not at all? OLDENDORF. Miss Runeck, I am not conceited. I do not rate my abilities very high, and, as far as I know myself, there is no ambitious impulse lurking at the bottom of my heart. Possibly, as you do now, so a later age will set a low estimate on our political wrangling, our party aims, and all that that includes. Possibly all our labor will be without result; possibly much of the good we hope to do will, when achieved, turn out to be the opposite--yes, it is highly probable that my own share in the struggle will often be painful, unedifying, and not at all what you would call a grateful task; but all that must not keep me from devoting my life to the strife and struggle of the age to which I belong. That struggle, after all, is the best and noblest that the present has to offer. Not every age permits its sons to achieve results which remain great for all time; and, I repeat, not every age can make those who live in it distinguished and happy. ADELAIDE. I think every age can accomplish that if the individuals will only understand how to be great and happy. [_Rising_.] You, Professor, will do nothing for your own little home-happiness. You force your friends to act for you. [Illustration: Permission F. Bruckmann, A.-G. Munich IN THE BEERGARDEN Adolph von Menzel] OLDENDORF. At all events cherish as little anger against me as possible, and speak a good word for me to Ida. ADELAIDE. I shall set my woman's wits to aiding you, Mr. Statesman. [_Exit_ OLDENDORF.] ADELAIDE (_alone_). So this is one of the noble, scholarly, free spirits of the German nation! And he climbs into the fire from a sheer sense of duty! But to conquer anything--the world, happiness, or even a wife--for that he never was made! _Enter_ CARL. CARL (_announcing_). Dr. Bolz! ADELAIDE. Ah! He at least will be no such paragon of virtue!--Where is the Colonel? CARL. In Miss Ida's room. ADELAIDE. Show the gentleman in here. [_Exit_ CARL.] I feel somewhat embarrassed at seeing you again, Mr. Bolz; I shall take pains to conceal it. _Enter_ BOLZ. BOLZ. A poor soul has just left you, vainly seeking consolation in your philosophy. I too come as an unfortunate, for yesterday I incurred your displeasure; and but for your presence, which cut short a vexatious scene, Mr. von Senden, in the interests of social propriety, would doubtless have pitched into me still harder. I thank you for the reminder you gave me; I take it as a sign that you will not withdraw your friendly interest in me. ADELAIDE (_aside_). Very pretty, very diplomatic!--It is kind of you to put so good a construction on my astonishing behavior. But pardon me if I presume to interfere again; that scene with Mr. von Senden will not, I trust, give provocation for a second one? BOLZ (_aside_). This eternal Senden! (_Aloud_.) Your interest in him furnishes me grounds for avoiding further consequences. I think I can manage it. ADELAIDE. I thank you. And now let me tell you that you are a dangerous diplomatist. You have inflicted a thorough defeat on this household. On this unfortunate day but one thing has pleased me--the one vote which sought to make you member of Parliament. BOLZ. It was a crazy idea of the honest wine-merchant. ADELAIDE. You took so much trouble to put your friend in, why did you not work for yourself? The young man I used to know had lofty aims, and nothing seemed beyond the range of his soaring ambition. Have you changed, or is the fire still burning? BOLZ (_smiling_). I have become a journalist, Miss Adelaide. ADELAIDE. Your friend is one, too. BOLZ. Only as a side issue. But I belong to the guild. He who has joined it may have the ambition to write wittily or well. All that goes beyond that is not for us. ADELAIDE. Not for you? BOLZ. For that we are too flighty, too restless and scatter-brained. ADELAIDE. Are you in earnest about that, Conrad? BOLZ. Perfectly in earnest. Why should I wish to seem to you different from what I am? We journalists feed our minds on the daily news; we must taste the dishes Satan cooks for men down to the smallest morsel; so you really should make allowances for us. The daily vexation over failure and wrong doing, the perpetual little excitements over all sorts of things--that has an effect upon a man. At first one clenches one's fist, then one learns to laugh at it. If you work only for the day you come to live for the day. ADELAIDE (_perturbed_). But that is sad, I think. BOLZ. On the contrary, it is quite amusing. We buzz like bees, in spirit we fly through the whole world, suck honey when we find it, and sting when something displeases us. Such a life is not apt to make great heroes, but queer dicks like us are also needed. ADELAIDE (_aside_). Now he too is at it, and he is even worse than the other one. BOLZ. We won't waste sentiment on that account. I scribble away so long as it goes. When it no longer goes, others take my place and do the same. When Conrad Bolz, the grain of wheat, has been crushed in the great mill, other grains fall on the stones until the flour is ready from which the future, possibly, will bake good bread for the benefit of the many. ADELAIDE. No, no, that is morbidness; such resignation is wrong. BOLZ. Such resignation will eventually be found in every profession. It is not your lot. To you is due a different kind of happiness, and you will find it. (_Feelingly_.) Adelaide, as a boy I wrote you tender verses and lulled myself in foolish dreams. I was very fond of you, and the wound our separation inflicted still smarts at times. [ADELAIDE _makes a deprecatory gesture_.] Don't be alarmed, I am not going to pain you. I long begrudged my fate, and had moments when I felt like an outcast. But now when you stand there before me in full radiancy, so lovely, so desirable, when my feeling for you is as warm as ever, I must say to you all the same: Your father, it is true, treated me roughly; but that he separated us, that he prevented you, the rich heiress, who could claim anything, with your own exclusive circle of friends, from throwing herself away on a wild boy who had always shown more presumption than power--that was really very sensible, and he acted quite rightly in the matter. ADELAIDE (_in her agitation seizing his hands_). Thank you, Conrad, thank you for speaking so of my dead father! Yes, you are good, you have a heart. It makes me very happy that you should have shown it to me. BOLZ. It is only a tiny little pocket-heart for private use. It was quite against my will that it happened to make its appearance. ADELAIDE. And now enough of us two! Here in this house our help is needed. You have won, have completely prevailed against us. I submit, and acknowledge you my master. But now show mercy and let us join forces. In this conflict of you men a rude blow has been struck at the heart of a girl whom I love. I should like to make that good again and I want you to help me. BOLZ. I am at your command. ADELAIDE. The Colonel must be reconciled. Think up some way of healing his injured self-esteem. BOLZ. I have thought it over and have taken some steps. Unfortunately, all I can do is to make him feel that his anger at Oldendorf is folly. This soft conciliatory impulse you alone can inspire. ADELAIDE. Then we women must try our luck. BOLZ. Meanwhile I will hurry and do what little I can. ADELAIDE. Farewell, Mr. Editor. And think not only of the progress of the great world, but also occasionally of one friend, who suffers from the base egotism of wishing to be happy on her own account. BOLZ. You have always found your happiness in looking after the happiness of others. With that kind of egotism there is no difficulty in being happy. [_Exit_.] ADELAIDE (_alone_). He still loves me! He is a man with feeling and generosity. But he, too, is resigned. They are all _ill_--these men! They have no courage! From pure learning and introspection they have lost all confidence in themselves. This Conrad! Why doesn't he say to me: "Adelaide, I want you to be my wife?" He can be brazen enough when he wants to! God forbid! He philosophizes about my kind of happiness and his kind of happiness! It was all very fine, but sheer nonsense.--My young country-squires are quite different. They have no great burden of wisdom and have more whims and prejudices than they ought to; but they do their hating and loving thoroughly and boldly, and never forget their own advantage. They are the better for it! Praised be the country, the fresh air, and my broad acres! [_Pause; with decision_.] The _Union_ is to be sold! Conrad must come to the country to get rid of his crotchets! [_Sits down and writes; rings; enter_ CARL.] Take this note to Judge Schwarz; I want him kindly to come to me on urgent business. [_Exit_ CARL.] _Enter_ IDA _through the side door on the left_. IDA. I am too restless to keep still! Let me cry here to my heart's content! [_Weeps on_ ADELAIDE'S _neck_.] ADELAIDE (_tenderly_). Poor child! The bad men have been very cruel to you. It's all right for you to grieve, darling, but don't be so still and resigned! IDA. I have but the one thought: he is lost to me--lost forever! ADELAIDE. You are a dear good girl. But be reassured! You haven't lost him at all. On the contrary, we'll see to it that you get him back better than ever. With blushing cheeks and bright eyes he shall reappear to you, the noble man, your chosen demigod--and your pardon the demigod shall ask for having caused you pain!-- IDA (_looking up at her_). What are you telling me? ADELAIDE. Listen! This night I read in the stars that you were to become Mrs. Member-of-Parliament. A big star fell from heaven, and on it was written in legible letters: "Beyond peradventure she shall have him!" The fulfilment has attached to it but one condition. IDA. What condition? Tell me! ADELAIDE. I recently told you of a certain lady and an unknown gentleman. You remember? IDA. I have thought of it incessantly. ADELAIDE. Good! On the same day on which this lady finds her knight again shall you also be reconciled with your professor--not sooner, not later. Thus it is written. IDA. I am so glad to believe you. And when will the day come? ADELAIDE. Yes, dear, I do not know that exactly. But I will confide in you, since we girls are alone, that the said lady is heartily tired of the long hoping and waiting and will, I fear, do something desperate. IDA (_embracing her_). If only she will hurry up! ADELAIDE (_holding her_). Hush! Some man might hear us! [_Enter_ KORB.] What is it, old friend? KORB. Miss Adelaide, out there is Mr. Bellmaus, the friend-- ADELAIDE. Very well, and he wishes to speak to me? KORB. Yes. I myself advised him to come to you; he has something to tell you. ADELAIDE. Bring him in here! [_Exit_ KORB.] IDA. Let me go away; my eyes are red with weeping. ADELAIDE. Well go, dear. In a few minutes I will rejoin you. (_Exit_ IDA.) He too! The whole _Union_--one after the other! _Enter_ BEULMAUS. BELLMAUS (_shyly, bowing repeatedly_). You permit me, Miss Runeck! ADELAIDE (_kindly_). I am glad to receive your visit, and am curious about the interesting disclosures you have to make to me. BELLMAUS. There is no one to whom I would rather confide what I have heard, Miss Runeck, than to you. Having learned from Mr. Korb that you are a subscriber to our newspaper I feel sure-- ADELAIDE. That I deserve, too, to be a friend of the editors. Thank you for the good opinion. BELLMAUS. There is this man Schmock! He is a poor fellow who has been little in good society and was until now on the staff of the _Coriolanus_. ADELAIDE. I remember having seen him. BELLMAUS. At Bolz's request I gave him a few glasses of punch. He thereupon grew jolly and told me of a great plot that Senden and the editor of the _Coriolanus_ have hatched between them. These two gentlemen, so he assures me, had planned to discredit Professor Oldendorf in the Colonel's eyes and so drove the Colonel into writing articles for the _Coriolanus_. ADELAIDE. But is the young man who made you these revelations at all trustworthy? BELLMAUS. He can't stand much punch, and after three glasses he told me all this of his own accord. In general I don't consider him very reputable. I should call him a good fellow, but reputable--no, he's not quite that. ADELAIDE (_indifferently_.) Do you suppose this gentleman who drank the three glasses of punch would be willing to repeat his disclosures before other persons? BELLMAUS. He said he would, and spoke of proofs too. ADELAIDE (_aside_). Aha! (_Aloud_.) I fear the proofs won't amount to much. And you have not spoken of it to the professor or Mr. Bolz? BELLMAUS. Our professor is very much occupied these days, and Bolz is the jolliest man in the world; but his relations with Mr. von Senden being already strained I thought-- ADELAIDE (_quickly_). And you were quite right, dear Mr. Bellmaus. So in other regards you are content with Mr. Bolz? BELLMAUS. He is a sociable, excellent man, and I am on very good terms with him. All of us are on very good terms with him. ADELAIDE. I am glad to hear it. BELLMAUS. He sometimes goes a little too far, but he has the best heart in the world. ADELAIDE (_aside_). "Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings" ye shall hear the truth! BELLMAUS. His nature, you know, is a purely prosaic one; for poetry he has not the least comprehension. ADELAIDE. Do you think so? BELLMAUS. Yes, he often bursts forth on the subject. ADELAIDE (_rising_). I thank you for your communication even if I cannot attach weight to it, and I am glad to have met in you one of the editorial staff. Journalists, I find, are dangerous people, and it is just as well to secure their good will; although I, as an unimportant person, will try never to furnish matter for a newspaper article. [_As_ BELLMAUS _lingers._] Can I do anything more for you? BELLMAUS (_with warmth_). Yes, Miss Runeck, if you would be so good as to accept this copy of my poems. They are poems of youth, to be sure, my first attempts, but I count on your friendly indulgence. [_Draws a gilt-edged book from his pocket, and hands it to her._] ADELAIDE. I thank you heartily, Mr. Bellmaus. Never before has a poet presented me with his works. I shall read the beautiful book through in the country, and, under my trees, shall rejoice that I have friends in town who spare a thought for me too, when they represent beauty for other people. BELLMAUS (_fervently_). Rest assured, Miss Runeck, that no poet will forget you, who has once had the good fortune to make your acquaintance. [_Exit with a deep bow._] ADELAIDE. This Mr. Schmock with the three glasses of punch is well worth cultivating, I should say. Scarcely have I arrived in town when my room turns into a regular business office, where editors and authors ply their trade. I fear that is an omen. [_Exit to the left._] _It grows dark. The_ COLONEL _enters from the garden._ COLONEL (_slowly coming forward_). I am glad that all is over between us. [_Stamping his foot._] I am very glad! [_In a depressed tone._] I feel free and more relieved than for a long time. I think I could actually sing! At this moment I am the subject of conversation over all tea-cups, on all beer-benches. Everywhere arguing and laughter: It serves him right, the old fool! Damn! [_Enter_ CARL, _with lights and the newspaper_.] Who told you to bring the lamp? CARL. Colonel, it is your hour for reading the newspaper. Here it is. [_Lays it on the table_.] COLONEL. A low rabble, these gentlemen of the pen! Cowardly, malicious, insidious in their anonymity. How this band will triumph now, and over me! How they will laud their editor to the skies! There lies the contemptible sheet! In it stands my defeat, trumpeted forth with full cheeks, with scornful shrugs of the shoulders--away with it! [_Walks up and down, looks at the newspaper on the ground, picking it up_.] All the same I will drink out the dregs! [_Seats himself.]_ Here, right in the beginning! [_Reading_.] "Professor Oldendorf--majority of two votes. This journal is bound to rejoice over the result."--I don't doubt it!--"But no less a matter for rejoicing was the electoral contest which preceded it."--Naturally--"It has probably never before been the case that, as here, two men stood against each other who were so closely united by years of friendship, both so distinguished by the good will of their fellow-citizens. It was a knightly combat between two friends, full of generosity, without malice, without jealousy; yes doubtless, deep down in his heart, each harbored the hope that his friend and opponent and not himself would be the victor"--[_Lays down the paper; wipes his brow_.] What sort of language is that? [_Reads_.] "and aside from some special party views, never did a man have greater claims to victory than our honored opponent. What he, through his upright, noble personality stands for among his wide circle of friends and acquaintances, this is not the place to dwell upon. But the way in which, by his active participation in all public spirited enterprises of the town, he has given aid and counsel, is universally known and will be realized by our fellow-citizens, especially today, with heartfelt gratitude." [_Lays the paper aside_.] That is a vile style! [_Reads on_.] "By a very small majority of votes our town has decreed to uphold the younger friend's political views in Parliament. But by all parties today--so it is reported--addresses and deputations are being prepared, not to extol the victor in the electoral contest, but to express to his opponent the general reverence and respect of which never a man was more worthy than he."--That is open assassination! That is a fearful indiscretion of Oldendorf's, that is the revenge of a journalist, so fine and pointed! Oh, it is just like him! No, it is not like him! It is revolting, it is inhuman! What am I to do! Deputations and addresses to me? To Oldendorf's friend? Bah, it is all mere gossip, newspaper-babble that costs nothing but a few fine words! The town knows nothing of these sentiments. It is blackguardism! _Enter_ CARL. CARL. Letters from the local mail. [_Lays them on the table._] [_Exit_.] COLONEL. There is something up, here, too. I dread to open them. [_Breaks open the first one_.] What the devil! A poem?--and to me? "To our noble opponent, the best man in town."--Signed? What is the signature? "B--aus!" B--aus? I don't know it, it must be a pseudonym! [_Reads_.] It seems to be exceedingly good poetry!--And what have we here? [_Opens the second letter_.] "To the benefactor of the poor, the father of orphans." An address!--[_Reads_.] "Veneration and kindliness."--Signature: "Many women and girls." The seal a P.P.--Good God, what does it all mean? Have I gone mad? If these are really voices from the town, and if that is the way people look on this day, then I must confess men think better of me than I do of myself! _Enter_ CARL. CARL. A number of gentlemen wish to speak to you, Colonel. COLONEL. What sort of gentlemen! CARL. They say: A deputation from the voters. COLONEL. Show them in. This confounded newspaper was right, after all. _Enter_ PIEPENBRINK, KLEINMICHEL _and three other gentlemen. They bow, the_ COLONEL _likewise_. PIEPENBRINK (_solemnly_). My Colonel: A number of voters have sent us as a deputation to you to inform you on this special day that the whole town considers you a most respectable and worthy man. COLONEL (_stiffly_). I am obliged for the good opinion. PIEPENBRINK. You have no reason to feel obliged. It is the truth. You are a man of honor through and through, and it gives us pleasure to tell you so; you cannot object to hearing this from your fellow-citizens. COLONEL. I always did consider myself a man of honor, gentlemen. PIEPENBRINK. There you were quite right. And you have proved your good principles, too. On every occasion. In cases of poverty, of famine, of caring for orphans, also at our shooting-club meeting--always when we citizens enjoyed or needed a benevolent good man, you were among the first. Always simple and loyal without arrogance or supercilious manners. That's the reason why we universally love and honor you. (_Colonel wipes his eyes_.) Today many of us gave their votes to the professor. Some on account of politics, some because they know that he is your close friend and possibly even your future son-in-law. COLONEL (_not harshly_). Sir-- PIEPENBRINK. Nor did I myself vote for you. COLONEL (_somewhat more excitedly_). Sir-- PIEPENBRINK. But for that very reason I come to you with the rest, and that is why we tell you what the citizens think of you. And we hope that for long years to come you will preserve to us your manly principles and friendly heart as an honored, most respected gentleman and fellow-citizen. COLONEL (_without harshness_). Why do you not say that to the professor, to the man that you have chosen? PIEPENBRINK. He shall first deserve it in Parliament before the town thanks him. But you _have_ deserved it of us, and therefore we come to you. COLONEL (_heartily_). I thank you, sir, for your kind words. They are very comforting to me just now. May I ask your name? PIEPENBRINK. My name is Piepenbrink. COLONEL (_morely coldly, but not impolitely_). Ah, indeed, that is your name! (_With dignity._) I thank you, gentlemen, for the friendly sentiment you have expressed, whether it be that you render the true opinion of the town, or speak according to the desire of individuals. I thank you, and shall go on doing what I think is right. [_Bows, so does the deputation; exit latter_.] This, then, is that Piepenbrink, the close friend of his friend! But the man's words were sensible and his whole demeanor honorable; it cannot possibly be all rascality. Who knows! They are clever intriguers; send into my house newspaper articles, letters, and these good-natured people, to make me soft-hearted; act in public as my friends, to make me confide again in their falseness! Yes, that is it. It is a preconcerted plan! They will find they have miscalculated! _Enter_ CARL. CARL. Dr. Bolz! COLONEL. I am at home to no one any longer! CARL. So I told the gentleman; but he insisted on speaking to you, saying that he came in on an affair of honor. COLONEL. What? But Oldendorf won't be so insane--show him in here! _Enter_ BOLZ. BOLZ (_with dignity_). Colonel, I come to make you an announcement which the honor of a third person necessitates. COLONEL. I am prepared for it, and beg you not to prolong it unduly. BOLZ. No more than is requisite. The article in this evening's _Union_ which deals with your personality was written by me and inserted by me in the paper without Oldendorf's knowledge. COLONEL. It can interest me little to know who wrote the article. BOLZ (_courteously_). But I consider it important to tell you that it is not by Oldendorf and that Oldendorf knew nothing about it. My friend was so taken up these last weeks with his own sad and painful experiences that he left the management of the paper entirely to me. For all that has lately appeared in it I alone am responsible. COLONEL. And why do you impart this information? BOLZ. You have sufficient penetration to realize, Colonel, that, after the scene which took place today between you and my friend, Oldendorf as a man of honor could neither write such an article nor allow it to appear in his paper. COLONEL. How so, sir? In the article itself I saw nothing unsuitable. BOLZ. The article exposes my friend in your eyes to the suspicion of having tried to regain your good-will by unworthy flattery. Nothing is further from his thoughts than such a method. You, Colonel, are too honorable a man yourself to consider a mean action natural to your friend. COLONEL. You are right. (_Aside_.) This defiance is unbearable! (_Aloud_.) Is your explanation at an end? BOLZ. It is. I must add still another: that I myself regret very much having written this article. COLONEL. I imagine I do not wrong you in assuming that you have already written others that were still more to be regretted. BOLZ (_continuing_). I had the article printed before hearing of your last interview with Oldendorf. (_Very courteously_.) My reason for regretting it is, that it is not quite true. I was too hasty in describing your personality to the public. Today, at least, it is no longer a true portrait; it is flattering. COLONEL (_bursting out_). Well, by the devil, that is rude! BOLZ. Your pardon--it is only true. I wish to convince you that a journalist can regret having written falsehoods. COLONEL. Sir! (_Aside_.) I must restrain myself, or he will always get the better of me.--Dr. Bolz, I see that you are a clever man and know your trade. Since, in addition, you seem inclined today to speak only the truth, I must beg you to tell me further if you, too, organized the demonstrations which purport to represent to me public sentiment. BOLZ (_bowing_). I have, as a matter of fact, not been inactive in the matter. COLONEL (_holding out the letter to him, angrily_). Did you prompt these, too? BOLZ. In part, Colonel. This poem is the heart-outpouring of an honest youth who reveres in you the paternal friend of Oldendorf and the ideal of a chivalrous hero. I inspired him with the courage to send you the poem. It was well-meant, at any rate. The poet will have to seek another ideal. The address comes from women and girls who constitute the Association for the Education of Orphans. The Association includes among its members Miss Ida Berg. I myself composed this address for the ladies; it was written down by the daughter of the wine-merchant Piepenbrink. COLONEL. That was just about my opinion concerning these letters. It is needless to ask if you too are the contriver who sent me the citizens? BOLZ. At all events I did not discourage them. [_From without a male chorus of many voices_.] Hail! Hail! Hail! Within the precincts of our town, Blessed by each burgher's son, There dwells a knight of high renown, A noble, faithful one. Who doth in need for aid apply To this brave knight sends word; For love is his bright panoply And mercy is his sword. We laud him now in poem and song Protector of the lowly throng. The Colonel, the Colonel, The noble Colonel Berg! COLONEL (_rings after the first measure of the song_. CARL _enters_). You are to let no one in if you wish to remain in my service. CARL. Colonel, they are already in the garden, a great company of them. It is the glee club; the leaders are already at the steps. BOLZ (_who has opened the window_). Very well sung, Colonel--from _La Juive_--he is the best tenor in town and the accompaniment is exceedingly original. COLONEL (_aside_). It is enough to drive one mad. [_Aloud_.] Show the gentlemen in! _Exit_ CARL. _At the end of the verse enter_ FRITZ KLEINMICHEL _and two other gentlemen_. FRITZ KLEINMICHEL. Colonel, the local glee club asks to be allowed to sing you some songs--kindly listen to the little serenade as a feeble expression of the general veneration and love. COLONEL. Gentlemen, I regret exceedingly that a case of illness in my family makes it desirable for me to have you curtail your artistic performance. I thank you for your intentions, and beg you will sing to Professor Oldendorf the songs you had designed for me. FRITZ KLEINMICHEL. We considered it our duty first to greet you before visiting your friend. In order not to disturb invalids, we will, with your permission, place ourselves further away from the house, in the garden. COLONEL. Do as you please. [FRITZ KLEINMICHEL _and the two others leave_.] Is this act, too, an invention of yours? BOLZ (_with a bow_). Partially at least. But you are too kind, Colonel, if you look upon me as the sole originator of all these demonstrations. My share in it is really a small one. I have done nothing but edit public opinion a little; all these different people are not dolls, which a skilful puppet-man can move around by pulling wires. These are all voices of capable and honorable persons, and what they have said to you is actually the general opinion of the town--that is to say, the conviction of the better and more sensible elements in the town. Were that not the case I should have labored quite in vain with these good people to bring a single one of them into your house. COLONEL. He is right again, and I am always in the wrong! BOLZ (_very courteously_). Permit me to explain further, that I consider these tender expressions of general regard out of place now, and that I deeply regret my share in them. Today at least, no friend of Oldendorf has any occasion to praise your chivalrous sentiments or your self-effacement. COLONEL (_going toward him_). Doctor Bolz, you use the privilege of your profession to speak recklessly, and are insulting outsiders in a way that exhausts my patience. You are in my house, and it is a customary social amenity to respect the domicile of one's opponent. BOLZ (_leaning on a chair, good-naturedly_). If you mean by that that you have a right to expel from your house unwelcome guests you did not need to remind me of it, for this very day you shut your doors on another whose love for you gave him a better right to be here than I have. COLONEL. Sir, such brazen-facedness I have never yet experienced. BOLZ (_with a bow_). I am a journalist, and claim what you have just called the privilege of my profession. [_Grand march by brass band. Enter_ CARL _quickly_.] COLONEL (_going toward him_). Shut the garden gate; no one is to come in. [_The music stops_.] BOLZ (_at the window_). You are locking your friends out; this time I am innocent. CARL. Ah, Colonel, it is too late. The singers are back there in the garden, and in front a great procession is approaching the house; it is Mr. von Senden and the entire club. [_Goes to rear of stage_.] COLONEL (_to_ BOLZ). Sir, I wish the conversation between us to end. BOLZ (_speaking back at him from the window_). In your position, Colonel, I find the desire very natural. [_Looking out again_.] A brilliant procession! They all carry paper lanterns, and on the lanterns are inscriptions! Besides the ordinary club mottoes, I see others. Why isn't Bellmaus ever looking when he might be helping the newspaper! [_Taking out a note book_.] We'll quickly note those inscriptions for our columns. [_Over his shoulder_.] Pardon me! Oh, that is truly remarkable: "Down with our enemies!" And here a blackish lantern with white letters--"Death to the _Union_!" Holy thunder! [_Calls out of the window_.] Good evening, gentlemen! COLONEL (_going up to him_). Sir, you're in league with the devil! BOLZ (_turning quickly around_). Very kind of you, Colonel, to show yourself at the window with me. [COLONEL _retreats_.] SENDEN (_from below_). Whose voice is that! BOLZ. Good evening, Mr. von Senden!--The gentleman with the dark lantern and white inscription would oblige us greatly by kindly lifting it up to the Colonel. Blow your light out, man, and hand me the lantern. So, thank you--man with the witty motto! [_Pulling in the stick and lantern_.] Here, Colonel, is the document of the brotherly love your friends cherish toward us. [_Tears the lantern from the stick_.] The lantern for you, the stick for the lantern-bearer! [_Throws the stick out of the window_.] I have the honor to bid you good day! [_Turns to go, meets_ ADELAIDE.] _Male chorus, close at hand again: "Within the precincts of our town;" trumpets join in; then many voices: "Long live_ COLONEL BERG! _Hurrah!_" ADELAIDE _has entered on the left, during the noise_. ADELAIDE. Well, is the whole town upside-down today? BOLZ. I've done my share; he is half converted. Good night! COLONEL (_throwing the lantern on the ground--in a rage_). To the devil with all journalists! _Male chorus_, SENDEN, BLUMENBERG _and many other gentlemen, in procession, are visible through the door into the garden; the deputation comes in; chorus and lantern-bearers form a group at the entrance_. SENDEN (_with a loud voice while the curtain is lowered_). Colonel, the Club has the honor of greeting its revered members! ACT IV SCENE I _The_ COLONEL'S _summer parlor_. COLONEL _enters from the garden, followed by_ CARL. COLONEL (_on entering, crossly_). Who ordered William to bring the horse round in front of the bedrooms? The brute makes a noise with his hoofs that would wake the dead. CARL. Are you not going to ride today, Colonel? COLONEL. No. Take the horse to the stable! CARL. Yes, Colonel. [_Exit_.] COLONEL (_rings_, CARL _reappears at the door_). Is Miss Runeck at home? CARL. She is in her room; the judge has been with her an hour already. COLONEL. What? Early in the morning? CARL. Here she is herself. [_Exit as soon as_ ADELAIDE _enters_.] _Enter_ ADELAIDE _and_ KORB _through the door on the right_. ADELAIDE (_to_ KORB). You had better remain near the garden gate, and when the said young man comes bring him to us. [_Exit_ KORB.] Good-morning, Colonel. [_Going up to him and examining him gaily_.] How is the weather today? COLONEL. Gray, girl, gray and stormy. Vexation and grief are buzzing round in my head until it is fit to burst. How is the child? ADELAIDE. Better. She was wise enough to fall asleep toward morning. Now she is sad, but calm. COLONEL. This very calmness annoys me. If she would only once shriek and tear her hair a bit! It would be horrible, but there would be something natural about it. It is this smiling and then turning away to dry secret tears that makes me lose my composure. It is unnatural in my child. ADELAIDE. Possibly she knows her father's kind heart better than he does himself; possibly she still has hopes. COLONEL. Of what? Of a reconciliation with him? After what has happened a reconciliation between Oldendorf and myself is out of the question. ADELAIDE (_aside_). I wonder if he wants me to contradict him! _Enter_ KORB. KORB (_to_ ADELAIDE). The gentleman has come. ADELAIDE. I will ring. [_Exit_ KORB.] Help me out of a little dilemma. I have to speak with a strange young man who seems in need of help, and I should like to have you stay near me.--May I leave this door open? [_Points to the door on the left_.] COLONEL. That means, I suppose, in plain English, that I am to go in there? ADELAIDE. I beg it of you--just for five minutes. COLONEL. Very well--if only I don't have to listen. ADELAIDE. I do not require it; but you will listen all the same if the conversation happens to interest you. COLONEL (_smiling_). In that case I shall come out. [_Exit to the left_; ADELAIDE _rings_.] _Enter_ SCHMOCK. KORB _also appears at the entrance, but quickly withdraws_. SCHMOCK (_with a bow_). I wish you a good-morning. Are you the lady who sent me her secretary? ADELAIDE. Yes. You said you wished to speak to me personally. SCHMOCK. Why should the secretary know about it if I want to tell you something? Here are the notes that Senden wrote and that I found in the paper-basket of the _Coriolanus_. Look them over, and see if they will be of use to the Colonel. What can I do with them? There's nothing to be done with them. ADELAIDE (_looking through them, reading, in an aside_). "Here I send you the wretched specimens of style, etc." Incautious and very low-minded! [_Lays them on the table. Aloud_.] At any rate these unimportant notes are better off in my paper-basket than in any one else's. And what, sir, induces you to confide in me? [Illustration: _Permission Union Deutsch um Vellagssesellsckaft Stuttgart_. LUNCH BUFFET AT KISSENGEN ADOLPH VON MENZEL. ] SCHMOCK. I suppose because Bellmaus told me you were a clever person who would choose a good way of telling the Colonel to be on his guard against Senden and against my editor; and the Colonel is a kind man; the other day he ordered a glass of sweet wine and a salmon sandwich as a lunch for me. COLONEL (_visible at the door, clasping his hands sympathetically_). Merciful heavens! SCHMOCK. Why should I let him be duped by these people! ADELAIDE. Since you did not dislike the lunch, we will see that you get another one. SCHMOCK. Oh please, don't trouble yourself on my account. ADELAIDE. Can we help you with anything else? SCHMOCK. What should you be able to help me with? [_Examining his boots and clothes_.] I have everything in order now. My trouble is only that I have got into the wrong occupation. I must try to get out of literature. ADELAIDE (_sympathetically_.) It is very hard, I suppose, to feel at home in literature? SCHMOCK. That depends. My editor is an unfair man. He cuts out too much and pays too little. "Attend to your style first of all," says he; "a good style is the chief thing." "Write impressively, Schmock," says he; "write profoundly; it is required of a newspaper today that it be profound." Good! I write profoundly, I make my style logical! But when I bring him what I have done he hurls it away from him and shrieks: "What is that? That is heavy, that is pedantic!" says he. "You must write dashingly; it's brilliant you must be, Schmock. It is now the fashion to make everything pleasant for the reader." What am I to do? I write dashingly again; I put a great deal of brilliant stuff in the article; and when I bring it he takes his red pencil and strikes out all that is commonplace and leaves me only the brilliant stuff remaining. COLONEL. Are such things possible? SCHMOCK. How can I exist under such treatment? How can I write him only brilliant stuff at less than a penny a line. I can't exist under it! And that is why I'm going to try to get out of the business. If only I could earn twenty-five to thirty dollars, I would never in my life write again for a newspaper; I would then set up for myself in business--a little business that could support me. ADELAIDE. Wait a moment! [_Looks into her purse_.] COLONEL (_hastily coming forward_). Leave that to me, dear Adelaide. The young man wants to cease being a journalist. That appeals to me. Here, here is money such as you desire if you will promise me from this day on not to touch a pen again for a newspaper. Here, take it. SCHMOCK. A Prussian bank note--twenty-five thalers in currency? On my honor, I promise you, on my honor and salvation, I go this very day to a cousin of mine who has a paying business. Would you like an I.O.U., Colonel, or shall I make out a long-term promissory note? COLONEL. Get out with your promissory note! SCHMOCK. Then I will write out a regular I.O.U. I prefer it to be only an I.O.U. COLONEL (_impatiently_). I don't want your I.O.U. either. Sir, for God's sake get out of the house! SCHMOCK. And how about the interest? If I can have it at five per cent. I should like it. ADELAIDE. The gentleman makes you a present of the money. SCHMOCK. He makes me a present of the money? It's a miracle! I tell you what, Colonel, if I don't succeed with the money it remains a gift, but if I work my way up with it I return it. I hope I will work my way up. COLONEL. Do just as you like about that. SCHMOCK. I like to have it that way, Colonel.--Meanwhile I thank you, and may some other joy come to make it up to you. Good day, Sir and Madam. ADELAIDE. We must not forget the lunch. [_Rings,_ KORB _enters_.] Dear Korb! [_Talks in a low tone to him_.] SCHMOCK. O please, do not go to that trouble! [_Exeunt_ SCHMOCK _and_ KORB.] COLONEL. And now, dear lady, explain this whole conversation; it concerns me intimately enough. ADELAIDE. Senden spoke tactlessly to outsiders about his relations with you and your household. This young man had overheard some of it, and also had notes written by Senden in his possession, which contained unsuitable expressions. I thought it best to get these notes out of his hands. COLONEL. I want you to let me have those letters, Adelaide. ADELAIDE (_entreating_). Why, Colonel? COLONEL. I won't get angry, girl. ADELAIDE. Nor is it worth while to do so. But still I beg you won't look at them. You know enough now, for you know that he, with his associates, does not merit such great confidence as you have latterly reposed in him. COLONEL (_sadly_). Well, well! In my old days I have had bad luck with my acquaintances. ADELAIDE. If you put Oldendorf and this one (_pointing to the letters_) in the same class you are quite mistaken. COLONEL. I don't do that, girl. For Senden I had no such affection, and that's why it is easier to bear it when he does me an injury. ADELAIDE (_gently_). And because you loved the other one, that was the reason why yesterday you were so-- COLONEL. Say it, mentor--so harsh and violent! ADELAIDE. Worse than that, you were unjust. COLONEL. I said the same thing to myself last night, as I went to Ida's room and heard the poor thing cry. I was a hurt, angry man and was wrong in the form--but in the matter itself I was, all the same, right. Let him be member of Parliament; he may be better suited for it than I. It is his being a newspaper writer that separates us. ADELAIDE. But he is only doing what you did yourself! COLONEL. Don't remind me of that folly! Were he as my son-in-law to hold a different opinion from mine regarding current happenings--that I could doubtless stand. But if day by day he were to proclaim aloud to the world feelings and sentiments the opposite of mine, and I had to read them, and had to hear my son-in-law reproached and laughed at for them on all sides by old friends and comrades, and I had to swallow it all--you see that is more than I could bear! ADELAIDE. And Ida? Because you won't bear it Ida is to be made unhappy? COLONEL. My poor child! She has been unhappy throughout the whole affair. This half-hearted way of us men has long been a mistake. It is better to end it with one sharp pain. ADELAIDE (_seriously_). I cannot see that ending of it as yet. I shall only see it when Ida laughs once more as merrily as she used to do. COLONEL (_excitedly walking about, exclaiming_). Well then, I'll give him my child, and go and sit alone in a corner. I had other views for my old age, but God forbid that my beloved girl should be made unhappy by me. He is reliable and honorable, and will take good care of her. I shall move back to the little town I came from. ADELAIDE (_seizing his hand_). My revered friend, no--you shall not do that! Neither Oldendorf nor Ida would accept their happiness at such a price. But if Senden and his friends were secretly to take the paper away from the professor, what then? COLONEL (_joyfully_). Then he would no longer be a journalist! (_Uneasily_.) But I won't hear of such a thing. I am no friend of underhanded action. ADELAIDE. Nor am I! (_Heartily_.) Colonel, you have often shown a confidence in me that has made me happy and proud. Even today you let me speak more frankly than is usually permitted to a girl. Will you give me one more great proof of your regard? COLONEL (_pressing her hand_). Adelaide, we know how we stand with each other. Speak out! ADELAIDE. For one hour, today, be my faithful knight. Allow me to lead you wherever I please. COLONEL. What are you up to, child? ADELAIDE. Nothing wrong, nothing unworthy of you or of me. You shall not long be kept in the dark about it. COLONEL. If I must, I will surrender. But may I not know something of what I have to do? ADELAIDE. You are to accompany me on a visit, and at the same time keep in mind the things we have just talked over so sensibly. COLONEL. On a visit? _Enter_ KORB. ADELAIDE. On a visit I am making in my own interest. KORB (_to_ ADELAIDE). Mr. von Senden wishes to pay his respects. COLONEL. I don't wish to see him now. ADELAIDE. Be calm, Colonel! We have not time to be angry even with him. I shall have to see him for a few moments. COLONEL. Then I will go away. ADELAIDE (_entreating_). But you will accompany me directly? The carriage is waiting. COLONEL. I obey the command. [_Exit to the left_.] ADELAIDE. I have made a hasty decision; I have ventured on something that was doubtless too bold for a girl; for now that the crisis is at hand, I feel my courage leaving me. I had to do it for his sake and for all our sakes. (_To_ KORB.) Ask Miss Ida to get ready--the coachman will come straight back for her. Dear Korb, let your thoughts be with me. I am going on a weighty errand, old friend! [_Exit_ ADELAIDE.] KORB. (_alone_). Gracious, how her eyes shine! What is she tip to? She's not going to elope with the old Colonel, I hope! Well, whatever she is up to, she will carry it through. There is only one person who could ever be a match for her. Oh, Mr. Conrad, if only I could speak! [_EXIT_.] SCENE II _Editorial room of the Union. Enter_ BOLZ _through the door on the left, directly afterward_ MILLER. BOLZ (_at middle door_). In here with the table! MILLER (_carries small table, all set, with wine-bottles, glasses and plates, to the foreground on the left; brings up five chairs while he speaks_). Mr. Piepenbrink sends his regards, with the message that the wine is yellow-seal, and that, if the Doctor drinks any healths, he must not forget Mr. Piepenbrink's health. He was very jolly, the stout gentleman. And Madam Piepenbrink reminded him that he ought to subscribe for the _Union_. He commissioned me to see to it. BOLZ (_who meanwhile has been turning over papers at the work-table on the right, rising_). Let's have some wine! [MILLER _pours some in a glass_.] In honor of the worthy vintner! [_Drinks._] I treated him scandalously, but he has proved true-hearted. Tell him his health was not forgotten. There, take this bottle along!--Now, get out! [_Exit_ MILLER. BOLZ _opening the door on the left_.] Come, gentlemen, today I carry out my promise. [_Enter_ KÄMPE, BELLMAUS, KÖRNER.] This is the lunch I agreed to give. And now, my charming day-flies, put as much rose-color into your cheeks and your humors as your wits will let you. [_Pouring out_.] The great victory is won; the _Union_ has celebrated one of the noblest of triumphs; in ages still to come belated angels will say with awe: "Those were glorious days," and so on--see continuation in today's paper. Before we sit down, the first toast-- KÄMPE. The member-elect-- BOLZ. No, our first toast is to the mother of all, the great power which produces members--the newspaper, may she prosper! ALL. Hurrah! [_Clink glasses_.] BOLZ. Hurrah! And secondly, long live--hold on, the member himself is not here yet. KÄMPE. Here he comes. _Enter_ OLDENDORF. BOLZ. The member from our venerable town, editor-in-chief and professor, journalist, and good fellow, who is angry just now because behind his back this and that got into the paper--hurrah for him! ALL. Hurrah! OLDENDORF (_in a friendly tone_.) I thank you, gentlemen. BOLZ (_drawing_ OLDENDORF _to the front_). And you are no longer vexed with us? OLDENDORF. Your intention was good, but it was a great indiscretion. BOLZ. Forget all about it! (_Aloud_.) Here, take your glass and sit down with us. Don't be proud, young statesman! Today you are one of us. Well, here sits the editorial staff! Where is worthy Mr. Henning--where tarries our owner, printer and publisher, Gabriel Henning? KÄMPE. I met him a little while ago on the stairs. He crept by me as shyly as though he were some one who had been up to mischief. BOLZ. Probably he feels as Oldendorf does--he is again not pleased with the attitude of the paper. MILLER (_thrusting in his head_). The papers and the mail! BOLZ. Over there! [MILLER _enters, lays the papers on the work-table._] MILLER. Here is the _Coriolanus_. There is something in it about our paper. The errand-boy of the _Coriolanus_ grinned at me scornfully, and recommended me to look over the article. BOLZ. Give it here! Be quiet, Romans, _Coriolanus_ speaks.--All ye devils, what does that mean? [_Reads_.] "On the best of authority we have just been informed that a great change is imminent in the newspaper affairs of our province. Our opponent, the _Union_, will cease to direct her wild attacks against all that is high and holy."--This high and holy means Blumenberg.--"The ownership is said to have gone over into other hands, and there is a sure prospect that we shall be able from now on to greet as an ally this widely read sheet." How does that taste to you, gentlemen? MILLER} Thunder! KÄMPE.}_(All together_.) Nonsense! BELLMAUS.} It's a lie! OLDENDORF. It's another of Blumenberg's reckless inventions. BOLZ. There is something behind it all. Go and get me Gabriel Henning. [_Exit_ MILLER.] This owner has played the traitor; we have been poisoned. [_Springing up._] And this is the feast of the Borgia! Presently the _misericordia_ will enter and sing our dirge. Do me the favor at least to eat up the oysters before it be too late. OLDENDORF (_who has seized the newspaper_.) Evidently this news is only an uncertain rumor. Henning will tell us there is no truth in it. Stop seeing ghosts, and sit down with us. BOLZ (_seating himself_). I sit down, not because I put faith in your words, but because I don't wish to do injustice to the lunch. Get hold of Henning; he must give an account of himself. OLDENDORF. But, as you heard, he is not at home. BOLZ (_zealously eating_). Oh, thou wilt have a fearful awakening, little Orsini! Bellmaus, pour me out some wine. But if the story be not true, if this _Coriolanus_ have lied, by the purple in this glass be it sworn I will be his murderer! The grimmest revenge that ever an injured journalist took shall fall on his head; he shall bleed to death from pin-pricks; every poodle in the street shall look on him scornfully and say: "Fie, _Coriolanus_, I wouldn't take a bite at you even if you were a sausage." [_A knock is heard_. BOLZ _lays down his knife.] Memento mori_! There are our grave-diggers. The last oyster, now, and then farewell thou lovely world! _Enter_ JUDGE SCHWARZ _and_ SENDEN _from the door on the left; the door remains open_. SCHWARZ. Obedient servant, gentlemen! SENDEN. Your pardon if we disturb you. BOLZ (_remaining seated at the table_). Not in the least. This is our regular luncheon, contracted for a whole year--fifty oysters and two bottles daily for each member of the staff. Whoever buys the newspaper has to furnish it. SCHWARZ. What brings us here, Professor, is a communication which Mr. Henning should have been the first to make to you. He preferred handing over the task to me. OLDENDORF. I await your communication. SCHWARZ. Mr. Henning has, from yesterday on, transferred to me by sale all rights pertaining to him as owner of the newspaper _Union_. OLDENDORF. To you, Judge? SCHWARZ. I acknowledge that I have bought it merely as accredited agent of a third person. Here is the deed; it contains no secrets. [_Hands him a paper_.] OLDENDORF (_looking through it, to_ BOLZ). It is drawn up by a notary in due form--sold for thirty thousand thalers. [_Agitation among the staff-members_.] Let me get to the bottom of the matter. Is this change of owner also to be connected with a change in the political attitude of the sheet? SENDEN (_coming forward_). Certainly, Professor, that was the intention in making the purchase. OLDENDORF. Do I possibly see in you the new owner? SENDEN. Not that, but I have the honor to be a friend of his. You yourself, as well as these gentlemen, have a right to demand the fulfilment of your contracts. Your contracts provide, I understand, for six months' notice. It goes without saying that you continue to draw your salary until the expiration of this term. BOLZ (_rising_). You are very kind, Mr. von Senden. Our contracts empower us to edit the paper as we see fit, and to control its tone and its party affiliations. For the next half-year, therefore, we shall not only continue to draw our salaries but also to conduct the paper for the benefit of the party to which you have not the honor to belong. SENDEN (_angrily_). We'll find a way to prevent that! OLDENDORF. Calm yourself. That kind of work would scarcely be worthy of us. If such are the circumstances, I announce that I resign the editorship from today, and release you from all obligations to me. BOLZ. I don't mind. I make the same announcement. BELLMAUS. KÄMPE}(_together_). We too! KÖRNER} SENDEN (_to_ SCHWARZ). You can testify that the gentlemen voluntarily renounce their rights. BOLZ (_to the staff_). Hold on, gentlemen, don't be too generous. It is all right for you to take no further part in editing the paper if your friends withdraw. But why abandon your pecuniary claims on the new owner? BELLMAUS. I'd rather take nothing at all from them; I'll follow your example. BOLZ (_stroking him_). Noble sentiment, my son! We'll make our way in the world together. What do you think of a hand-organ, Bellmaus! We 'll take it to fairs and sing your songs through. I'll turn and you'll sing. OLDENDORF. Since the new owner of the paper is not one of you, you will, in concluding this transaction, find the question only natural--To whom have we ceded our rights? SENDEN. The present owner of the paper is-- _Enter_ COLONEL _through side door on the left_. OLDENDORF (_starting back in alarm_). Colonel! BOLZ. Ah, now it is becoming high tragedy! COLONEL. First of all, Professor, be assured that I have nothing to do with this whole affair, and merely come at the request of the purchaser. Not until I came here, did I know anything of what was going on. I hope you will take my word for that. BOLZ. Well, I find this game unseemly, and I insist on being told who this new owner is who mysteriously hides behind different persons! _Enter_ ADELAIDE _from the side door, left._ ADELAIDE. He stands before you! BOLZ. I should just like to faint. BELLMAUS. That is a heavenly joke! ADELAIDE (_bowing_). How do you do, gentlemen! [_To the staff_.] Am I right in assuming that these gentlemen have hitherto been connected with editing the paper? BELLMAUS (_eagerly_). Yes, Miss Runeck! Mr. Kämpe for leading articles, Mr. Körner for the French and English correspondence, and I for theatre, music, fine arts, and miscellaneous. ADELAIDE. I shall be much pleased if your principles will let you continue devoting your talents to my newspaper. [_The three members of the staff bow_.] BELLMAUS (_laying his hand on his heart_). Miss Runeck, under your editorship I'll go to the ends of the world! ADELAIDE (_smiling and politely_). Ah, no, merely into that room. [_Points to the door on the right_.] I need half an hour to collect my thoughts for my new activities. BELLMAUS (_while departing_). That's the best thing I ever heard! [BELLMAUS, KÄMPE, KÖRNER _leave_.] ADELAIDE. Professor, you resigned the management of the paper with a readiness which delights me. (_Pointedly_.) I wish to edit the _Union_ in my own fashion. [_Seizes his hand and leads him to the_ COLONEL.] Colonel, he is no longer editor; we have outwitted him; you have your satisfaction. COLONEL (_holding out his arms to him_). Come, Oldendorf! For what happened I have been sorry since the moment we parted. OLDENDORF. My honored friend! ADELAIDE (_pointing to the door on the left_). There is some one else in there who wants to take part in the reconciliation. It might be Mr. Gabriel Henning. IDA _appears at the side door_. IDA. Edward! [OLDENDORF _hurries to the door_, IDA _meets him, he embraces her. Both leave on the left. The_ COLONEL _follows_.] ADELAIDE (_sweetly_). Before asking you, Mr. von Senden, to interest yourself in the editing of the newspaper, I beg you to read through this correspondence which I received as a contribution to my columns. SENDEN (_takes a glance at them_). Miss Runeck, I don't know whose indiscretion-- ADELAIDE. Fear none on my part. I am a newspaper proprietor, and (_with, marked emphasis_) shall keep editorial secrets. [SENDEN _bows_.] May I ask for the deed, Judge? And will you gentlemen be kind enough to ease the mind of the vendor as to the outcome of the transaction? [_Mutual bows_. SENDEN _and_ SCHWARZ _leave_.] ADELAIDE (_after a short pause_). Now, Mr. Bolz, what am I going to do about you? BOLZ. I am prepared for anything. I am surprised at nothing any more. If some one should go straight off and spend a capital of a hundred millions in painting negroes white with oil-colors, or in making Africa four-cornered, I should not let it astonish me. If I wake up tomorrow as an owl with two tufts of feathers for ears and a mouse in my beak, I will say, "All right," and remember that worse things have happened. ADELAIDE. What is the matter with you, Conrad? Are you displeased with me? BOLZ. With you? You have been generous as ever; only too generous. And it would all have been fine, if only this whole scene had been impossible. That fellow Senden! ADELAIDE. We have seen the last of him! Conrad, I'm one of the party! BOLZ. Hallelujah! I hear countless angels blowing on their trumpets! I'll stay with the _Union_! ADELAIDE. About that I am no longer the one to decide. For I have still a confession to make to you. I, too, am not the real owner of the newspaper. BOLZ. You are not? Now, by all the gods, I am at my wit's end. I'm beginning not to care who this owner is. Be he man, will-of-the-wisp, or the devil Beelzebub in person, I bid him defiance. ADELAIDE. He is a kind of a will-of-the-wisp, a little something of a devil, and from top to toe a great rogue. For, Conrad, my friend, beloved of my youth, it is you yourself. [_Hands him the deed_.] BOLZ (_stupefied for a moment, reads_). "Ceded to Conrad Bolz"--correct! So that would be a sort of gift. Can't be accepted, much too little! [_Throws the paper aside_.] Prudence be gone! [_Falls on his knees before_ ADELAIDE.] Here I kneel, Adelaide! What I am saying I don't know in my joy, for the whole room is dancing round with me. If you will take me for your husband, you will do me the greatest favor in the world. If you don't want me, box my ears and send me off! ADELAIDE (_bending down to him_). I do want you! (_Kissing him_.) This was the cheek! BOLZ. And these are the lips. [_Kisses her; they remain in an embrace; short pause_.] _Enter_ COLONEL, IDA, OLDENDORF. COLONEL (_in amazement, at the door_). What is this? BOLZ. Colonel, it takes place under editorial sanction. COLONEL. Adelaide, what do I see? ADELAIDE (_stretching out her hand to the_ COLONEL). Dear friend, I'm betrothed to a journalist! [_As_ IDA _and_ OLDENDORF _from either side hasten to the pair, the curtain falls_] * * * * * [Footnote 1: Permission S. Hirzel, Leipzig.] * * * * * DOCTOR LUTHER (1859) By GUSTAV FREYTAG TRANSLATED BY E.H. BABBITT, A.B. Assistant Professor of German, Tufts College. Some well-meaning men still wish that the defects of their old church had not led to so great a revolt, and even liberal Roman Catholics still fail to see in Luther and Zwingli anything but zealous heretics whose wrath brought about a schism. May such views vanish from Germany! All religious denominations have reason to attribute to Luther whatever in their present faith is genuine and sincere, and has a wholesome and sustaining influence. The heretic of Wittenberg is fully as much the reformer of the German Catholics as of the Protestants. This is true not only because the teachers of the Catholic Church in their struggle against him outgrew the old scholasticism, and fought for their sacraments with new weapons gained from his language, his culture, and his moral worth; nor because he, in effect, destroyed the church of the Middle Ages and forced his opponents at Trent to raise a firmer structure, though seemingly within the old forms and proportions; but still more because he expressed the common basis of all German denominations, of our spiritual courage, piety, and honesty, with such force that a good deal of his own nature, to the present benefit of every German, has survived in our doctrines and language, in our civil laws and morals, in the thoughtfulness of our people, and in our science and literature. Some of the ideas for which Luther's stubborn and contentious spirit fought, against both Catholics and Calvinists, are abandoned by the free investigation of modern times. His intensely passionate beliefs, gained in the heartrending struggles of a devout soul, occasionally missed an important truth. Sometimes he was harsh, unfair, even cruel toward his opponents; but such things should no longer disturb any German, for all the limitations of his nature and training are as nothing compared with the fulness of the blessings which have flowed from his great heart into the life of our nation. But he should not have seceded after all, some people say; for his action has divided Germany into two hostile camps, and the ancient strife, under varying battle-cries, has continued to our day. Those who think so might assert with equal right that the Christian revolt from Judaism was not necessary--why did not the apostles reform the venerable high-priesthood of Zion? They might assert that Hampden would have done better if he had paid the ship-money and had taught the Stuarts their lesson peaceably; that William of Orange committed a crime when he did not put his life and his sword into the hands of Alva, as Egmont did; that Washington was a traitor because he did not surrender himself and his army to the English; they might condemn as evil everything that is new and great in doctrine and in life and that owes its birth to a struggle against what is old. To but few mortals has been vouchsafed such a powerful influence as Luther had upon their contemporaries and upon subsequent ages. But his life, like that of every great man, leaves the impression of an affecting tragedy when attention is centred on its pivotal events. It shows us, like the career of all heroes of history whom Fate permitted to live out their lives, three stages. First, the personality of the man develops, powerfully influenced by the restricting environment. It tries to reconcile incompatibilities, while in the depth of his soul ideas and convictions are gradually translated into volition. At last they burst forth in a definite action, and the solitary individual enters upon the contest with the world. Then follows a period of greater activity, more rapid growth, and larger victories. The influence of the one man upon the masses grows ever greater. Mightily he draws the whole nation to follow in his footsteps, and becomes its hero, its pattern; the vital force of millions appears summed up in one man. [Illustration: _Permission Underwood & Underwood, New York_ LUTHER MONUMENT AT WORMS by ERNST RIETSCHEL] But the spirit of the nation does not long endure the preëminence of a single, well-centred personality; for the life and the power and the needs of a nation are more manifold than even the greatest single force and lofty aim. The eternal contrast between the individual and the nation appears. Even the soul of a nation is, in the presence of the eternal, a finite personality--but in comparison with the individual it appears boundless. A man is forced by the logical result of his thoughts and actions, by all the significance of his own deeds, into a closely restricted path. The soul of the nation needs for its life irreconcilable contrasts and incessant effort in most varied directions. Much that the individual failed to assimilate rises to fight against him. The reaction of the people begins--at first weak, here and there, based on different reasons and with slight justification; then it grows stronger and ever more victorious. Finally the intellectual influence of the life of the individual is limited to his own followers, and crystallizes into a single one of the many elements of national growth. The last period of a great life is always filled with secret resignation, with bitterness, and with silent suffering. Thus it was with Luther. The first of these periods continued up to the day on which he posted his theses, the second until his return from the Wartburg, the third to his death and the beginning of the Schmalkaldic War. It is not the purpose of this sketch to give his entire biography, but to tell briefly how he developed and what he was. Much in his nature appears strange and unpleasing so long as he is viewed from afar; but this historic figure has the remarkable quality of becoming greater and more attractive the more closely it is approached, and from beginning to end it would inspire a good biographer with admiration, tenderness, and a certain good humor. Luther rose from the great source of all national strength, the freeholding peasant class. His father moved from Möhra, a forest village of the Thuringian mountains, where his relatives constituted half the population, northward into the neighborhood of Mansfeld, to work as a miner. So the boy's cradle stood in a cottage in which was still felt the old thrill of the ghosts of the pine wood and the dark clefts which were thought to be the entrances to the ore veins of the mountain. Certainly the imagination of the boy was often busy with dark traditions from heathen mythology. He was accustomed to feel the presence of uncanny powers as well in the phenomena of nature as in the life of man. When he turned monk such remembrances from childhood grew gloomier and took the shape of the devil of Scripture, but the busy tempter who everywhere lies in wait for the life of man always retained for him something of the features of the mischievous goblin who secretly lurks about the peasant's hearth and stable. His father, a curt, sturdy, vigorous man, firm in his resolves, and of unusual, shrewd common sense, had worked his way, after hard struggles, to considerable prosperity. He kept strict discipline in his household. Even in later years Luther thought with sadness of the severe punishments he had endured as a boy and the sorrow they had caused his tender, childish heart. But Old Hans Luther, nevertheless, up to his death in 1530, had some influence on the life of his son. When at the age of twenty-two Martin secretly entered the monastery the old man was violently angry; for he had already planned a good match for him. Friends finally succeeded in bringing the angry father to consent to a reconciliation; and as his imploring son confessed that a terrible apparition had driven him to the secret vow to enter the monastery, he replied with the sorrowful words, "God grant that it was not a deception and trick of the devil;" and he still further wrenched the heart of the monk by the angry question, "You thought you were obeying the command of God when you went into the monastery; have you not heard also that you shall obey your parents?" These words made a deep impression on the son, and when, many years after, he sat in the Wartburg, expelled from the Church and outlawed by the Emperor, he wrote to his father the touching words: "Do you still wish to tear me from the monastery? You are still my father and I your son. The law and the power of God are on your side--on my side human weakness. But look that you boast not yourself against God, he has been beforehand with you,--he has taken me out himself." From that time on it seemed to the old man as if his son were restored to him. Old Hans had once counted upon having a grandson for whom he would work. He now came back obstinately to this thought, caring nothing for the rest of the world, and soon urged his son to marry; his encouragement was not the least of the influences to which Luther yielded, and when his father, advanced in years, at last a councillor of Mansfeld, lay in his death throes and the minister bent over him and asked the dying man if he wished to die in the purified faith in Christ and the Holy Gospel, old Hans gathered his strength once more and said curtly, "He is a wretch who does not believe in it." When Luther told this later he added admiringly, "Yes that was a man of the old time." The son received the news of the father's death in the fortress of Coburg. When he read the letter, in which his wife inclosed a picture of his youngest daughter Magdalena, he uttered to a companion merely the words, "Well, my father is dead too," rose, took his psalter, went into his room, and prayed and wept so hard that, as the faithful Veit Dietrich wrote, his head was confused the next day; but he came out again with his soul at peace. The same day he wrote with deep emotion to Melanchthon of the great love of his father and of his intimate relations with him. "I have never despised death so much as today. We die so often before we finally die. Now I am the oldest of my family and I have the right to follow him." From such a father the son inherited what was fundamental to his character--truthfulness, a sturdy will, straightforward common sense, and tact in dealing with men and affairs. His childhood was full of rigor. He had many a bitter experience in the Latin school and as a choir boy, though tempered by kindness and love, and he kept through it all--what is more easily kept in the lowlier circles of life--a heart full of faith in the goodness of human nature and reverence for everything great in the world. When he was at the University of Erfurt, his father was already in a position to supply his needs more abundantly. He felt the vigor of youth, and was a merry companion with song and lute. Of his spiritual life at that time little is known except that death came near him, and that in a thunder storm he was "called upon by a terrible apparition from heaven." In terror he took a vow to go into a monastery, and quickly and secretly carried out his resolve. From that time date our reports about the troubles of his soul. At odds with his father, full of awe at the thought of an incomprehensible eternity, cowed by the wrath of God, he began with supernatural exertions a life of renunciation, devotion, and penance. He found no peace. All the highest questions of life rushed with fearful force upon his defenseless, wandering soul. Remarkably strong and passionate with him was the necessity of feeling himself in harmony with God and the universe. What theology offered him was all unintelligible, bitter, and repulsive. To his nature the riddles of the moral order of the universe were most important. That the good should suffer, and the evil succeed; that God should condemn the human race to the monstrous burden of sin because a simple-minded woman had bitten into an apple; that this same God should endure our sins with love, toleration, and patience; that Christ at one time sent away honorable people with severity, and at another time associated with harlots, publicans, and sinners--"human understanding with its wisdom turns to folly at this." Then he would complain to his spiritual adviser, Staupitz: "Dear Doctor, our Lord treats people so cruelly. Who can serve Him if he lays on blows like this?" But when he got the answer, "How else could He subdue the stubborn heads?" this sensible argument could not console the young man. With fervid desire to find the incomprehensible God, he searched all his thoughts and dreams with self-torture. Every earthly thought, every beat of his youthful blood, became for him a cruel wrong. He began to despair of himself; he wrestled in unceasing prayer, fasted and scourged himself. At one time the priests had to break into his cell in which he had been lying for days in a condition not far from insanity. With warm sympathy Staupitz looked upon such heart-rending torment, and sought to give him peace by blunt counsel. Once when Luther had written to him, "Oh, my sin! My sin! My sin!" his spiritual adviser gave him the answer, "You long to be without sin, and you have no real sin. Christ is the forgiveness of real sins, such as parricide and the like. If Christ is to help you, you must have a list of real sins, and not come to Him with such trash and make-believe sins, seeing a sin in every trifle." The manner in which Luther gradually raised himself above such despair was decisive for his whole life. The God whom he served was at that time a God of terror. His anger was to be appeased only by the means of grace which the ancient Church prescribed--in the first place through constant confession, for which there were innumerable prescriptions and formulæ which seemed to the heart empty and cold. By strictly prescribed activities and the practice of so-called good works, the feeling of real atonement and inward peace had not come to the young man. Finally a saying of his spiritual adviser pierced his heart like an arrow: "That alone is true penance which begins with love for God. Love for God and inward exaltation is not the result of the means of grace which the Church teaches; it must go before them." This doctrine from Tauler's school became for the young man the basis of a new spiritual and moral relation to God; it was for him a sacred discovery. The transformation of his spiritual life was the principal thing. For that he had to work. From the depths of every human heart must come repentance, expiation, and atonement. He and every man could lift himself up to God, alone. Not until now did he realize what free prayer was. In place of a far-off divine power which he had formerly sought in vain through a hundred forms and childish confessions, there came before him at last the image of an all-loving protector to whom he could speak at any time joyfully and in tears; to whom he could bring all sorrow, every doubt; who took unceasing interest in him, cared for him, granted or denied his heartfelt petitions tenderly, like a good father. So he learned to pray; and how ardent his prayers became! From this time he lived in peace with the beloved God whom he had finally found, every day, every hour. His intercourse with the Most High became more intimate than with the dearest companions of this earth. When he poured out his whole self before Him, then calm came over him and a holy peace, a feeling of unspeakable love. He felt himself a part of God, and remained in this relation to Him from that time throughout his whole life. He heeded no longer the roundabout ways of the ancient Church; he could, with God in his heart, defy the whole world. Even thus early he ventured to believe that those held false doctrine who put so much stress on works of penance, that there was nothing beyond these works but a cold satisfaction and a ceremonious confession; and when, later, he learned from Melanchthon that the Greek word for penitence, _metanoia_ meant literally "change of mind," it seemed to him a wonderful revelation. On this ground rested the confident assurance with which he opposed the words of Scripture to the ordinances of the Church. By this means Luther in the monastery gradually worked his way to spiritual liberty. All his later doctrines, his battles against indulgences, his imperturbable steadfastness, his method of interpreting the Scriptures, rested upon the struggles through which he, while a monk, had found his God; and it may well be said that the new era of German history began with Luther's prayers in the monastery. Life was soon to thrust him under its hammer, to harden the pure metal of his soul. In 1508 Luther reluctantly accepted the professorship of dialectics at the new university of Wittenberg. He would rather have taught that theology which even then he believed the true one. When, in 1510, he went to Rome on business for his order, it is well known what devotion and piety marked his sojourn in the Holy City, and with what horror the heathen life of the Romans and the moral corruption and worldliness of the clergy filled him. It was there where his devotions, while he was officiating at mass, were disturbed by the reckless jests which the Roman priests of his order called out to him. He never forgot the devil-inspired words[2] as long as he lived. But the hierarchy, however deeply its corruption shocked him, still contained his whole hope; outside of it there was no God and no salvation. The noble idea of the Catholic Church, and its conquests of fifteen hundred years, enraptured the mind even of the strongest. And when this German in Roman clerical dress, at the risk of his life, inspected the ruins of ancient Rome and stood in awe before the gigantic columns of the temples which, according to report, the Goths had once destroyed, the sturdy man from the mountains of the old Hermunduri little dreamed that it would be his own fate to destroy the temples of medieval Rome more thoroughly, more fiercely, more grandly. Luther came back from Rome still a faithful son of the great Mother Church. All heresy, such as that of the Bohemians, was hateful to him. He took a warm interest, after his return, in Reuchlin's contest against the judges of heresy at Cologne, and, in 1512, stood on the side of the Humanists; but even then he felt that something separated him from this movement. When, a few years later, he was in Gotha, he did not call upon the worthy Mutianus Rufus, although he wrote him a very polite letter of apology; and soon after he was offended by the inward coldness and secular tone in which theological sinners were ridiculed in Erasmus' dialogues. The profane worldliness of the Humanists was never quite in harmony with the cheerful faith of Luther's soul, and the pride with which he afterward offended the sensitive Erasmus in a letter which was meant to be conciliatory, was probably even then in his soul. Even the forms of literary modesty adopted by Luther at that time give the impression that they were wrung from an unbending spirit by the power of Christian humility. For even at that time he felt himself secure and strong in his faith. As early as 1516 he wrote to Spalatin, who was the link of intercourse between him and the Elector, Frederick the Wise, that the Elector was the most prudent of men in the things of this world, but was afflicted with sevenfold blindness in matters concerning God and the salvation of the soul. And Luther had reason for this expression, for the provident spirit of that moderate prince appeared in his careful efforts, among other things, to gather in for domestic use the means of grace recommended by the Church. For instance, he had a special hobby for sacred relics, and just at this time Staupitz, the vicar of the Augustinian order for Saxony, was occupied in the Rhine region and elsewhere in collecting them for the Elector. For Luther the absence of his superior was important, for he had to fill his place. He was already a respected man in his order. Although professor (of theology since 1512), he still lived in his monastery in Wittenberg and generally wore his monk's habit; and now he visited the thirty monasteries in his charge, deposed priors, uttered severe censure of bad discipline, and urged severity against fallen monks. But something of the simple faith of the brother of the monastery still clung to him. It was in this spirit of confidence and German sincerity that he wrote, October 31, 1517, after he had posted the theses against Tetzel on the church door, to Archbishop Albert of Mainz, the protector of the seller of indulgences. Full of the popular belief in the wisdom and the goodwill of the highest rulers, Luther thought (he often said so later) that it was only necessary to present honestly to the princes of the Church the disadvantage and immorality of such abuses. But how childish this zeal of the monk appeared to the polished and worldly prince of the Church! What so deeply offended the honest man was, from the point of view of the Archbishop, a matter long settled. The sale of indulgences was an evil in the Church a hundred times deplored, but as unavoidable as many institutions seem to the politician; while not good in themselves, they must be kept for the sake of a greater interest. The greatest interest of the Archbishop and the curia was their supremacy, which was acquired and maintained by such commercial dealings. The great interest of Luther and the people was truth. This was the parting of the ways. And so Luther entered upon the struggle, a poor and faithful son of the Church, full of German devotion to authority; but yet he had in his character something which gave him strength against too extreme exercise of this authority--a close relation to his God. He was then thirty-four years old, in the fulness of his strength, of medium stature, his body vigorous and without the corpulency of his later years, appearing tall beside the small, delicate, boyish form of Melanchthon. In the face which showed the effects of vigils and inward struggles, shone two fiery eyes whose keen brilliancy was hard to meet. He was a respected man, not only in his order, but at the University; not a great scholar--he learned Greek from Melanchthon in the first year of his professorship, and Hebrew soon after. He had no extensive book learning, and never had the ambition to shine as a writer of Latin verse; but he was astonishingly well-read in the Scriptures and some of the Fathers of the Church, and what he had once learned he assimilated with German thoroughness. He was the untiring shepherd of his flock, a zealous preacher, a warm friend, once more full of a decorous cheerfulness; he was of an assured bearing, polite and skilful in social intercourse, with a confidence of spirit which often lighted up his face in a smile. The small events of the day might indeed affect him and annoy him. He was excitable, and easily moved to tears, but on any great emergency, after he had overcome his early nervous excitement, such as, for instance, embarrassed him when he first appeared before the Diet at Worms--then he showed wonderful calmness and self-command. He knew no fear. Indeed, his lion's nature found satisfaction in the most dangerous situations. The danger of death into which he sometimes fell, the malicious ambushes of his enemies, seemed to him at that time hardly worthy of mention. The reason for this superhuman heroism, as one may call it, was again his close personal relation to his God. He had long periods in which he wished, with a cheerful smile, for martyrdom in the service of truth and of his God. Terrible struggles were still before him, but those in which men opposed him did not seem to deserve this name. He had defeated the devil himself again and again for years. He even overcame the fear and torment of hell, which did its utmost to cloud his reason. Such a man might perhaps be killed, but he could hardly be conquered. The period of the struggle which now follows, from the beginning of the indulgences controversy until his departure from the Wartburg--the time of his greatest victories and of his tremendous popularity--is perhaps best known; but it seems to us that even here his nature has never yet been correctly judged. Nothing is more remarkable at this period than the manner in which Luther became gradually estranged from the Church of Rome. His life was modest and without ambition. He clung with the deepest reverence to the lofty idea of the Church, for fifteen hundred years the communion of saints; and yet in four short years he was destined to be cut off from the faith of his fathers, torn from the soil in which he had been so firmly rooted. And during all this time he was destined to stand alone in the struggle, or at best with a few faithful companions--after 1518 together with Melanchthon. He was to be exposed to all the perils of the fiercest war, not only against innumerable enemies, but also in defiance of the anxious warnings of sincere friends and patrons. Three times the Roman party tried to silence him--through the official activity of Cajetan, through the persuasive arts of Miltitz, and the untimely persistence of the contentious Eck. Three times he spoke to the Pope himself in letters which are among the most valuable documents of those years. Then came the parting. He was anathematized and outlawed. According to the old university custom, he burned the enemy's declaration of war, and with it the possibility of return. With cheerful confidence he went to Worms in order that the princes of his nation might decide whether he should die or thenceforth live among them without pope or church, according to the Bible alone. [Illustration: _Permission F Pruelmann A G Munich_ FREDERICK WILLIAM I INSPECTING A SCHOOL Adolph von Menzel.] At first, when he had printed his theses against Tetzel, he was astonished at the enormous excitement which they caused in Germany, at the venomous hatred of his enemies, and at the signs of joyful recognition which he received from many sides. Had he, then, done such an unheard-of thing? What he had expressed was, he knew, the belief of all the best men of the Church. When the Bishop of Brandenburg had sent the Abbot of Lehnin to him, with the request that Luther would suppress the printed edition of his German sermon on indulgences and grace, however near the truth he might be, the brother of the poor Augustinian monastery was deeply moved that such great men should speak to him in so friendly and cordial a manner, and he was ready to give up the printing rather than make himself a monster that disturbed the Church. Eagerly he sought to refute the report that the Elector had instigated his quarrel with Tetzel--"they wish to involve the innocent prince in the enmity that falls on me." He was ready to do anything to keep the peace before Cajetan and with Miltitz. One thing he would not do--recant what he had said against the unchristian extension of the system of indulgences; but recantation was the only thing the hierarchy wanted of him. For a long time he still wished for peace, reconciliation, and return to the peaceful activity of his cell; and again and again a false assertion of his opponents set his blood on fire, and every opposition was followed by a new and sharper blow from his weapon. Even in the first letter to Leo X, May 30, 1518, Luther's heroic assurance is remarkable. He is still entirely the faithful son of the Church. He still concludes by falling at the Pope's feet, offers him his whole life and being, and promises to honor his voice as the voice of Christ, whose representative the head of the Church is; but even from this devotion befitting the monk, the vigorous words flash out: "If I have merited death, I refuse not to die." In the body of the letter, how strong are the expressions in which he sets forth the coarseness of the sellers of indulgences! Here, too, his surprise is honest that his theses are making so much stir with their unintelligible sentences, involved, according to the old custom, to the point of riddles. And good humor sounds in the manly words: "What shall I do? I cannot recant. In our century full of intellect and beauty, which might put Cicero into a corner, I am only an unlearned, limited, poorly educated man! But the goose must needs cackle among the swans." The following year almost all who honored Luther united in the endeavor to bring about a reconciliation. Staupitz and Palatin, and the Elector through them, scolded, besought, and urged; the papal chamberlain, Miltitz himself, praised Luther's attitude, and whispered to him that he was entirely right, implored him, drank with him, and kissed him. Luther, to be sure, thought he knew that the courtier had a secret mission to make him a captive, if possible, and bring him to Rome. But the peacemakers successfully hit upon the point in which the stubborn man heartily agreed with them--that respect for the Church must be maintained, and its unity must not be destroyed. Luther promised to keep quiet and to submit the decision of the contested points to three worthy bishops. While in this position he was urged to write a letter of apology to the Pope. But even this letter of March 3, 1519, though approved by the mediators and written under compulsion, is characteristic as showing the advance Luther had made. Humility, such as our theologians see in it, is hardly present, but a cautious diplomatic attitude throughout. Luther regrets that what he has done to defend the honor of the Roman Church should have been interpreted as lack of respect in him. He promises henceforth to say nothing more about indulgences--if, that is, his opponents will do the same; he offers to address a manifesto to the people in which he will advise them to give proper obedience to the Church and not to be estranged from her because his adversaries have been insolent and he himself harsh. But all these submissive words do not conceal the rift which already separates his mind from the essential basis of the Church of Rome. It sounds like cold irony when he writes: "What shall I do, Most Holy Father? I am at a complete loss. I cannot endure the weight of your anger, and yet I do not know how to escape it. They demand a recantation from me. If it could accomplish what they propose by it, I would recant without hesitation, but the opposition of my adversaries has spread my writings farther than I had ever hoped; they have taken hold too deeply on the souls of men. In Germany today talent, learning, freedom of judgment are flourishing. If I should recant, I should cover the Church, in the judgment of my Germans, with still greater disgrace. It is they--my adversaries--who have brought the Church of Rome into disrepute with us in Germany." He finally closes politely: "If I should be able to do more, I shall without doubt be very ready. May Christ preserve your Holiness! Martin Luther." Much is to be read between the lines of this studied reserve. Even if the vain Eck had not immediately set all Wittenberg University by the ears, this letter could hardly have been considered at Rome as a token of repentant submission. The thunderbolt of excommunication had been hurled; Rome had spoken. Now Luther, again completely his old self, wrote once more to the Pope that great and famous letter which, at the request of the untiring Miltitz, he dated back to September 6, 1520, that he might be able to ignore the bull of excommunication. It is a beautiful reflection of a resolute mind which from a lofty standpoint calmly surveys its opponent, and at the same time is magnificent in its sincerity, and of the noblest spirit. With sincere sympathy he speaks of the personality and of the difficult position of the Pope; but it is the sympathy of a stranger. He still laments with melancholy the condition of the Church, but it is plain that he himself has already outgrown it. It is a farewell letter. With the keenest severity there is still a firm attitude and silent sorrow. Such is the way a man parts from what he has once loved and found unworthy. This letter was to be the last bridge for the peacemakers. For Luther it was the liberation of his soul. In these years Luther had become a different man. In the first place he had acquired prudence and self-reliance in his intercourse with the most exalted personages, and at heavy cost had won insight into the policies and the private character of the rulers. Nothing was at heart more painful to the peaceable nature of his sovereign than this bitter theological controversy, which sometimes furthered his political ends but always disturbed his peace of mind. Constant efforts were made by his court to keep the Wittenberg people within bounds, and Luther always saw to it that they were made too late. Whenever the faithful Spalatin dissuaded him from the publication of a new polemic, he received the answer that there was no help for it, that the sheets were printed and already in the hands of many and could not be suppressed. And in his dealings with his adversaries Luther had acquired the assurance of a seasoned warrior. He was bitterly hurt when Hieronymus Emser, in the spring of 1518, craftily took him to a banquet in Dresden where he was forced to argue with angry enemies, especially when he learned that a Dominican friar had listened at the door and the next day had spread it in the town that Luther had been completely silenced, and that the listener had had difficulty to restrain himself from rushing into the room and spitting in Luther's face. At that first meeting with Cajetan Luther still prostrated himself humbly at the feet of the prince of the Church; after the second he allowed himself to express the view that the cardinal was as fit for his office as an ass to play the harp. He treated the polite Miltitz with fitting politeness. The Roman had hoped to tame the German bear, but soon the courtier came of his own accord into the position which was appropriate for him--he was used by Luther. And in the Leipzig disputation against Eck the favorable impression which the self-possessed, honest, and sturdy nature of Luther produced was the best counterpoise to the self-satisfied assurance of his clever opponent. But Luther's inward life calls for greater sympathy. It was after all a terrible period for him. Close to exaltation and victory lay for him deathly anxiety, torturing doubt, and horrible apparitions. He, almost alone, was in arms against all Christendom, and was becoming more and more irreconcilably hostile to the mightiest power, which still included everything that had been sacred to him since his youth. What if, after all, he were wrong in this or that! He was responsible for every soul that he led away with him--and whither? What was there outside the Church but destruction and perdition for time and for eternity? If his adversaries and anxious friends cut him to the heart with reproaches and warnings, the pain, the secret remorse, the uncertainty which he must not acknowledge to any one, were greater beyond comparison. He found peace, to be sure, in prayer. Whenever his fervid soul, seeking its God, rose in mighty flights, he was filled with strength, peace, and cheerfulness. But in hours of less tense exaltation, when his sensitive spirit quivered under unpleasant impressions, then he felt himself embarrassed, divided, under the spell of another power which was hostile to his God. He knew from childhood how actively evil spirits ensnare mankind; he had learned from the Scripture that the Devil works against the purest to ruin them. On his path the busy devils were lurking to weaken him, to mislead him, to make innumerable others wretched through him. He saw their work in the angry bearing of the cardinal, in the scornful face of Eck, even in the thoughts of his own soul. He knew how powerful they had been in Rome. Even in his youth apparitions had tormented him; now they reappeared. From the dark shadows of his study the spectre of the tempter lifted its claw-like hand against his reason. Even while he was praying the Devil approached him in the form of the Redeemer, radiant as King of Heaven with the five wounds, as the ancient Church represented Him. But Luther knew that Christ appears to poor humanity only in His words, or in humble form, as He hung upon the cross; and he roused himself vigorously and cried to the apparition: "Avaunt, foul fiend!"--and the vision disappeared. Thus the strong heart of the man worked for years in savage indignation--always renewed. It was a sad struggle between reason and insanity, but Luther always came out victorious; the native strength of his sound nature prevailed. In long prayer, often lasting for hours, the stormy waves of his emotion became calm, and his massive intelligence and his conscience brought him every time out of doubt to certainty. He considered this process of liberation as a gracious inspiration of his God, and after such moments he who had once been in such anxious doubt was as firm as steel, indifferent to the opinion of men, not to be moved, inexorable. Quite a different picture is that of his personality in contest with earthly foes. Here he retains almost everywhere the superiority of conviction, particularly in his literary feuds. The literary activity which he developed at this time was gigantic. Up to 1517 he had printed little. From that time on he was not only the most productive but the greatest popular writer of Germany. The energy of his style, the vigor of his argumentation, the ardor and passion of his conviction, carried away his readers. No one had ever spoken thus to the people. His language lent itself to every mood, to all keys; now brief, forcible, sharp as steel, now in majestic breadth, the words poured in among the people like a mighty stream. A figurative expression, a striking simile, made the most difficult thoughts intelligible. His was a wonderfully creative power. He used language with sovereign ease. As soon as he touched a pen his mind worked with the greatest freedom; his sentences show the cheerful warmth which filled him, the perfect charm of sympathetic creation is poured out upon them. And such power is by no means least apparent in the attacks which he makes upon individual opponents, and it is closely connected with a fault which caused misgivings even to his admiring contemporaries. He liked to play with his opponents. His imagination clothed the form of an enemy with a grotesque mask, and he teased, scorned, and stabbed this picture of his imagination with turns of speech which had not always the grace of moderation, or even of decency; but in the midst of vituperation, his good humor generally had a conciliatory effect--although, to be sure, not upon his victims. Petty spite was rarely visible; not seldom the most imperturbable good-nature. Sometimes he fell into a true artistic zeal, forgot the dignity of the reformer, and pinched like a German peasant boy, even like a malicious goblin. What blows he gave to all his opponents, now with a club, wielded by an angry giant, now with a jester's bauble! He liked to twist their names into ridiculous forms, and thus they lived in Wittenberg circles as beasts, or as fools. Eck became Dr. Geck; Murner was adorned with the head and claws of a cat; Emser, who had printed at the head of most of his pamphlets his coat-of-arms the head of a horned goat, was abused as a goat. The Latin name of the renegade humanist Cochläus, was retranslated, and Luther greeted him as a snail with impenetrable armor, and--sad to say--sometimes also as a dirty boy whose nose needed wiping. Still worse, terrible even to his contemporaries, was the reckless violence with which he declaimed against hostile princes. It is true that he sometimes bestowed upon his sovereign's cousin, Duke George of Saxony, a consideration hardly to be avoided. Each considered the other the prey of the devil, but in secret each esteemed in the other a manly worth. Again and again they fell into dissension, even in writing, but again and again Luther prayed warmly for his neighbor's soul. The reckless wilfulness of Henry VIII. of England, on the other hand, offended the German reformer to the depths of his soul; he reviled him horribly and without cessation; and even in his last years he treated the hot-headed Henry of Brunswick like a naughty school-boy. "Clown" was the mildest of many dramatic characters in which he represented him. When, later, such outpourings of excessive zeal stared at him from the printed page, and his friends complained, he would be vexed at his rudeness, upbraid himself, and honestly repent. But repentance availed little, for on the next occasion he would commit the same fault; and Spalatin had some reason to look distrustfully upon a projected publication even when Luther proposed to write very gently and tamely. His opponents could not equal him in his field. They called names with equal vigor, but they lacked his inward freedom. Unfortunately it cannot be denied that this little appendage to the moral dignity of his nature was sometimes the spice which made his writings so irresistible to the honest Germans of the sixteenth century. In the autumn of 1517 he had got into a quarrel with a reprobate Dominican friar; in the winter of 1520 he burned the Pope's bull. In the spring of 1518 he had prostrated himself at the feet of the Vicar of Christ; in the spring of 1521 he declared at the Diet of Worms, before the emperor and the princes and the papal legates, that he believed neither the Pope nor the Councils alone, only the testimony of the Holy Scripture and the interpretation of reason. Now he was free, but excommunication and outlawry hovered over his head. He was inwardly free, but he was free as the beast of the forest is free, and behind him bayed the blood-thirsty pack. He had reached the culminating point of his life, and the powers against which he had revolted, even the thoughts which he himself had aroused among the people, were working from now on against his life and doctrine. Even at Worms, so it appears, it had been made clear to Luther that he must disappear for a while. The customs of the Franconian Knights, among whom he had faithful followers, suggested the idea of having him spirited away by armed men. Elector Frederick, with his faithful friends, discussed the abduction, and it was quite after the manner of this prince that he himself did not wish to know the place of retreat, in order to be able, in case of need, to swear to his ignorance. Nor was it easy to win Luther over to the plan, for his bold heart had long ago overcome earthly fear; and with an enthusiastic joy, in which there was much fanaticism and some humor, he watched the attempts of the Romanists to put out of the way a man of whom Another must dispose, He who spoke through his lips. Unwillingly he submitted. The secret was not easy to keep, however skilfully the abduction had been planned. At first none of the Wittenbergers but Melanchthon knew where he was. But Luther was the last man to submit to even the best-intentioned intrigue. Very soon an active communication arose between the Wartburg and Wittenberg. No matter how much caution was used in delivering the letters, it was difficult to avoid suspicion. In his fortified retreat, Luther found out earlier than the Wittenbergers what was going on in the world outside. He was informed of everything that happened at his university, and tried to keep up the courage of his friends and direct their policy. It is touching to see how he tried to strengthen Melanchthon, whose unpractical nature made him feel painfully the absence of his sturdy friend. "Things will get on without me," he writes to him; "only have courage. I am no longer necessary to you. If I get out, and I cannot return to Wittenberg, I shall go into the wide world. You are men enough to hold the fortress of the Lord against the Devil, without me." He dated his letters from the air, from Patmos, from the desert, from "among the birds that sing merrily on the branches and praise God with all their might from morning to night." Once he tried to be crafty. He inclosed in a letter to Spalatin a letter intended to deceive: "It was believed without reason that he was at the Wartburg. He was living among faithful brethren. It was surprising that no one had thought of Bohemia;" and then came a thrust--not ill-tempered--at Duke George of Saxony, his most active enemy. This letter Spalatin was to lose with well-planned carelessness so that it should come into the hands of the enemy. But in this kind of diplomacy he was certainly not logical, for as soon as his leonine nature was aroused by some piece of news, he would determine impulsively to start for Erfurt or Wittenberg. It was hard for him to bear the inactivity of his life. He was treated with the greatest attention by the governor of the castle, and this attention expressed itself, as was the custom at that time, primarily in the shape of the best care in the matter of food and drink. The rich living, the lack of activity, and the fresh mountain air into which the theologian was transported, had their effect upon soul and body. He had already brought from Worms a physical infirmity, now there were added hours of gloomy melancholy which made him unfit for work. On two successive days he joined hunting parties, but his heart was with the few hares and partridges which were driven into the net by the troop of men and dogs. "Innocent creatures! The papists persecute in the same way!" To save the life of a little hare he had wrapped him in the sleeve of his coat. The dogs came and crushed the animal's bones within the protecting coat. "Thus Satan rages against the souls that I seek to save." Luther had reason for protecting himself and his friends from Satan. He had rejected all the authority of the Church; now he stood terribly alone; nothing was left to him but his last resort--the Scriptures. The ancient Church had represented Christianity in continual development. The faith had been kept in a fluid state by a living tradition which ran parallel with the Scriptures, by the Councils, by the Papal decrees; and they had adapted themselves, like a facile stream, to the sharp corners of national character, to the urgent needs of each age. It is true that this noble idea of a perpetually living organism had not been preserved in its original purity. The best part of its life had vanished; empty cocoons were being preserved. The old democratic church had been transformed into the irresponsible sovereignty of a few, had been stained with all the vices of an unconscientious aristocracy, and was already in striking opposition to reason and popular feeling. What Luther, however, could put in its place--the word of the Scriptures--although it gave freedom from a hopeless mass of soulless excrescences, threatened on the other hand new dangers. What was the Bible? Between the earliest and latest writings of the sacred book lay perhaps two thousand years. Even the New Testament was not written by Christ himself, not even entirely by those who had received the sacred doctrine from his lips. It was compiled after his death. Portions of it might have been transmitted inexactly. Everything was written in a foreign tongue, which it was difficult for the Germans to understand. Even the keenest penetration was in danger of interpreting falsely unless the grace of God enlightened the interpreter as it had the apostles. The ancient Church had settled the matter summarily; in it the sacrament of holy orders gave such enlightenment. Indeed, the Holy Father even laid claim to divine authority to decide arbitrarily what should be right, even when his will was contrary to the Scriptures. The reformer had nothing but his feeble human knowledge, and prayer. The first unavoidable step was that he must use his reason, for a certain critical treatment even of the Holy Bible was necessary. Nor did Luther fail to see that the books of the New Testament were of varying worth. It is well known that he did not highly esteem the Apocalypse, and that the Epistle of James was regarded by him as "an epistle of straw." But his objection to particular portions never shook his faith in the whole. His belief was inflexible that the Holy Scriptures, excepting a few books, contained a divine revelation in every word and letter. It was for him the dearest thing on earth, the foundation of all his learning. He had put himself so in sympathy with it that he lived among its figures as in the present. The more urgent his feeling of responsibility, the warmer the passion with which he clung to Scripture; and a strong instinct for the sensible and the fitting really helped him over many dangers. His discrimination had none of the hair-splitting sophistry of the ancient teachers. He despised useless subtleties, and, with admirable tact, let go what seemed to him unessential; but, if he was not to lose his faith or his reason, he could do nothing, after all, but found the new doctrine on words and conditions of life fifteen hundred years old, and in some cases he became the victim of what his adversary Eck called "the black letter." Under the urgency of these conditions his method took form. If he had a question to settle, he collected all the passages of Holy Scripture which seemed to offer him an answer. He sought earnestly to understand all passages in their context, and then he struck a balance, giving the greatest weight to those which agreed with each other, and for those which were at variance patiently striving to find a solution which might reconcile the seeming contradiction. The resulting conviction he firmly established in his heart, regardless of temptations, by fervent prayer. With this procedure he was sometimes bound to reach conclusions which seemed, even to ordinary human understanding, vulnerable. When, for instance, in the year 1522, he undertook, from the Scriptures, to put matrimony on a new moral basis, reason and the needs of the people were certainly on his side when he subjected to severe criticism the eighteen grounds of the Ecclesiastical Law for forbidding and annulling marriages and condemned the unworthy favoring of the rich over the poor. But it was, after all, strange when Luther tried to prove from the Bible alone what degrees of relationship were permitted and what were forbidden, especially as he also took into consideration the Old Testament, in which various queer marriages were contracted without any opposition from the ancient Jehovah. God undoubtedly had sometimes allowed his elect to have two wives. And it was this method which, in 1529, during the discussions with the Calvinists, made him so obstinate, when he wrote on the table in front of him, "This _is_ my body," and sternly disregarded the tears and outstretched hand of Zwingli. He had never been narrower and yet never mightier--the fear-inspiring man who had won his conviction in the most violent inward struggles against doubt and the Devil. It was an imperfect method, and his opponents attacked it, not without success. With it his doctrine became subject to the fate of all human wisdom. But in this method there was also a vivid emotional process in which his own reason and the culture and the inward needs of his time found better expression than he himself knew. And it became the starting-point from which a conscientious spirit of investigation has wrought for the German people the highest intellectual freedom. With such tremendous trials there came also to the outcast monk at the Wartburg other minor temptations. He had long ago, by almost superhuman intellectual activity, overcome what were then regarded with great distrust as fleshly impulses; now nature asserted herself vigorously, and he several times asked his friend Melanchthon to pray for him on this account. Then Fate would have it that during these very weeks the restless mind of Carlstadt in Wittenberg fell upon the question of the marriage of priests, and reached the conclusion, in a pamphlet on celibacy, that the vow of chastity was not binding on priests and monks. The Wittenbergers in general agreed--first of all, Melanchthon, whose position in this matter was freest from prejudice, since he had never received ordination and had been married for two years. So at this point a tangle of thoughts and moral questions was caused from without in Luther's soul, the threads of which were destined to involve his whole later life. Whatever heartfelt joy and worldly happiness was granted him from this time on depended on the answer which he found to this question. It was the happiness of his home-life which made it possible for him to endure the later years. Only in it did the flower of his abundant affection develop. So Fate graciously sent the lonely man the message which was to unite him anew and more firmly than ever with his people; and the way in which Luther dealt with this question is again characteristic. His pious disposition and the conservative strain in his nature revolted against the hasty and superficial manner in which Carlstadt reasoned. It may be assumed that much in his own feelings, at that particular time, made him suspicious that the Devil might be using this dubious question to tempt the children of God, and yet at this very moment, in his confinement, he had special sympathy for the poor monks behind monastery walls. He searched the Scriptures. He had soon disposed of the marriage of priests, but there was nothing in the Bible about monks. "The Scripture is silent; man is uncertain." And then he was struck by the ridiculous idea that even his nearest friends might marry. He writes to the cautious Spalatin, "Good Lord! Our Wittenbergers want to give wives to the monks too. Well, they are not going to hang one on my neck;" and he gives the ironical warning, "Look out that you do not marry too." But the problem still occupied him incessantly. Life is lived rapidly in such great times. Gradually, through Melanchthon's reasoning, and, we may assume, after fervent prayer, he found certainty. What settled the matter, unknown to himself, must have been the recognition that the opening of the monasteries had become reasonable and necessary for a more moral foundation of civil life. For almost three months he had struggled over the question. On the first of November, 1521, he wrote the letter to his father already cited. The effect of his words upon the people was incalculable. Everywhere there was a stir in the cloisters. From the doors of almost all the monasteries and convents monks and nuns stole out--at first singly and in secret flight; then whole convents broke up. When Luther with greater cares weighing upon him returned the next spring to Wittenberg, the runaway monks and nuns gave him much to do. Secret letters were sent to him from all quarters, often from excited nuns who, the children of stern parents, had been put into convents, and now, without money and without protection, sought aid from the great reformer. It was not unnatural that they should throng to Wittenberg. Once nine nuns came in a carriage from the aristocratic establishment at Nimpfschen--among them a Staupitz, two Zeschaus, and Catherine von Bora. At another time sixteen nuns were to be provided for, and so on. He felt deep sympathy for these poor souls. He wrote in their behalf and traveled to find them shelter in respectable families. Sometimes indeed he felt it too much of a good thing, and the hordes of runaway monks were an especial burden to him. He complains that "they wish to marry immediately and are the most incompetent people for any kind of work." Through his bold solution of a difficult question he gave great offense. He himself had painful experiences; for among those who now returned in tumult to civil life there were, to be sure, high-minded men, but also those who were rude and worthless. Yet all this never made him hesitate for a moment. As usual with him, he was made the more determined by the opposition he met. When, in 1524, he published the story of the sufferings of a novice, Florentina of Oberweimar, he repeated on the title page what he had already so often preached: "God often gives testimony in the Scriptures that He will have no compulsory service, and no one shall become His except with pleasure and love. God help us! Is there no reasoning with us? Have we no sense and no hearing? I say it again, God will have no compulsory service. I say it a third time, I say it a hundred thousand times, God will have no compulsory service." So Luther entered upon the last period of his life. His disappearance in the Thuringian forest had caused an enormous stir. His adversaries trembled before the anger which arose in town and country against those who were called murderers. But the interruption of his public activity became fateful for him. So long as in Wittenberg he was the central point of the struggle, his word, his pen, had held sovereign control over the great intellectual movement in north and south; now it worked without method in different directions, in many minds. One of the oldest of Luther's allies began the confusion. Wittenberg itself became the scene of a strange commotion. Then Luther could endure the Wartburg no longer. Once before he had been secretly in Wittenberg; now, against the Elector's will, he returned there publicly. And there began a heroic struggle against old friends, and against the conclusions drawn from his own doctrine. His activity was superhuman. He thundered without cessation from the pulpit, in the cell his pen flew fast; but he could not reclaim every dissenting mind. Even he could not prevent the rabble of the towns from breaking out in savage fury against the institutions of the ancient Church and against hated individuals, nor the excitement of the people from brewing political storms, nor the knights from rising against the princes, and the peasants against the knights. What was more, he could not prevent the intellectual liberty which he had won for the Germans from producing, even in pious and learned men, an independent judgment about creed and life, a judgment which was contrary to his own convictions. There came the gloomy years of the Iconoclasts, the Anabaptists, the Peasant Wars, the regrettable dissensions over the sacrament. How often at this time did Luther's form rise sombre and mighty over the contestants! How often did the perversion of mankind and his own secret doubts fill him with anxious care for the future of Germany! For in a savage age which was accustomed to slay with fire and sword, this German had a high, pure conception of the battles of the intellect such as no other man attained. Even in the times of his own greatest danger he mortally hated any use of violence. He himself did not wish to be sheltered by his prince--indeed he desired no human protection for his doctrine. He fought with a sharp quill against his foes, but he burnt only a paper at the stake. He hated the Pope as he did the Devil, but he always preached a love of peace and Christian tolerance of the Papists. He suspected many of being in secret league with the Devil, but he never burned a witch. In all Catholic countries the pyres flamed high for the adherents of the new creed; even Hutten was under strong suspicion of having cut off the ears of a few monks. So humane was Luther's disposition that he entertained cordial sympathy with the humiliated Tetzel and wrote him a consolatory letter. To obey the authorities whom God has established was his highest political principle. Only when the service of his God demanded it did his opposition flame up. When he left Worms he had been ordered not to preach--he who was just on the point of being declared an outlaw. He did not submit to the prohibition, but his honest conscience was fearful that this might be interpreted as disobedience. His conception of the position of the Emperor was still quite the antiquated and popular one. As subjects obey the powers that be, so the princes and electors had to obey the Emperor according to the law of the land. With the personality of Charles V. he had human sympathy all his life--not only at that first period when he greeted him as "Dear Youngster," but also later, when he well knew that the Spanish Burgundian was granting nothing more than political tolerance to the German Reformation. "He is pious and quiet," Luther said of him; "he talks in a year less than I do in a day. He is a child of fortune." He liked to praise the Emperor's moderation, modesty, and forbearance. Long after he had condemned Charles' policy, and in secret distrusted his character, he insisted upon it among his table companions that the master of Germany should be spoken of with reverence, and said apologetically to the younger ones, "A politician cannot be so frank as we of the clergy." Even as late as 1530 it was his view that it was wrong for the Elector to take arms against his Emperor. Not until 1537 did he fall in reluctantly with the freer views of his circle, but he thought then that the endangered prince had no right to make the first attack. The venerable tradition of a firm, well articulated federal State was still thus active in this man of the people at a time when the proud structure of the old Saxon and Franconian empires was already crumbling away. Yet in such loyalty there was no trace of a slavish spirit. When his prince once urged him to write an open letter, his sense of truth rose against the title of the Emperor, "Most Gracious Lord," for he said the Emperor was not graciously disposed toward him. And in his frequent intercourse with those of rank, he showed a reckless frankness which more than once alarmed the courtiers. In all reverence he spoke truths to his own prince such as only a great character may express and only a good-hearted one can listen to. On the whole he cared little for the German princes, much as he esteemed a few. Frequent and just were his complaints about their incapacity, their lawlessness, and their vices. He also liked to treat the nobility with irony; the coarseness of most of them was highly distasteful to him. He felt a democratic displeasure toward the hard and selfish jurists who managed the affairs of the princes, worked for favor, and harassed the poor; for the best of them he admitted only a very doubtful prospect of the mercy of God. His whole heart, on the other hand, was with the oppressed. He sometimes blamed the peasants for their stolidity, and their extortions in selling their grain, but he often praised their class, looked with cordial sympathy upon their hardships, and never forgot that by birth he belonged among them. But all this belonged to the temporal order; he served the spiritual. The popular conception was also firmly fixed in his mind that two controlling powers ought to rule the German nation in common--the Church and the princes; and he was entirely right in proudly contrasting the sphere where lay his rights and duties with that of the temporal powers. In his spiritual field there were solidarity, a spirit of sacrifice, and a wealth of ideals, while in secular affairs narrow selfishness, robbery, fraud, and weakness were to be found everywhere. He fought vigorously lest the authorities should assume to control matters which concerned the pastor and the independence of the congregations. He judged all policies according to what would benefit his faith, and according to the dictates of his Bible. Where the Scriptures seemed endangered by worldly politics, he protested, caring little who was hit. It was not his fault that he was strong and the princes were weak, and no blame attaches to him, the monk, the professor, the pastor, if the league of Protestant princes was weak as a herd of deer against the crafty policy of the Emperor. He himself was well aware that Italian diplomacy was not his strong point. If the active Landgrave of Hesse happened not to follow the advice of the clergy, Luther, in his heart, respected him all the more: "He knows what he wants and succeeds, he has a fine sense of this world's affairs." Now, after Luther's return to Wittenberg, the flood of democracy was rising among the people. He had opened the monasteries; now the people called for redress against many other social evils, such as the misery of the peasants, the tithes, the traffic in benefices, the bad administration of justice. Luther's honest heart sympathized with this movement. He warned and rebuked the landed gentry and the princes. But when the wild waves of the Peasant War flooded his own spiritual fields, and bloody deeds of violence wounded his sensibilities; when he felt that the fanatics and demagogues were exerting upon the hordes of peasants an influence which threatened destruction to his doctrine; then, in the greatest anger, he threw himself into opposition to the uncouth mob. His call to the princes sounded out, wild and warlike; the most horrible thing had fallen upon him--the gospel of love had been disgraced by the wilful insolence of those who called themselves its followers. His policy here was again the right one; there was, unfortunately, no better power in Germany than that of the princes, and the future of the Fatherland depended upon them after all, for neither the serfs, the robber barons, nor the isolated free cities which stood like islands in the rising flood, gave any assurance. Luther was entirely right in the essential point, but the same obstinate, unyielding manner which previously had made his struggle against the hierarchy so popular, turned now against the people themselves. A cry of amazement and horror shot through the masses. He was a traitor! He who for eight years had been the favorite and hero of the people suddenly became most unpopular. His safety and his life were again threatened; even five years later it was dangerous for him, on account of the peasants, to travel to Mansfeld to visit his sick father. The indignation of the people also worked against his doctrine. The itinerant preachers and the new apostles treated him as a lost, corrupted man. [Illustration: _Permission F. Bruckmann, A.-G., Munich_ COURT BALL AT RHEINSBERG Adolph von Menzel] He was outlawed, banned, and cursed by the populace. Many well-meaning men, too, had not approved of his attack on celibacy and monastic life. The country gentry threatened to seize the outlaw on the highways because he had destroyed the nunneries into which, as into foundling asylums, the legitimate daughters of the poverty-stricken gentry used to be cast in earliest childhood. The Roman party was triumphant; the new heresy had lost what so far had made it powerful. Luther's life and his doctrine seemed alike near their end. Then Luther determined to marry. For two years Catherine von Bora had lived in the house of Reichenbach, the city clerk, afterward mayor of Wittenberg. A healthy, good looking girl, she was, like many others, the abandoned daughter of a family of the country gentry of Meissen. Twice Luther had tried to find her a husband, as in fatherly care he had done for several of her companions. Finally Catherine declared that she would marry no one but Luther himself, or his friend Amsdorf. Luther was surprised, but he reached a decision quickly. Accompanied by Lucas Kranach, he asked for her hand and married her on the spot. Then he invited his friends to the wedding feast, asked at Court for the venison which the Prince was accustomed to present to his professors when they married, and received the table wine as a present from the city of Wittenberg. How things stood in Luther's soul at that time we should be glad to know. His whole being was under the highest tension. The savage vigor of his nature struck out in all directions. He was deeply shocked at the misery which arose about him from burned villages and murdered men. If he had been a fanatic in his ideas, he would probably have perished now in despair; but above the stormy restlessness which could be perceived in him up to his marriage, there shone now, like a clear light, the conviction that he was the guardian of divine right among the Germans, and that to protect civil order and morality, he must lead public opinion, not follow it. However violent his utterances are in particular cases, he appears just at this time preëminently conservative, and more self-possessed than ever. He also believed, it is true, that he was not destined to live much longer, and often and with longing awaited his martyrdom. He entered wedlock, perfectly at peace with himself on this point, for he had fully convinced himself of the necessity and the scriptural sanction of the married state. In recent years he had urged all his acquaintances to marry--finally even his old adversary, the Archbishop of Mainz. He himself gave two reasons for his decision. For many years he had deprived his father of his son; and it would be like an atonement if he should leave to old Hans a grandson in case of his own death. There was also some defiance in it. His adversaries were saying in triumph that Luther was humiliated, and since all the world now took offense at him, he proposed to give them still greater offense in his good cause. He was of vigorous nature, but there was no trace of coarse sensuality in him, and we may assume that the best reason, which he confessed to no friend, was, after all, the decisive one: Gossip had known for a long time more than he did, but now he also knew that Catherine was dear to him. "I am no passionate lover, but I am fond of her," he wrote to one of his closest friends. And this marriage, performed in opposition to the judgment of his contemporaries, and amid the shouts of scorn of his adversaries, became the bond to which we Germans owe as much as to the years in which he, a priest of the ancient Church, bore arms in behalf of his theology. For henceforth the husband, the father, and the citizen, became the reformer also of the domestic life of his nation; and the very blessing of their earthly life which Protestants and Catholics share alike today is due to the marriage of an excommunicated monk with a runaway nun. For twenty more busy years he was destined to work as an educator of his nation. During this time his greatest work, the translation of the Bible, was completed, and in this work, which he accomplished in coöperation with his Wittenberg friends, he acquired a complete control of the language of the people--a language whose wealth and power he first learned to realize through this work. We know the lofty spirit which he brought to this undertaking. His purpose was to create a book for the people, and for this he studied industriously turns of phrases, proverbs, and special terms which made up the people's current language. Even Humanists had written an awkward, involved German, with clumsy sentences in unfortunate imitation of the Latin style. Now the nation acquired for daily reading a work which, in simple words and short sentences, gave expression to the deepest wisdom and the best intellectual life of the time. Along with Luther's other works, the German Bible became the foundation of the modern German language, and this language, in which our whole literature and intellectual life has found expression, has become an indestructible possession which, in the gloomiest times, even corrupted and distorted, has reminded the various German strains that they have common interests. Every individual in our country still rises superior to the dialect of his native place, and the language of culture, poetry, and science which Luther created is still the tie which binds all German souls in unity. And what he did for the social life of the Germans was no less; for by his precepts and his writings he consecrated family prayers, marriage and the training of children, the daily life of the community, education, manners, amusements, whatever touches the heart, and all social pleasures. He was everywhere active in setting up new ideals, in laying deeper foundations. There was no field of human duty upon which he did not force his Germans to reflect. Through his many sermons and minor writings he influenced large groups of people, and by his innumerable letters, in which he gave advice and consolation to those who asked for them, he influenced individuals. When he incessantly urged his contemporaries to examine for themselves whether a desire was justified or not, or what was the duty of a father toward his child, of the subject toward the authorities, of the councillor toward the people, the progress which was made through him was so important because here too he set free the conscience of the individual and put everywhere in the place of compulsion from without, against which selfishness had defiantly rebelled, a self-control in harmony with the spirit of the individual. How beautiful is his conception of the necessity of training children by schooling, especially in the ancient languages! How he recommends the introduction of his beloved music into the schools! How large is his vision when he advises the city-councils to establish public libraries! And again, how conscientiously he tried, in matters of betrothal and marriage, to protect the heart of the lovers against stern parental authority! To be sure, his horizon is always bounded by the letter of the Scriptures, but everywhere there sounds through his sermons, his advice, his censure, the beautiful keynote of his German nature, the necessity of liberty and discipline, of love and morality. He had overthrown the old sacrament of marriage, but gave a higher, nobler, freer form to the intimate relation of man and wife. He had fought the clumsy monastery schools; and everywhere in town and hamlet, wherever his influence was felt, there grew up better educational institutions for the young. He had done away with the mass and with Latin church music; he put in its place, for friends and foes alike, regular preaching and German chorals. As time advanced, it became ever more apparent that it was a necessity for Luther to perceive God in every gracious, good and tender gift of this world. In this sense he was always pious and always wise--when he was out-of-doors, or among his friends, in innocent merriment, when he teased his wife, or held his children in his arms. Before a fruit-tree, which he saw hanging full of fruit, he rejoiced in its splendor, and said, "If Adam had not fallen, we should have admired all trees as we do this one." He took a large pear into his hands and marveled: "See! Half a year ago this pear was deeper under ground than it is long and broad, and lay at the very end of the roots. These smallest and least observed creations are the greatest miracles. God is in the humblest things of nature--a leaf or a blade of grass." Two birds made their nest in the Doctor's garden and flew up in the evening, often frightened by passers-by. He called to them, "Oh, you dear birds! Don't fly away. I am very willing to have you here, if you could only believe me. But just so we mortals have no faith in our God." He delighted in the companionship of whole-souled men; he drank his wine with satisfaction, while the conversation ran actively over great things and small. He judged with splendid humor enemies and good acquaintances alike, and told jolly stories; and when he got into discussion, passed his hand across his knee, which was a peculiarity of his; or he might sing, or play the lute, and start a chorus. Whatever gave innocent pleasure was welcome to him. His favorite art was music; he judged leniently of dancing, and, fifty years before Shakespeare, spoke approvingly of comedy, for he said, "It instructs us, like a mirror, how everybody should conduct himself." When he sat thus with Melanchthon, Master Philip was the charitable scholar who sometimes put wise limitations upon the daring assertions of his lusty friend. If, at such times, the conversation turned upon rich people, and Frau Käthe could not help remarking longingly, "If my man had had a notion, he would have got very rich," Melanchthon would pronounce gravely, "That is impossible; for those who, like him, work for the general good cannot follow up their own advantage." But there was one subject upon which the two men loved to dispute. Melanchthon was a great admirer of astrology, but Luther looked upon this science with supreme contempt. On the other hand, Luther, through his method of interpreting the Scriptures--and alas! through secret political cares also--had arrived at the conviction that the end of the world was near. That again seemed to the learned Melanchthon very dubious. So if Melanchthon began to talk about the signs of the zodiac and aspects, and explained Luther's success by his having been born under the sign of the Sun, then Luther would exclaim, "I don't think much of your Sol. I am a peasant's son. My father, grandfather, and great-grandfather were thorough peasants." "Yes," replied Melanchthon, "even in a hamlet, you would have become a leader, a magistrate, or a foreman over other laborers." "But," cried Luther, victoriously, "I have become a bachelor of arts, a master, a monk. That was not foretold by the stars. And after that I got the Pope by the hair and he in turn got me. I have taken a nun to wife and got some children by her. Who saw that in the stars?" Melanchthon, continuing his astrological prophecies and turning to the fate of the Emperor Charles, declared that this prince was destined to die in 1584. Then Luther broke out vehemently--"The world will not last as long as that, for when we drive out the Turks the prophecy of Daniel will be fulfilled and completed; then the Day of Judgment is certainly at our doors." How lovable he was as father in his family! When his children stood before the table and looked hard at the fruit and the peaches, he said, "If anybody wants to see the image of one who rejoiceth in hope, he has here the real model. Oh, that we might look forward so cheerfully to the Judgment Day! Adam and Eve must have had much better fruit! Ours are nothing but crab-apples in contrast. And I think the serpent was then a most beautiful creature, kindly and gracious; it still wears its crown, but after the curse it lost its feet and beautiful body." Once he looked at his three-year-old son who was playing and talking to himself and said, "This child is like a drunken man. He does not know that he is alive, yet lives on safely and merrily and hops and jumps. Such children love to be in spacious apartments where they have room," and he took the child in his arms. "You are our Lord's little fool, subject to His mercy and forgiveness of sins, not subject to the Law. You have no fear; you are safe, nothing troubles you; the way you do is the uncorrupted way. Parents always like their youngest children best; my little Martin is my dearest treasure. Such little ones need their parents' care and love the most; therefore the love of their parents always reaches down to them. How Abraham must have felt when he had in mind to sacrifice his youngest and dearest son! Probably he said nothing to Sarah about it. That must have been a bitter journey for him." His favorite daughter Magdalena lay at the point of death and he lamented, "I love her truly, but, dear God, if it be Thy will to take her away to Thee, I shall gladly know that she is with Thee. Magdalena, my little daughter, you would like to stay here with your father, and yet you would be willing to go to the other Father?" Then the child said, "Yes, dear father, as God wills." When she was dying he fell on his knees before the bed and wept bitterly, and prayed that God would redeem her; and so she fell asleep under her father's hands, and when the people came to help lay out the corpse and spoke to the Doctor according to custom, he said, "I am cheerful in my mind, but the flesh is weak. This parting is hard beyond measure. It is strange to know she is certainly in peace and that it is well with her, and yet to be so sorrowful all the time." His Dominus, or Lord Käthe, as he liked to call his wife in letters to his friends, had soon developed into a capable manager. And she had no slight troubles: little children, her husband often in poor health, a number of boarders--teachers and poor students--her house always open, seldom lacking scholarly or noble guests, and, with all that, scanty means and a husband who preferred giving to receiving, and who once, in his zeal, when she was in bed with a young child, even seized the silver baptismal presents of the child in order to give alms. Luther, in 1527, for instance, could not afford even eight gulden for his former prior and friend Briesger. He writes to him sadly: "Three silver cups (wedding presents) are pawned for fifty gulden, the fourth is sold. The year has brought one hundred gulden of debts. Lucas Kranach will not go security for me any more, lest I ruin myself completely." Sometimes Luther refuses presents, even those which his prince offers him: but it seems that regard for his wife and children gave him in later years some sense of economy. When he died his estate amounted to some eight or nine thousand gulden, comprising, among other things, a little country place, a large garden, and two houses. This was surely in large part Frau Käthe's doing. By the way in which Luther treats her we see how happy his household was. When he made allusions to the ready tongue of women he had little right to do so, for he himself was not by any means a man who could be called reticent. When she showed her joy at being able to bring to table all kinds of fish from the little pond in her garden, the Doctor, for his part, was deeply pleased but did not fail to add a pleasant discourse on the happiness of contentment. Or when on one occasion she became impatient at the reading of the Psalter, and gave him to understand that she had heard enough about saints--that she read a good deal every day and could talk enough about them too--that God only desired her to act like them; then the Doctor, in reply to this sensible answer, sighed and said, "Thus begins discontent at God's word. There will be nothing but new books coming out, and the Scriptures will be again thrown into the corner." But the firm alliance of these two good people was for a long time not without its secret sorrow. We can only surmise the suffering of the wife's soul when, even as late as 1527, Luther in a dangerous illness took final farewell from her with the words: "You are my lawful wife, and as such you must surely consider yourself." In the same spirit as with his dear ones, Luther consorted with the high powers of his faith. All the good characters from the Bible were true friends to him. His vivid imagination had confidently given them shape, and, with the simplicity of a child, he liked to picture to himself their conditions. When Veit Deitrich asked him what kind of person the Apostle Paul was, Luther answered quickly, "He was an insignificant, slim little fellow like Philip Melanchthon." The Virgin Mary was a graceful image to him. "She was a fine girl," he said admiringly; "she must have had a good voice." He liked to think of the Redeemer as a child with his parents, carrying the dinner to his father in the lumber yard, and to picture Mary, when he stayed too long away, as asking--"Darling, where have you been so long?" One should not think of the Saviour seated on the rainbow in glory, nor as the fulfiller of the law--this conception is too grand and terrible for man--but only as a poor sufferer who lives among sinners and dies for them. Even his God was to him preëminently the head of a household and a father. He liked to reflect upon the economy of nature. He lost himself in wondering consideration of how much wood God was obliged to create. "Nobody can calculate what God needs to feed the sparrows and the useless birds alone. These cost him in one year more than the revenues of the king of France. And then think of the other things! God understands all trades. In his tailor shop he makes the stag a coat that lasts a hundred years. As a shoemaker he gives him shoes for his feet, and through the pleasant sun he is a cook. He might get rich if he would; he might stop the sun, inclose the air, and threaten the pope, emperor, bishops and the doctors with death if they did not pay him on the spot one hundred thousand gulden. But he does not do that, and we are thankless scoundrels." He reflected seriously about where the food comes from for so many people. Old Hans Luther had asserted that there were more people than sheaves of grain. The Doctor believed that more sheaves are grown than there are people, but still more people than stacks of grain. "But a stack of grain yields hardly a bushel, and a man cannot live a whole year on that." Even a dunghill invited him to deep reflection. "God has as much to clear away as to create. If He were not continually carrying things off, men would have filled the world with rubbish long ago." And if God often punishes those who fear Him worse than those who have no religion, he appears to Luther to be like a strict householder who punishes his son oftener than his good-for-nothing servant, but who secretly is laying up an inheritance for his son; while he finally dismisses the servant. And merrily he draws the conclusion, "If our Lord can pardon me for having annoyed Him for twenty years by reading masses, He can put it to my credit also that at times I have taken a good drink in His honor. The world may interpret it as it will." He is also greatly surprised that God should be so angry with the Jews. "They have prayed anxiously for fifteen hundred years with seriousness and great zeal, as their prayer-books show, and He has not for the whole time noticed them with a word. If I could pray as they do I would give books worth two hundred florins for the gift. It must be a great unutterable wrath. O, good Lord, punish us with pestilence rather than with such silence!" Like a child, Luther prayed every morning and evening, and frequently during the day, even while eating. Prayers which he knew by heart he repeated over and over with warm devotion, preferably the Lord's Prayer. Then he recited as an act of devotion the shorter Catechism; the Psalter he always carried with him as a prayer-book. When he was in passionate anxiety his prayer became a stormy wrestling with God, so powerful, great, and solemnly simple that it can hardly be compared with other human emotions. Then he was the son who lay despairingly at his father's feet, or the faithful servant who implores his prince; for his whole conviction was firmly fixed that God's decisions could be affected by begging and urging, and so the effusion of feeling alternated in his prayer with complaints, even with earnest reproaches. It has often been told how, in 1540, at Weimar, he brought Melanchthon, who was at the point of death, to life again. When Luther arrived, he found Master Philip in the death throes, unconscious, his eyes set. Luther was greatly startled and said, "God help us! How the Devil has wronged this _Organan_," then he turned his back to the company and went to the window as he was wont to do when he prayed. "Here," Luther himself later recounted, "Our Lord had to grant my petition, for I challenged Him and filled His ears with all the promises of prayer which I could remember from the Scriptures, so that He had to hear me if I was to put any trust in His promises." Then he took Melanchthon by the hand saying, "Be comforted, Philip, you will not die;" and Melanchthon, under the spell of his vigorous friend, began at once to breathe again, came back to consciousness, and recovered. As God was the source of all good, so, for Luther, the Devil was the author of everything harmful and bad. The Devil interfered perniciously in the course of nature, in sickness and pestilence, failure of crops and famine. But since Luther had begun to teach, the greater part of the Enemy's activity had been transferred to the souls of men. In them he inspired impure thoughts as well as doubt, melancholy, and depression. Everything which the thoughtful Luther stated so definitely and cheerfully rested beforehand with terrible force upon his conscience. If he awoke in the night, the Devil stood by his bed full of malicious joy and whispered alarming things to him. Then his mind struggled for freedom, often for a long time in vain. And it is noteworthy how the son of the sixteenth century proceeded in such spiritual struggles. Sometimes it was a relief to him if he stuck out of bed the least dignified part of his body. This action, by which prince and peasant of the time used to express supreme contempt, sometimes helped when nothing else would. But his exuberant humor did not always deliver him. Every new investigation of the Scriptures, every important sermon on a new subject, caused him further pangs of conscience. On these occasions he sometimes got into such excitement that his soul was incapable of systematic thinking, and trembled in anxiety for days. When he was busy with the question of the monks and nuns, a text struck his attention which, as he thought in his excitement, proved him in the wrong. His heart "melted in his body; he was almost choked by the Devil." Then Bugenhagen visited him. Luther took him outside the door and showed him the threatening text, and Bugenhagen, apparently upset by his friend's excitement, began to doubt too, without suspecting the depth of the torment which Luther was enduring. This gave Luther a final and terrible fright. Again he passed an awful night. The next morning Bugenhagen came in again. "I am thoroughly angry," he said; "I have only just looked at the text carefully. The passage has a quite different meaning." "It is true," Luther related afterward, "it was a ridiculous argument--ridiculous, I mean, for a man in his senses, but not for him who is tempted." Often he complained to his friends about the terrors of the struggles which the Devil caused him. "He has never since the creation been so fierce and angry as now at the end of the world. I feel him very plainly. He sleeps closer to me than my Käthe--that is, he gives me more trouble than she does pleasure." Luther never tired of censuring the pope as the Anti-Christ, and the papal system as the work of the Devil. But a closer scrutiny will recognize under this hatred of the Devil an indestructible piety, in which the loyal heart of the man was bound to the old Church. What became hallucinations to him were often only pious remembrances from his youth, which stood in startling contrast to the transformations which he had passed through as a man. For no man is entirely transformed by the great thoughts and deeds of his manhood. We ourselves do not become new through new deeds. Our mental life is based upon the sum of all thoughts and feelings that we have ever had. Whoever is chosen by Fate to establish new greatness by destroying the greatness of the old, shatters in fragments at the same time a portion of his own life. He must break obligations in order to fulfil greater obligations. The more conscientious he is, the more deeply he feels in his own heart the wound he has inflicted upon the order of the world. That is the secret sorrow, the regret, of every great historical character. There are few mortals who have felt this sorrow so deeply as Luther. And what is great in him is the fact that such sorrow never kept him from the boldest action. To us this appears as a tragic touch in his spiritual life. Another thing most momentous for him was the attitude which he had to take toward his own doctrine. He had left to his followers nothing but the authority of Scripture. He clung passionately to its words as to the last effective anchor for the human race. Before him the pope, with his hierarchy, had interpreted, misinterpreted, and added to the text of the Scriptures; now he was in the same situation. He, with a circle of dependent friends, had to claim for himself the privilege of understanding the words of the Scriptures correctly, and applying them rightly to the life of the times. This was a superhuman task, and the man who undertook it must necessarily be subject to some of the disadvantages which he himself had so grandly combatted in the Catholic Church. His mental makeup was firmly decided and unyielding: he was born to be a ruler if ever a mortal was; but this gigantic, daemonic character of his will inevitably made him sometimes a tyrant. Although he practised tolerance in many important matters, often as the result of self-restraint and often with a willing heart, this was only the fortunate result of his kindly disposition, which was effective also here. Not infrequently, however, he became the pope of the Protestants. For him and his people there was no choice. He has been reproached in modern times for doing so little to bring the laity into coöperation by means of a presbyterial organization. Never was a reproach more unjust. What was possible in Switzerland, with congregations of sturdy free peasants, was utterly impracticable at that time in Germany. Only the dwellers in the larger cities had among them enough intelligence and power to criticise the Protestant clergy; almost nine-tenths of the Protestants in Germany were oppressed peasants, the majority of whom were indifferent and stubborn, corrupt in morals, and, after the Peasant War, savage in manners. The new church was obliged to force its discipline upon them as upon neglected children. Whoever doubts this should look at the reports of visitations, and notice the continued complaints of the reformers about the rudeness of their poverty-stricken congregations. But the great man was subject to still further hindrances. The ruler of the souls of the German people lived in a little town, among poor university professors and students, in a feeble community of which he often had occasion to complain. He was spared none of the evils of petty surroundings, of unpleasant disputes with narrow-minded scholars or uncultured neighbors. There was much in his nature which made him especially sensitive to such things. No man bears in his heart with impunity the feeling of being the privileged instrument of God. Whoever lives in that feeling is too great for the narrow and petty structure of middle-class society. If Luther had not been modest to the depths of his heart, and of infinite kindness in his intercourse with others, he would inevitably have appeared perfectly unendurable to the matter-of-fact and common-sense people who stood indifferent by his side. As it was, however, he came only on rare occasions into serious conflict with his fellow-citizens, the town administration, the law faculty of his university, or the councillors of his sovereign. He was not always right, but he almost always carried his point against them, for seldom did any one dare to defy the violence of his anger. With all this he was subject to severe physical ailments, the frequent return of which in the last years of his life exhausted even his tremendous vigor. He felt this with great sorrow, and incessantly prayed to his God that He might take him to Himself. He was not yet an old man in years, but he seemed so to himself--very old and out of place in a strange and worldly universe. These years, which did not abound in great events, but were made burdensome by political and local quarrels, and filled with hours of bitterness and sorrow, will inspire sympathy, we trust, in every one who studies the life of this great man impartially. The ardor of his life had warmed his whole people, had called forth in millions the beginnings of a higher human development; the blessing remained for the millions, while he himself felt at last little but the sorrow. Once he joyfully had hoped to die as a martyr; now he wished for the peace of the grave, like a trusty, aged, worn-out laborer--another case of a tragic human fate. But the greatest sorrow that he felt lay in the relation of his doctrine to the life of his nation. He had founded a new church on his pure gospel, and had given to the spirit and the conscience of the people an incomparably greater meaning. All about him flourished a new life and greater prosperity, and many valuable arts--painting and music--the enjoyment of comfort, and a finer social culture. Still there was something in the air of Germany which threatened ruin: princes and governments were fiercely at odds, foreign powers were threatening invasions--the Emperor of Spain, the Pope from Rome, the Turks from the Mediterranean; fanatics and demagogues were influential, and the hierarchy was not yet fallen. As to his new gospel, had it welded the nation into greater unity and power? The discontent had only been increased. The future of his church was to depend on the worldly interests of a few princes; and he knew the best among them! Something terrible was coming; the Scriptures were to be fulfilled; the Day of Judgment was at hand. But after this God would build up a new universe more beautiful, grander, and purer, full of peace and happiness, a world in which no devil would exist, in which every human soul would feel more joy over the flowers and fruit of the new trees of heaven than the present generation over gold and silver; where music, the most beautiful of all arts, should ring in tones much more delightful than the most splendid song of the best singers in this world. There a good man would find again all the dear ones whom he had loved and lost in this world. The longing of the creature for the ideal type of existence grew stronger and stronger in him. If he expected the end of the world, it was due to dim remembrances from the far-distant past of the German people, which still hovered over the soul of the new reformer. Yet it was likewise a prophetic foreboding of the near future. It was not the end of the world that was in preparation, but the Thirty Years' War. Thus he died. When the hearse with his corpse passed through the Thuringian country, all the bells in city and hamlet tolled, and the people crowded sobbing about his bier. A large portion of the German national strength went into the coffin with this one man. And Philip Melanchthon spoke in the castle church at Wittenberg over his body: "Any one who knew him well, must bear witness to this--that he was a very kind man, gracious, friendly, and affectionate in all conversation, and by no means insolent, stormy, obstinate, or quarrelsome. And yet with this went a seriousness and courage in words and actions, such as there should be in such a man. His heart was loyal and without guile. The severity which he used in his writings against the enemies of the Gospel came not from a quarrelsome and malicious spirit but from great seriousness and zeal for the truth. He showed very great courage and manhood, and was not easily disturbed. He was not intimidated by threats, danger, or alarms. He was also of such a high, clear intelligence that when affairs were confused, obscure, and difficult he was often the only one who could see at once what was advisable and feasible. He was not, as perhaps some thought, too unobservant to notice the condition of the government everywhere. He knew right well how we are governed, and noted especially the spirit and the intentions of those with whom he had to do. We, however, must keep a faithful, everlasting memory of this dear father of ours, and never let him go out of our hearts." Such was Luther--an almost superhuman nature; his mind ponderous and sharply limited, his will powerful and temperate, his morals pure, his heart full of love. Because no other man appeared after him strong enough to become the leader of the nation, the German people lost for centuries their leadership of the earth. The leadership of the Germans in the realm of intellect, however, is founded on Luther. [Footnote 2: "_Cito remitte matri filiolum_!" ("Send the little boy right home to his mother.")] * * * * * FREDERICK THE GREAT By GUSTAV FREYTAG TRANSLATED BY E.H. BABBITT, A.B. Assistant Professor of German, Tufts College What was it that, after the Thirty Years' War drew the attention of the politicians of Europe to the little State on the northeastern frontier of Germany which was struggling upward in spite of the Swedes and the Poles, the Hapsburgs and the Bourbons? The inheritance of the Hohenzollern was no richly endowed land in which the farmer dwelt in comfort on well-tilled acres, to which wealthy merchant princes brought, in deeply-laden galleons, the silks of Italy and the spices and ingots of the New World. It was a poor, desolate, sandy country of burned cities and ruined villages. The fields were untilled, and many square miles, stripped of men and cattle, were given over to the caprices of wild nature. When, in 1640, Frederick William succeeded to the Electorate, he found nothing but contested claims to scattered territories of some thirty thousand square miles. In all the fortified places of his home land were lodged insolent conquerors. In an insecure desert this shrewd and tricky prince established his state, with a craft and disregard of his neighbors' rights which, even in that unscrupulous age, aroused criticism, but at the same time, with a heroism and greatness of mind which more than once showed higher conceptions of German honor than were held by the Emperor himself or any other prince of the realm. Nevertheless, when, in 1688, this adroit statesman died, he left behind him only an unimportant State, in no way to be reckoned among the powers of Europe. For while his sovereignty extended over about forty-four thousand square miles, these contained only one million three hundred thousand inhabitants; and when Frederick II., a hundred years after his great-grandfather, succeeded to the crown, he inherited only two million two hundred and forty thousand subjects, not so many as the single province of Silesia contains today. What was it then that, immediately after the battles of the Thirty Years' War, aroused the jealousy of all the governments, and especially of the Imperial house, and which since then has made such warm friends and such bitter enemies for the Brandenburg government? For two centuries neither Germans nor foreigners ceased to set their hopes on this new State, and for an equally long time neither Germans nor foreigners ceased to call it--at first with ridicule, and then with spite--"an artificial structure which cannot endure heavy storms, which has intruded without justification among the powers of Europe." How did it come about that impartial judges finally, soon after the death of Frederick the Great, declared that it was time to cease prophesying the destruction of this widely hated power? For after every defeat, they said, it had risen more vigorously, and had repaired all the damages and losses of war more quickly than was possible elsewhere; its prosperity and intelligence also were increasing more rapidly than in any other part of Germany. It was indeed a very individual and new shade of German character which appeared in the Hohenzollern princes and their people on the territory conquered from the Slavs, and forced recognition with sharp challenge. It seemed that the characters there embraced greater contrasts; for the virtues and faults of the rulers, the greatness and the weakness of their policies, stood forth in sharp contradiction, every limitation appeared more striking, every discord more violent, and every achievement more astonishing. This State could apparently produce everything that was strange and unusual, but could not endure one thing--peaceful mediocrity, which elsewhere may be so comfortable and useful. With this the situation of the country had much to do. It was a border land, making head at once against the Swedes, the Slavs, the French, and the Dutch. There was hardly a question of European diplomacy which did not affect the weal and woe of this State; hardly an entanglement which did not give an active prince the opportunity to validate his claim. The decadent power of Sweden and the gradual dissolution of Poland opened up extensive prospects; the superiority of France and the distrustful friendship of Holland urged armed caution. From the very first year, in which Elector Frederick William had been obliged to take possession of his own fortresses by force and cunning, it was evident that there on the outskirts of German territory a vigorous, cautious, warlike government was indispensable for the safety of Germany. And after the beginning of the French War in 1674, Europe recognized that the crafty policy which proceeded from this obscure corner was undertaking also the astonishing task of heroically defending the western boundary of Germany against the superior forces of the King of France. There was perhaps also something remarkable in the racial character of the Brandenburg people, in which princes and subjects shared alike. Down to Frederick's time, the Prussian districts had given to Germany relatively few scholars, writers, and artists. Even the passionate zeal of the Reformation seemed to be subdued there. The people who inhabited the border land, mostly of the Lower Saxon strain, with a slight tinge of Slavic blood, were a tough, sturdy race, not specially graceful in social manners, but with unusual keenness of understanding and clearness of judgment. Those who lived in the capital had been glib of tongue and ready to scoff from time immemorial: all were capable of great exertions; industrious, persistent, and of enduring strength. [Illustration: _From the Painting by Adolph von Menzel_ FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS ROUND TABLE] But the character of the princes was a more potent factor than the location of their country or the race-character of their people; for the way in which the Hohenzollerns molded their state was different from that of any other princes since the days of Charlemagne. Many a princely family can show a number of rulers who have successfully built up their state--the Bourbons, for instance, united a wide expanse of territory into one great political body;--or who have been brave warriors through several generations,--there never were any braver than the Vasas or the Protestant Wittelsbachs in Sweden. But none have been the educators of their people as were the early Hohenzollerns, who as great landed proprietors in a devastated country drew new men into their service and guided their education; who for almost a hundred and fifty years, as strict managers, worked, schemed, and endured, took risks, and even did injustice--all that they might build up for their state a people like themselves--hard, economical, clever, bold, with the highest civic ambitions. In this sense we are justified in admiring the providential character of the Prussian State. Of the four princes who ruled it from the Thirty Years' War to the day when the "hoary-headed abbot in the monastery of Sans Souci" closed his weary eyes, each one, with his virtues and vices, was the natural complement of his predecessor--Elector Frederick William, the greatest statesman produced by the school of the Thirty Years' War, the splendor-loving King Frederick I., the parsimonious despot Frederick William I., and finally, in the eighteenth century, he in whom were united the talents and great qualities of almost all his ancestors--the flower of the family. Life in the royal palace at Berlin was cheerless in Frederick's childhood; poorer in love and sunshine than in most citizens' households at that rude time. It may be doubted whether the king his father, or the queen, was more to blame for the disorganization of the family life--in either case through natural defects which grew more pronounced in the constant friction of the household. The king, an odd tyrant with a soft heart but a violent temper, tried to compel love and confidence with a cudgel; he possessed keen insight into human nature, but was so ignorant that he always ran the risk of becoming the victim of a scoundrel. Dimly aware of his weakness, he had grown suspicious and was subject to sudden fits of violence. The queen, in contrast, was a rather insignificant woman, colder at heart, but with a strong sense of her princely dignity; with a tendency to intrigue, without prudence or discretion. Both had the best of intentions, and took honest pains to bring up their children to a capable and worthy maturity; but both unintelligently interfered with the sound development of the childish souls. The mother was so tactless as to make the children, even at a tender age, the confidants of her annoyances and intrigues. The undignified parsimony of the king, the blows which he distributed so freely in his rooms, and the monotonous daily routine which he forced upon her, were the subject of no end of complaining, sulking, and ridicule in her apartments. Crown Prince Frederick grew up, the playmate of his elder sister, into a gentle child with sparkling eyes and beautiful light hair. He was taught with exactness what the king desired,--and that was little enough: French, a certain amount of history, and the necessary accomplishments of a soldier. Against the will of his father (the great King had never surmounted the difficulties of the genitive and dative) he acquired some knowledge of the Latin declensions. To the boy, who was easily led and in the king's presence looked shy and defiant, the women imparted his first interest in French literature. He himself later gave his sister the credit for it, but his governess too was an accomplished French woman. That the foreign atmosphere was hateful to the king certainly contributed to make the son fond of it; for almost systematically praise was bestowed in the queen's apartments upon everything that was displeasing to the stern mind of the master. When in the family circle the king made one of his clumsy, pious speeches, Princess Wilhelmina and young Frederick would look at each other significantly, until the mischievous face of one or the other aroused childish laughter, and brought the king's wrath to the point of explosion. For this reason, the son, even in his earliest years, became a source of vexation to his father, who called him an effeminate, untidy fellow with an unmanly pleasure in clothes and trifles. But from the report of his sister, for whose unsparing judgment censure was easier than praise, it is evident that the amiability of the talented boy had its effect upon those about him: as when, for instance, he secretly read a French story with his sister, and recast the whole Berlin Court into the comic characters of the novel; when they made forbidden music with flute and lute; when he went in disguise to her and they recited the parts of a French comedy to each other. But in order to enjoy even these harmless pleasures the prince was constantly forced into falsehood, deception, and disguise. He was proud, high-minded, magnanimous, with an uncompromising love of truth. The fact that deception was utterly repulsive to him, that even where it was advisable he was unwilling to stoop to it, and that, if he ever undertook it, he dissimulated unskilfully, threw a constantly increasing strain upon his relations with his father. The king's distrust grew, and the son's offended sense of personal dignity found expression in the form of stubbornness. So he grew up surrounded by coarse spies who reported every word to the king. With a mind of the richest endowments, of the most discerning eagerness for knowledge, but without any suitable male society, it is no wonder that the young man went astray. In comparison with other German courts, the Prussian might be regarded as very virtuous: but frivolity toward women and a lack of reserve in the discussion of the most dubious relations were pronounced even there. After a visit to the dissolute court of Dresden, Prince Frederick began to behave like other princes of his time, and generally found good comrades among his father's younger officers. We know little about him at that period, but may conclude that he ran some risk, not of becoming depraved, but of wasting valuable years in a spendthrift life among unworthy companions. It certainly was not alone the increasing dissatisfaction of his father which at that time destroyed his peace of mind and tossed him about aimlessly, but quite as much that inner discontent, which leads an unformed youth the more wildly astray the greater the secret demands are which his mind makes on life. He determined to flee to England. How the flight failed, how the anger of the military commander, Frederick William, flamed up against the deserting officer, every one knows. With the days of his imprisonment in Küstrin and his stay in Ruppin, his years of serious education began. The terrible experiences he had been through had aroused new strength in him. He had endured, with princely pride, all the terrors of death and of the most terrible humiliation. He had reflected in the solitude of his prison on the greatest riddle of life--on death and what is beyond. He had realized that there was nothing left for him but submission, patience, and quiet waiting. But bitter, heart-rending misfortune is a school which develops not only the good--it fosters also many faults. He learned to keep his counsel hidden in the depth of his soul, and to look upon men with suspicion, using them as his instruments, deceiving and flattering them with prudent serenity in which his heart had no share. He was obliged to flatter the cowardly and vulgar Grumbkow, and to be glad when he finally had won him over to his side. For years he had to take the utmost pains, over and over again, to conquer the displeasure and lack of confidence of his stern father. His nature always revolted against such humiliation, and he tried by bitter mockery to give expression to his injured self-esteem. His heart, which warmed toward everything noble, prevented him from becoming a hardened egoist; but he did not grow any the milder or more conciliatory, and long after he had become a great man and wise ruler, there remained in him from this time of servitude some trace of petty cunning. The lion sometimes, in a spirit of undignified vengeance, did not scorn to scratch like a cat. Still, in those years, he learned something useful too--the strict spirit of economy with which his father's narrow but able mind cared for the welfare of his country and his household. When, to please the king, he had to draw up leases, and took pains to increase the yield of a domain by a few hundred thalers; or even entered unduly into the hobbies of the king and proposed to him to kidnap a tall shepherd of Mecklenburg as a recruit--these doings were at first, to be sure, only a tedious means of propitiating the king, for he asked Grumbkow to procure for him a man to make out the lists in his stead; the officers in public and private service informed him where a surplus was to be made, here and there, and he continued to ridicule the giant soldiers whenever he could with impunity. Gradually, however, the new world into which he had been transplanted, and the practical interests of the people and of the State, became attractive to him. It was easy to see that even his father's turn for economy was often tyrannical and whimsical. The king was always convinced that he wished nothing but the best for his country, and therefore took the liberty to interfere, in the most arbitrary manner, even in the details of the property and business of private persons. He ordered, for instance, that no he-goat should run with the ewes; that all colored sheep, gray, black, or piebald, should be completely disposed of within three years, and only fine white wool be tolerated; he prescribed exactly how the copper standard measures of the Berlin bushel, which he had sent all over the country (at the expense of his subjects) should be preserved and kept locked up so as to get no dents. In order to foster the linen and woolen industry, he decreed that his subjects should wear none of the fashionable chintz and calico, and threatened with a hundred thalers' fine and three days in the pillory everybody who, after eight months, permitted a shred of calico in his house in dress, gown, cap, or furniture coverings. This method of ruling certainly seemed severe and petty; but the son learned to honor nevertheless the prudent mind and good intentions which were recognizable underneath such edicts, and himself gradually acquired a wealth of detailed knowledge such as is not usually at the disposal of a prince--real estate values, market prices, and the needs of the people; the usages, rights, and duties of humble life. He even absorbed something of the pride with which the King boasted of his business knowledge; and when he himself had become the all-powerful administrator of his State, the unbounded advantage which was due to his knowledge of the people and of trade became manifest. Only in this way was the wise economy made possible with which he managed his own household and the State finances, as well as the unceasing care for detail by which he developed agriculture, trade, prosperity, and culture among his people. He could examine equally well the daily accounts of his cooks and the estimates of the income from the domains, forests, and taxes. For his ability to judge with precision the smallest things as well as the greatest, his people were in great part indebted to the years during which he had sat unwillingly as assessor at the green table at Ruppin. Sometimes, however, there befell him also what in his father's time had been vexatious--that his knowledge of business details was, after all, not extensive enough, and that he, like his father, gave orders which arbitrarily interfered with the life of his Prussians, and could not be carried out. Scarcely had Frederick partially recovered from the blows of the great catastrophe of his youth, when a new misfortune fell upon him, just as terrible as the first, and in its consequences still more momentous for his life. He was forced by the King to marry. Heartrending is the sorrow with which he struggles to free himself from the bride chosen for him. "She may be as frivolous as she pleases if only she is not a simpleton! That I cannot bear." It was all in vain. He looked upon this alliance with bitterness and anger almost to the very day of his wedding, and never outgrew the bitter belief that his father had thus destroyed his emotional life. His sensitive feelings, his affectionate heart, were bartered away in the most reckless manner. Nor by this act was he alone made unhappy, but also a good woman who was worthy of a better fate. Princess Elizabeth of Bevern had many noble qualities of heart; she was not a simpleton, she did not lack beauty, and could pass muster before the fierce criticism of the princesses of the royal house. But we fear that, if she had been an angel from heaven, the pride of the Prince would have protested against her, for he was offended to the depths of his nature by the needless barbarity of a compulsory marriage. And yet the relation was not always so cold as has sometimes been assumed. For six years the kindness of heart and tact of the Princess succeeded time after time in reconciling the crown prince to her. In the retirement of Rheinsberg she was really his helpmeet and an amiable hostess for his guests, and it was reported by the Austrian agents to the Court of Vienna that her influence was increasing. But her modest, clinging nature had too little of the qualities which can permanently hold an intellectual man. The wide-awake members of the Brandenburg line felt the need of giving quick and pointed expression to every easily aroused feeling. When the Princess was excited, she grew quiet as if paralyzed; she also lacked the easy graces of society. The two natures did not agree. Then, too, her manner of showing affection toward her husband, always dutiful, and subordinating herself as if under a spell and overwhelmed by his great mind, was not very interesting for the Prince, who had acquired, with the French intellectual culture, no little of the frivolity of French society. When Frederick became King, the Princess soon lost even the slight part which she had won in her husband's affections. His long absence in the first Silesian War gave the finishing stroke to their estrangement. The relations of husband and wife became more and more distant. Years passed when they did not see each other, and icy brevity and coolness can be perceived in his letters to her. Still the fact that the King was obliged to esteem her character so highly maintained her in her outward position. Later, his relations with women influenced his emotions very slightly. Even his sister at Bayreuth, sickly, nervous, embittered by jealousy of an unfaithful husband, was estranged from her brother for years; and not until she had given up all hope of life did this proud member of the House of Brandenburg, aging and unhappy, seek again the heart of the brother whose little hand she had once held as they stood before their stern father. His mother also, to whom King Frederick always showed excellent filial devotion, was not able to occupy a large place in his heart. His other brothers and sisters were younger, and were only too much disposed to hatch obscure domestic conspiracies against him. If the King ever condescended to show any attentions to a lady of the court or of the stage, these were in general as disturbing as they were flattering for the persons in question. When he found intelligence, grace, and womanly dignity united, as in Frau von Camas, who was the Queen's first lady-in-waiting, he expressed the amiability of his nature in many cordial attentions. But on the whole, women did not add much light or splendor to his life, and the cordial intimacy of family life hardly ever warmed his heart. In this direction his feelings were dried up. This was perhaps fortunate for his people, it was undoubtedly fatal to his private life. The full warmth of his human feelings was reserved almost exclusively for his little circle of intimates, with whom he laughed, wrote poetry, discussed philosophy, made plans for the future, and later discussed his military operations and dangers. His married life in Rheinsberg opens the best period of his younger years. He succeeded in bringing together there a number of well educated, cheerful companions. The little circle led a poetic life of which those who shared in it have left a pleasing picture. Frederick began to work seriously on his education. The expression of emotion easily took for him the form of conventional French versification. He worked incessantly to acquire the refinements of the foreign style. But his mind was also busy with more serious matters. He eagerly sought answers to all the highest questions of humanity in the works of the Encyclopedists and of Christian Wolff. He sat bent over maps and battle-plans, and, along with parts for the amateur theatre and architects' sketches, other projects were in preparation, which, a few years later, were to arouse the attention of the world. Then the day came when his dying father laid down the reins of government and told the officer of the day to take his orders from the new commander-in-chief of Prussia. How the Prince was judged by his political contemporaries we see from the characterization which an Austrian agent had given of him a short time before: "He is graceful, wears his own hair, and has a somewhat careless bearing; likes the fine arts and good cooking. He would like to begin his rule by something striking. He is a firmer friend of the army than his father. His religion is that of a gentleman: he believes in God and the forgiveness of sins. He likes splendor and things on a large scale. He will reëstablish all the court positions and bring the nobles to his court." This prophecy was not fully justified. We seek to understand other sides of his nature at this time. The new King was a man of fiery, enthusiastic temperament, he was quickly aroused, and the tears came readily to his eyes. Like his contemporaries, he too was passionately eager to admire grandeur and to give himself up to tender feelings in a poetical mood. He played adagios softly on his flute. Like his worthy contemporaries, he did not easily find, in prose or poetry, the full expression of his feelings; pathetic oratory stirred him to tearful emotion. In spite of all his French aphorisms, the essence of his nature was very German in this respect also. Those who ascribe to him a cold heart have judged him unfairly. It is not cold hearts in princes which give the most offense by their harshness. Such hearts are almost always gifted with the art of satisfying those about them by uniform graciousness and tactful expression. The strongest utterances of contempt are generally found close beside the pleasing tones of a caressing tenderness. But in Frederick, it seems to us, there was a striking and unusual union of two totally opposite tendencies of the emotional nature, which elsewhere are engaged in an unending struggle. He had in equal degree the need to idealize life for himself, and the impulse to destroy ideal moods without mercy in himself and in others. This first peculiarity of his was perhaps the most beautiful, perhaps the saddest, with which a human being was ever equipped in the struggles of earth. His was indeed a poetic nature. He possessed to a high degree that peculiar power which endeavors to reconstruct vulgar reality according to the ideal needs of its own nature, and covers everything near with the grace and light of a new life. It was a necessity for him to make over with the grace of his imagination the image of those dear to him, and to adorn the relation to them into which he had voluntarily entered. In this there was always a certain kind of posing. Even where he had the most ardent feelings, he was more in love with the glorified picture of the individual in his mind than with the real personality. It was in such a mood that he kissed Voltaire's hand. As soon as the difference between the ideal and the real person became unpleasantly perceptible, he let go the person and clung to the image. One to whom nature has given this temperament, letting him see love and friendship chiefly through the colored glass of a poetical mood, will always, according to the judgment of others, show caprice in the choice of his friends. The uniform warmth which treats with consideration all alike seems to be denied to such natures. To any one to whom the King had become a friend in his own fashion, he always showed the greatest attention and assiduity, however much his moods changed at particular moments. He could become as sentimental in his sorrow over the loss of such a friend as any German of the Werther period. He had lived for many years on somewhat distant terms with his sister in Bayreuth, and not until the last years before her death, amid the terrors of a burdensome war, did her image rise vividly again before him as that of an affectionate sister. After her death he found a gloomy satisfaction in picturing to himself and others the cordiality of his relations with her. He erected a little temple to her and often made pilgrimages to it. Toward any one who did not approach his heart through the medium of a poetic mood, or incite him to poetic expression of his affection, or who touched a wrong note anywhere in his sensitive nature, he was cold, contemptuous, and indifferent--a king who only asked to what extent the other person could be useful to him; he even pushed him aside when he could no longer use him. Such a character may perhaps surround the life of a young man with poetic lustre and give brightness and charm even to common things, but unless it is coupled with a high degree of morality, a sense of duty, and a mind set upon higher things, it will leave him sad and lonely in later years. In the most favorable cases it will make bitter enemies as well as very warm admirers. A somewhat similar disposition brought to Goethe's noble soul heavy sorrows, transitory relations, many disappointments, and a solitary old age. It becomes doubly momentous for a king, before whom others rarely stand with assurance and on equal terms; for his most sincere friends may yet turn into admiring flatterers, unstable in their bearing, now constrained under the moral spell of his majesty, now, under the conviction of their own rights, fault-finding and discontented. This need of ideal relations and longing for people to whom he could unbosom himself without reserve, worked at cross purposes with Frederick's penetrating discrimination, and his uncompromising love of truth, which was a deadly enemy of all deception, impatiently resisted every illusion, despised shams, and sought for the essence of things. This scrutinizing view of life and its duties might well offer him protection against those deceptions which oftener annoy an imaginative prince, who gives his confidence, than a private individual. His acuteness, however, showed itself also in savage moods as unsparingly, sarcastically, and maliciously destructive. Where did he get this disposition? Was it Brandenburg blood? Was it an inheritance from his great-grandmother, the Electress Sophia of Hanover, and his grandmother, Queen Sophia Charlotte, those intellectual women with whom Leibniz had discussed the eternal harmony of the universe? The harsh school of his youth certainly had had something to do with it. His insight into the foibles of others was keen. Wherever he saw a weak point, wherever any one's manners annoyed or provoked him, his ready tongue was busy. His gibes fell unsparingly upon friend and foe alike; and even where silence and patience were demanded by every consideration of prudence, he could not control himself. At such times his soul seemed to suffer some strange transformation. With merciless exaggeration he distorted the picture of his victim into a caricature. On closer examination the principal motive here also appears to be pleasure in intellectual production. He frees himself from an unpleasant impression by improvising against his victim. He makes a grotesque picture with inner satisfaction and is astonished if the victim, deeply offended, in turn takes up arms against him. His resemblance to Luther in this respect is very striking. Neither the king nor the reformer cared whether his behavior was dignified or seemly, for both of them, excited like men on the hunting field, entirely forgot the consequences in the joy of the fight. Both did themselves and their great causes serious injury in this way, and were honestly surprised when they discovered the fact. To be sure, the blows with the cudgel or the whip which the great monk of the sixteenth century dealt were far more terrible than the pin-pricks of the great prince in the age of enlightenment. But when a king teases and mocks and sometimes pinches maliciously, it is harder to forgive him for his undignified behavior; for he frequently engages in an unequal contest with his victims. The great prince treated all his political opponents in this way, and aroused deadly enemies against himself. He joked at the table, and put in circulation stinging verses and pamphlets about Madame de Pompadour in France and the Empresses Elizabeth and Maria Theresa. Similarly, he sometimes caressed, sometimes scolded and scratched his poetical ideal, Voltaire; but he also proceeded in this way with people whom he really esteemed highly, in whom he put the greatest confidence, and whom he took into the circle of his intimate friends. He brought the Marquis d'Argens to his court, made him chamberlain, member of the Academy, and one of his nearest and dearest friends. The letters which he wrote to him from the camps of the Seven Years' War are among the most beautiful and touching records that the King has left us. When Frederick came home from the war it was his fond hope that the marquis would live with him in his palace at Sans Souci. And a few years later this charming relation was broken up in the most painful manner. How was that possible! The marquis was perhaps the best Frenchman that the King had brought into his circle, a man of honor, with fine feelings, fine education, and really devoted to the King; but he was neither a great character nor an especially strong man. For years the King had admired in him a scholar--which he was not--a wise, clear-sighted, assured philosopher with pleasing wit and fresh humor; he had in short set up an extremely pleasing, fanciful image of him. Now, in daily intercourse, Frederick found himself mistaken. A lack of robustness on the part of the Frenchman, causing him to dwell with hypochondriac exaggeration on his poor health, annoyed the King, who began to realize that the aging marquis was neither a great genius nor an intellectual giant. The ideal which he had formed of him was destroyed. Now the King began to make fun of him on account of his weaknesses. The sensitive Frenchman thereupon asked for leave of absence, that a sojourn of a few months in France might restore his health. The King was offended by this ill-humored attitude, and continued his raillery in friendly letters which he sent him. He said that it was rumored that a werewolf had appeared in France. This was undoubtedly the marquis, in the disguise of a Prussian and a sick man, and he asked if he had begun to eat little children. He had not formerly had that bad habit, but people change a good deal in traveling. The marquis, instead of a few months, stayed two winters. When he was about to return, he sent certificates from his physicians. Probably the worthy man had really been ill, but the King was deeply offended by this awkward attempt at justification on the part of an old friend, and when the latter returned, the old intimacy was gone forever. The King would not let him go, but he took pleasure in punishing the renegade by stinging speeches and harsh jokes. Finally the Frenchman, deeply hurt, asked for his dismissal. His request was granted, and the sorrow and anger of the King is seen from the wording of the order. When the marquis, in the last letter which he wrote the King before his death, represented to him again, and not without bitterness, how scornfully and badly he had treated an unselfish admirer, Frederick read the letter without a word. But he wrote with grief to the dead man's widow telling her of his friendship for her husband, and had a costly monument erected for him in a foreign land. The great prince fared similarly with most of his intimates. Magic as was his power to attract, he had demoniac faculties for repelling. But if any one is disposed to blame the man for this, let him be told that hardly another king in history has so unsparingly disclosed his most intimate soul-life to his friends as Frederick. Frederick had worn the crown only a few months when the Emperor Charles VI. died. Now everything urged the young King to risk a master-stroke. That he determined upon such a step was in itself, in spite of the momentary weakness of Austria, a token of bold courage. The countries which he ruled had perhaps a seventh as many inhabitants as the broad lands of Maria Theresa. True, his army was for the time being far superior to the Austrian in numbers and discipline, and according to the ideas of the time, the mass of the people was not then in the same way as today available for recruiting purposes. Nor did he fully realize the greatness of Maria Theresa. But even in the preparations for the invasion the King showed that he had long hoped to measure himself against Austria. In an exalted mood he entered upon a struggle which was to be decisive for his own life and that of his State. He cared little at heart for the right which he might have to the Silesian duchies, and which with his pen he tried to prove before Europe. For this the policy of the despotic States of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries had no regard whatever. Any one who could find a plausible defense of his cause made use of it, but in case of need the most improbable argument, the most shallow pretext, was sufficient. In this way Louis XIV. had made war; in this way the Emperor had followed up his interests against the Turks, Italians, Germans, French, and Spaniards; in this way a great part of the successes of the great Elector had been frustrated by others. Just where the rights of the Hohenzollerns were the plainest, as in Pomerania, they had been most ruthlessly curtailed, and by no one more than by the Emperor and the Hapsburgs. Now the Hohenzollerns sought their revenge. "Be my Cicero and prove the right of my cause, and I will be your Cæsar and carry it through," Frederick wrote to Jordan after the invasion of Silesia. Gaily, with light step as if going to a dance, the King entered upon the fields of his victories. There was still cheerful enjoyment of life, sweet coquetry with verse, and intellectual conversation with his intimates on the pleasures of the day, on God, nature, and immortality, which he considered the spice of life. But the great task upon which he had entered began to have its effect upon his soul even in the early weeks, even before he had passed through the fiery ordeal of the first great battle. And from that time on it hammered and forged upon his soul until it turned his hair gray and hardened his fiery heart into ringing steel. With that wonderful clearness which was peculiar to him, he watched the beginning of these changes. He even then viewed his own life as from without. "You will find me more philosophical than you think," he writes to his friend. "I have always been so--sometimes more, sometimes less. My youth, the fire of passion, the longing for glory, and, to tell you the whole truth, curiosity, and finally, a secret instinct, have forced me out of the sweet peace which I enjoyed, and the wish to see my name in the gazettes and in history has led me into new paths. Come here to me. Philosophy will maintain her rights, and I assure you that if I had not this cursed love of fame, I should think only of peaceful comfort." When the faithful Jordan actually came to him and the King saw the man of peaceful enjoyment timid and uncomfortable in the field, he suddenly realized that he himself had become another and a stronger man. The guest who had been honored by him so long as the more scholarly, and who had corrected his verses, criticized his letters, and been far ahead of him in the knowledge of Greek philosophy, now, in spite of all his philosophical training, gave the King the impression of a man without courage. With bitter derision Frederick attacked him in one of his best improvisations, contrasting the warrior in himself with the weak philosopher. In however bad taste the ridiculing verses were with which he overwhelmed Jordan again and again, the return of the old cordial feeling was just as quick; but it was the first gentle hint of fate for the King himself. The same thing was to befall him often. He was to lose valuable men, loyal friends, one after another; not only by death, but still more by the coldness and estrangement which arose between his nature and theirs. For the way upon which he had now entered was destined to develop more and more all the greatness, but also all the narrow features, of his nature, up to the limit of human possibility. The higher he rose above others, the smaller their natures inevitably appeared to him. Almost all whom in later years he measured by his own standard were far from able to endure the test, and the dissatisfaction and disappointment which he then experienced became again keener and more relentless until he himself, from a solitary height, looked down with stony eyes upon the doings of the men at his feet; but always, even to his last hours, the piercing chill of his searching glance was broken by the bright splendor of soft human feelings, and the fact that these were left to him is what makes his great tragic figure so affecting. During the first war, to be sure, he still looked back with longing to the calm peace of his "Remusberg," and felt deeply the exaction of the tremendous fate which had already involved him. "It is hard to bear with equanimity this good and bad fortune," he writes; "one may appear indifferent in success and unmoved in adversity, the features of the face can be controlled; but the man, the inward man, the depths of the heart, are affected none the less." And he concludes hopefully, "All that I wish for myself is that success may not destroy in me the human feelings and virtues, to which I have always clung. May my friends find me as I have always been." And at the end of the war he writes: "See, your friend is victorious for the second time! Who would have said a few years ago that your pupil in philosophy would play a soldier's part in the world; that Providence would use a poet to overthrow the political system of Europe?" This shows how fresh and young Frederick felt when he returned to Berlin in triumph after his first war. For the second time he took the field to assert his claim to Silesia. Again he was victorious. He had already the calm confidence of a tried general. His joy at the excellence of his troops was great. "All that flatters me in this victory," he wrote to Frau von Camas, "is that I could contribute by a quick decision and a bold manoeuvre to the preservation of so many good people. I would not have the least of my soldiers wounded for vain glory, which no longer deceives me." But in the midst of the contest came the death of two of his dearest friends, Jordan and Kayserlingk. His grief was touching: "In less than three months I have lost my two most faithful friends, people with whom I had lived daily, pleasant companions, honorable men, and true friends. It is hard for a heart that was made so sensitive as mine to restrain my deep sorrow. When I come back to Berlin, I shall be almost a stranger in my own fatherland, lonesome in my own house. You too have had the misfortune to lose at one time several people who were dear to you. I admire your courage, but I cannot imitate it. My only hope is in time, which can overcome everything in nature. It begins by weakening the impressions on our brains, and only ceases when it destroys us utterly. I anticipate with terror visiting all the places which call up in me sad memories of friends whom I have lost forever." And four weeks after their death he writes to the same friend, who tried to console him: "Do not believe that pressure of business and danger give distraction in sadness. I know from experience that that is a poor remedy. Unfortunately only four weeks have passed since my tears and my sorrow began, but after the violent outbursts of the first days, I feel myself just as sad, just as little consoled, as at the beginning." And when his worthy tutor, Duhan, sent him at his request some French books which Jordan had left behind, the King wrote, late in the autumn of the same year: "Tears came into my eyes when I opened the books of my poor dear Jordan. I loved him so much, it will be hard to realize that he is no more." Not long after the King lost also the intimate friend to whom this letter was addressed. The loss, in 1745, of the friends of his youth was an important turning point in the King's mental life. With these unselfish, honorable men almost everything died which had made him happy in his intercourse with others. The intimacies into which he now entered as a man were all of another kind. Even the best of the new acquaintances received perhaps his occasional confidence, but never his heartfelt friendship. The need for stimulating intellectual intercourse remained, and became even stronger and more imperative, for in this too he was unique; he never could dispense with cheerful and confidential companions, with light, almost reckless conversation, flitting through all shades of human moods, thoughtful or frivolous, from the greatest questions of the human race down to the little events of the day. Immediately after his accession he had written to Voltaire and invited him to his court. He had first met the Frenchman in 1740 on a journey near Wesel. Soon after, Voltaire had come to Berlin for a few days, at heavy expense. He had even then impressed the King as a jester, but Frederick felt nevertheless an infinite respect for the talent of the man. Voltaire was to him the greatest poet of all times, the master of ceremonies of Parnassus, where the King himself was so anxious to play a part. Frederick's desire to have this man in his train became stronger and stronger. He regarded himself as his pupil; he wished to have all his verses approved by the master; among his Brandenburg officials he pined for the wit and spirit of the elegant Frenchman, and finally, his vanity as a sovereign was concerned--he wanted to be a prince of the _beaux esprits_ and philosophers, as he had become a glorious leader of armies. After the second Silesian war his intimates were mostly foreigners. After 1750 he had the pleasure of seeing the great Voltaire also as a member of his court. It was no misfortune that this unworthy man endured for only a few years his sojourn among the barbarians. During these ten years, from 1746 to 1756, Frederick acquired literary independence, and that importance as a writer which is not yet sufficiently appreciated in Germany. As to his French poetry, a German can only judge imperfectly. He was a facile poet, who was easily master of every mood in metre and rhyme, but from the point of view of a Frenchman, he never completely overcame in his lyric poetry the difficulties of a foreign language, however diligently his confidants revised his work. He even lacked, it seems to us, the uniform rhetorical spirit, that style which in Voltaire's time was the first mark of a born poet. The effect of beautiful and noble sentiments, in splendid phraseology, is spoiled by trivial thoughts and commonplace expressions in the next line. Nor was the development of his taste sufficiently assured and independent. In his esthetic judgment he was quick, both to admire and to condemn; in reality, he was much more dependent upon the opinion of his French acquaintances than his pride would have admitted. What was best, moreover, in French poetry at that time--the return to Nature and the struggle of the beauty of reality against the fetters of an antiquated conventionalism--remained to him a sealed book. For a long time he looked upon Rousseau as an eccentric vagabond, and upon the conscientious and accurate spirit of Diderot even as shallow. And yet it seems to us that there often appear in his poems, especially in the light improvisations which he made to please his friends, a wealth of poetical detail and a charming tone of true feeling, which at least his model Voltaire might have envied. Frederick's history of his times is, like Cæsar's _Commentaries_, one of the most important documents of historical literature. True, like the Roman general, like all practical statesmen, he stated facts as they are reflected in the soul of a participant. He does not give due value to everything or full justice to everybody, but he knows infinitely more than is revealed to one at a distance, and he wrote of some of the motives underlying the great events, not without prejudice, yet with magnanimity toward his opponents. Writing at times without the enormous reference material which a professional historian must collect about him, he was occasionally deceived by his memory and his judgment, though both were very reliable. He was, moreover, composing an apology for his house, his politics, his campaigns; and, like Cæsar, he sometimes ignores facts or interprets them as he wishes them to go down to posterity; but his love of truth and the frankness with which he treats his house and his own actions are no less admirable than his sovereign calm and the ease with which he soars above events, in spite of the little rhetorical embellishments which were due to the taste of his time. His many-sidedness is as astonishing as his productiveness. One of the greatest military writers, a historian of importance, a clever poet, and at the same time a popular philosopher, a practical statesman, even a writer of very free and easy anonymous pamphlets, and sometimes a journalist, he was always ready to take up his pen for anything that inspired him and aroused his passions or enthusiasm, or to attack, in verse or prose, any one who provoked or annoyed him--not only the pope and the Empress, the Jesuits and the Dutch journalists, but also old friends if they seemed lukewarm to him,--which he could not endure,--or if they actually threatened to break with him. Never since Luther has there been such a belligerent, relentless, untiring writer. As soon as he put pen to paper he was like Proteus, everything: sage or intriguer, historian or poet, whatever the situation demanded, always an active, fiery, intellectual--sometimes also an ill-mannered--man, with never a moment's thought of his royal position. Whatever he liked he praised in poems or eulogies: the noble doctrines of his own philosophy, his friends, his army, religious liberty, independent investigation, tolerance, and popular education. The conquering power of Frederick's mind had reached out in all directions. When ambition inspired him to victory it seemed as if there were no obstacle that would check him. Then came the years of trial--seven years of terrible, heartrending cares--the great period, in which the heaviest tasks that ever a man accomplished were laid upon his rich, ambitious spirit, in which almost everything perished which was his own possession, joy and happiness, peace and selfish comfort; in which also many pleasing and graceful characteristics of the man were to disappear, that he might become the self-sacrificing prince of his people, the foremost servant of his State, and the hero of a nation. No lust of conquest made him take the field this time; it had long been plain to him that he was fighting for his own life and that of his State. But his determination had grown only the stronger. Like the stormwind he purposed to dash into the clouds which were collecting from all sides about his head, and to break up the thunderbolts through the energy of an irresistible attack, before they were discharged. He had never been conquered up to this time. His enemies had been beaten every time he had fallen upon them with his terrible instrument--the army. Herein lay his only hope. If his well-tried power did not fail him now, he might save his State. But in the very first conflict with his old enemy, the Austrians, he saw that they, too, had learned from him and were changed. He exerted his strength to the utmost, and at Kollin it failed him. The 18th of June, 1757, is the most momentous day in Frederick's life. There happened on that day what twice more in this war snatched victory from him--the general had underestimated his enemy and had expected the impossible from his own brave army. After a short period of stupefaction Frederick arose with new strength. Instead of an aggressive war, he had been forced to wage a desperate war of defense. His foes attacked his little country from all sides. He entered upon a death struggle with every great power of the Continent, master of only four million men and a defeated army. Now his talent as general showed itself as he escaped the enemy after defeats and again attacked in the most unexpected quarters and beat them, faced first one army and then another, unsurpassed in his dispositions, inexhaustible in expedients, unequaled as leader of troops in battle. So he stood, one against five--Austrians, Russians, French, any one of whom was his superior in strength, and at the same time against the Swedes and the Imperial troops. For five years he struggled thus against armies far larger than his own--every spring in danger of being crushed merely by numbers, every autumn free again. A loud cry of admiration and sympathy ran through Europe; and among those who gave the loudest praise, although reluctantly, were his most bitter enemies. Now, in these years of changing fortune, when the King himself experienced such bitter vicissitudes of the fortune of war, his generalship was the astonishment of all the armies of Europe. How, always the more rapid and skilful, he managed to establish his lines against his opponents; how so often he outflanked in an oblique position the weakest wing of the enemy, forced it back, and put it to rout; how his cavalry, which, newly organized, had become the strongest in the world, dashed in fury upon the foe, broke their ranks, scattered their battalions: all this was celebrated everywhere as a new advance in military art, and the invention of surpassing genius. The tactics and the strategy of the Prussian army came to be for almost half a century the ideal and model for all the armies of Europe. It was the unanimous opinion that Frederick was the greatest general of his time, and that there had been few leaders since the beginning of history who could be compared with him. It seemed incredible that the smaller numbers so often conquered the greater, and even when defeated, instead of being routed, faced the enemy, who had hardly recovered from his injuries, as threatening and fully equipped as before. Today we praise not only the field operations of the King, but also the wise prudence with which he handled his supplies. He knew very well how much he was limited by having to consider the commissariat, and the thousands of carts in which he had to take with him the provisions and the daily supplies of the soldiers; but he also knew that this method was his only salvation. Once, when after the battle of Rossbach he made the astonishing march into Silesia--one hundred and eighty-nine miles in fifteen days--he, in the greatest danger, abandoned his old method. He made his way through the country as other armies did at that time, and quartered his men upon the people. But he wisely returned at once to his old plan. For as soon as his enemies learned to imitate this free movement, he was certainly doomed. When the old militia in his ancient provinces rose to arms again, helped to drive out the Swedes, and bravely defended Colberg and Berlin, he accepted their assistance without objection; but he took pains not to encourage a guerilla war; and when his East Frisian peasantry revolted independently against the French and were severely punished by them for it, he told them with brutal frankness that it was their own fault, for war was a matter for soldiers; the business of the peasants and citizens should be uninterrupted industry, the payment of taxes, and the furnishing of recruits. He well knew that he was lost if a people's war in Saxony and Bohemia should be aroused against him. This readiness, indicative of the cautious general, to restrict himself to military forms, which alone made the contest possible for him, may be reckoned among his greatest qualities. Louder and louder became the cry of sorrow and admiration with which Germans and foreigners watched this death-struggle of the lion at bay. As early as 1740 the young King had been praised by the Protestants as the champion of freedom of conscience and enlightenment, against intolerance and the Jesuits. When, a few months after the battle at Kollin, he completely defeated the French at Rossbach, he became the hero of Germany. A glad cry of joy broke out everywhere. For two hundred years the French had done great wrong to the divided country; now the German national idea began to revolt against the influence of French culture, and the King, who himself greatly admired Parisian poetry, had effectively routed the Parisian generals with German musket balls. It was such a brilliant victory, such a humiliating defeat of the hereditary enemy, that everywhere in Germany there was hearty rejoicing. Even where the soldiers of a State were fighting against King Frederick, the people at home in city and country rejoiced at the blows he dealt in good old German fashion. And the longer the war lasted, the more active became the faith in the King's invincibility, and the higher rose the confidence of the Germans. For the first time in long, long years they now had a hero of whose military glory they could be proud--a man who accomplished what seemed more than human. Innumerable anecdotes about him ran through the country. Every little touch about his calmness, good humor, kindness to individual soldiers, and the loyalty of his army, traveled hundreds of miles. How, in danger of death, he played the flute in his tent, how his wounded soldiers sang chorals after the battle, how he took off his hat to a regiment--he has often been imitated since--all this was reported on the Neckar and the Rhine, was printed, and listened to with merry laughter and tears of emotion. It was natural that poets should sing his praise. Three of them had been in the Prussian army: Gleim and Lessing, as secretaries of Prussian generals, and Ewald von Kleist, a favorite of the younger literary circles, as an officer, until the bullet struck him at Kunersdorf. But still more touching for us is the loyal devotion of the Prussian people. The old provinces, Prussia, Pomerania, Brandenburg, and Westphalia, were suffering unspeakably by the war, but the proud joy of having a share in the hero of Europe often lifted even humble men above their own sufferings. Citizens and peasants took the field as militiamen again and again for years. When a number of recruits from the province of Cleves and the county of Ravensberg deserted after a lost battle and returned home, the deserters were declared perjurers by their own fellow-countrymen and relatives, were excluded from the villages and driven back to the army. Foreign opinion was no less enthusiastic. In the Protestant cantons of Switzerland there was as warm sympathy with the King's fate as if the descendants of the Rütli men had never been separated from the German empire. There were people there who were made ill by vexation when the King's cause was in a bad way. It was the same in England. Every victory of the King aroused wild joy in London. Houses were illuminated and pictures and laudatory poems offered for sale. In Parliament Pitt announced with admiration every new deed of the great ally. Even at Paris, in the theatres and salons, people were rather Prussian than French. The French derided their own generals and the clique of Madame de Pompadour. Whoever was on the side of the French arms, so Duclos reports, hardly dared to give expression to his views. In St. Petersburg, the grand duke Peter and his party were such good Prussians that they grieved in secret at every reverse of Frederick's cause. The enthusiasm penetrated even to Turkey and to the Khan of Tartary; and this respectful admiration of a whole continent outlasted the war. When Hackert, the painter, was traveling through the interior of Sicily, a gift of honor of wine and fruit was offered him by the city council because they had heard that he was a Prussian, a subject of the great King for whom they wished thereby to show their reverence; and Muley Ismail, the emperor of Morocco, released without any ransom the crew of a ship belonging to a citizen of Emden, whom the Berbers had brought prisoner to Mogador, sent them in new clothes to Lisbon, and assured them that their King was the greatest man in the world, that no Prussian should be a prisoner in his land, and that his cruisers would never attack the Prussian flag. Poor oppressed soul of the German people! Long years had passed since the men between the Rhine and the Oder had felt the joy of being esteemed above others among the nations of the earth! Now by the magic of one man's power everything was transformed. The German citizen, awakened as from an anxious dream, looked out upon the world and within to his own heart. Men had long vegetated quietly, without a past in which they could rejoice, without a great future in which they could hope. Now all at once they felt that they, too, had a share in the honor and the greatness of the world; that a king and his people, all of their blood, had given to the German national idea a golden setting, and to the history of civilization a new meaning. Now they were experiencing the struggles, ventures, and victories of a great man. Work on in your study, peaceful thinker, fantastic dreamer! You have learned over-night to look down with a smile upon foreign ways and to expect great things of your own talent. Try to realize, now, what flows from your heart! But while the youthful power of the people shook its wings with enthusiastic warmth, how did the great prince feel who was struggling ceaselessly against his enemies? The inspiring cry of the people rang in his ears as a feeble sound. The King heard it almost with indifference. His heart grew calmer and colder. To be sure, passionate hours of sorrow and heart-rending cares came to him over and over again. He kept them hidden from his army; his calm face became harder, his brow more deeply furrowed, and his expression more rigid. Only before a few intimates he opened his heart from time to time, and then for a moment the sorrow of the man who had reached the limits of human possibilities broke forth. Ten days after the battle of Kollin his mother died. A few weeks afterward he drove in anger his brother August Wilhelm from the army, because he had not been strong enough to lead it. The next year this brother died "of sorrow," as the officer of the day announced to the King. Shortly after he received the news of the death of his sister at Bayreuth. One after another his generals fell by his side, or lost the King's confidence, because they were not equal to the superhuman tasks of this war. His veterans, the pride of his heart, hardened warriors, seasoned in three fierce wars, who, dying, stretched out their hands toward him and called his name, were crushed in entire companies about him, and what came to fill the broad gaps that death incessantly mowed in his army were young men, some good material, but many worthless. The King made use of them as he did of others, more sternly, more severely. His glance and his word gave courage and devotion even to the inferior sort, but still he knew that all this was not salvation. His criticism became brief and cutting, his praise rare. So he lived on; five summers and winters came and went; the work was gigantic; his thinking and scheming was inexhaustible, his eagle eye scrutinized searchingly the most remote and petty circumstances, and yet there was no change, and no hope anywhere. The King read and wrote in leisure hours just as before; he composed verses and kept up a correspondence with Voltaire and Algarotti, but he was prepared to see all this come soon to an end--a swift and sudden one. He carried in his pocket day and night something which could make him free from Daun and Laudon. At times the whole affair filled him with disdain. The letters of the man from whom Germany dates a new epoch in its intellectual life deserve to be read with reverence by every German. When you find him writing to Frau von Camas, "For the last six years I have felt that it is the living, not the dead, for whom one should be sorry," if you are shocked by the gloomy energy of his determination you must beware of thinking that in it the power of this remarkable spirit found its highest expression. It is true that the King had some moments of desperation when he longed for death by the enemy's bullet in order not to be forced to use the capsule which he carried in his pocket. He was indeed fully determined not to ruin the State by living as a captive of Austria; to this extent what he writes is terribly true. But he was also of a poetic temperament, a child of the century which so longed for great deeds and found such immense satisfaction in the expression of exalted feelings. He was, to the bottom of his heart, a German with the same emotional needs as, for instance, the infinitely weaker Klopstock and his admirers. The consideration and resolute expression of his final resolve made him freer and more cheerful at heart. He wrote to his sister at Bayreuth about it in the momentous second year of the war; and this letter is especially characteristic, for his sister also was determined not to survive him and the downfall of his house; and he approved this decision, to which, by the way, he gave little attention in his gloomy satisfaction at his own reflections. The two royal children had once secretly recited, in the house of their stern father, the parts of French tragedies; now their hearts beat again in the single thought of freeing themselves by a Catonian death from a life full of disappointment, confusion, and suffering. But when the excited and nervous sister fell seriously ill, Frederick forgot all his Stoic philosophy, and clinging fast to life with a passionate tenderness, worried and mourned over her who was the dearest to him of his family. When she died, his poignant grief was perhaps increased by the feeling that he had interfered in too tragic a manner with a tender woman's life. Thus, even in the greatest of all Germans born in the first half of the eighteenth century, poetic feelings, and the wish to appear beautiful and great, were strangely mingled with the serious realities of life. Poor little Professor Semler who, while under the deepest emotion, still studied his attitudes and worked over his polite phrases, and the great King, who in cool expectation of the hour of his death, still wrote of suicide in beautifully balanced periods--both were sons of the same age, in which pathos, which had not yet found worthy expression in art, luxuriated like climbing plants about the realities of life. But the King was greater than his philosophy. In reality he never lost his courage, nor the persistent, defiant vigor characteristic of the old Germans, nor the secret hope which a man needs in every difficult task. And he held out. The forces of his enemies grew weaker, their generals were worn out, and their armies were scattered. Finally Russia withdrew from the coalition. This, and the King's last victories, turned the balance. He had won. He had not only conquered Silesia, but vindicated its possession for his Prussian kingdom. But while his people rejoiced, and the loyal citizens of his capital prepared a festive reception for him, he shunned their merrymaking and withdrew silent and alone to Sans Souci. He said that he wished to spend his remaining days in peace, living for his people. In the first twenty-three years of his reign he had struggled and fought to maintain his power against the world. Twenty-three years more he was destined to rule peacefully over his people as a wise, stern patriarch. He guided his State with the greatest self-denial, though with insistence on his own ways, striving for the greatest things, but yet in full control even of the smallest. Many of his ideas have been left behind by the advance of modern civilization--they were the result of the experiences of his youth and early manhood. Thought was to be free; every man to think what he pleased, but to do his duty as a citizen. He himself subordinated his comfort and his expenditures to the welfare of the State, meeting the whole expense of the royal household with some two hundred thousand thalers; thinking first of the advantage of his people and last of himself. His subjects, in their turn, he felt should bear cheerfully whatever duties and burdens he imposed upon them. Every one was to remain in the station in which birth and education had placed him. The noblemen were to be landholders and officers; to the citizens belonged the towns, trade, manufacturing, instruction, and invention; to the peasant, the land and the menial work. But in his sphere each one was to be prosperous and happy. Equal, strict, ready justice for every one; no favors to the highborn and rich--rather, in case of doubt, the humble should have the preference. To increase the number of useful men; to make every activity as profitable and as perfect as possible; to buy as little as possible abroad; to produce everything at home, exporting the surplus--these were the leading principles of his social and economic theories. He exerted himself incessantly to increase the acreage of arable land, and to provide new places for settlers. Swamps were drained, lakes drawn off, dikes thrown up. Canals were dug and money advanced to found new factories. At the instigation and with the financial support of the government cities and villages were rebuilt, more solid and sanitary than they had been before. The farmers' credit system, fire insurance societies, and the Royal Bank were founded. Everywhere public schools were established. Educated people were brought in from abroad; the government officials everywhere were required to be educated, and regulated by examination and strict inspection. It is the duty of the historian to enumerate and praise all this, if also to mention some unsuccessful attempts of the King, which were inevitable owing to his endeavor to control everything himself. The King cared for all his lands, and by no means least for his child of sorrow, the newly won Silesia. When he conquered this great district it had a few more than a million inhabitants. They realized vividly the contrast between the easy-going Austrian management and the precise, restless, stirring rule of Prussia. In Vienna the catalogue of prohibited books had been larger than at Rome; now bales of books came incessantly from Germany into the province, reading and buying were astonishingly free, even printed attacks upon the sovereign himself. In Austria it was the privilege of the aristocracy to wear foreign cloth. When the father of Frederick the Great of Prussia had forbidden the importation of cloth, he had first of all dressed himself and his princes in domestic goods. In Vienna no office had been considered aristocratic if it implied anything but a nominal function; all the actual work was a matter for subordinates. A chamberlain stood higher than a veteran general or minister. In Prussia even the highest born was little esteemed if he was not useful to the State, and the King himself was a most exact official, who watched and scolded over every thousand thalers saved or spent. Any one in Austria who left the Catholic Church was punished with confiscation of property and banishment; under the Prussians anybody could leave or join any church--that was his own affair. Under the imperial rule the government had been, on the whole, negligent if it had been forced to occupy itself with any matter; the Prussian officials had their noses and their hands in everything. In spite of the three Silesian wars the province grew to be far more prosperous than it had been under the Empire. Up to this time a hundred years had not been sufficient to wipe out the visible traces of the Thirty Years' War. The people remembered well how in the cities the heaps of rubbish from the time of the Swedish invasions had lain about, and between the remaining houses there were patches of waste ground blackened by fire. Many small cities still had log houses in the old Slavic style, with thatched or shingled roofs, patched up shabbily from time to time. In a few decades the Prussians removed the traces not only of former devastations, but also of the recent Seven Years' War. Frederick laid out several hundred new villages, had fifteen good-sized towns rebuilt in regular streets--largely with funds from the royal treasury--and had compelled the landed proprietors to restore several thousand farms which they had abolished as individual holdings, and install upon them tenants with rights of succession. Under the Empire the taxes had been lower, but they had been unfairly distributed and had fallen chiefly upon the poor, the nobility being exempt from the greater part of them. The collection was imperfect, much was embezzled or poorly applied; relatively little came into the imperial treasury. The Prussians, on the contrary, divided the country into small districts, appraised every acre of land, and in a few years abolished almost all exemptions. The outlying country now paid its land taxes and the cities their excise duties. So the province bore the double burden with greater ease, and no one but the privileged classes grumbled; and with all this, it could maintain forty thousand soldiers, whereas formerly there had been in the province only about two thousand. Before 1740 the nobility had lived _en grand seigneur_. All who were Catholic and rich lived in Vienna. Everybody else who could raise enough money betook himself to Breslau. Now the majority of landholders lived on their estates, the poverty-stricken nobles disappeared, the nobility knew that the King honored them if they looked after the cultivation of the land, and that the new master showed cold contempt to those who neither managed their estates nor filled civil or military positions. Formerly lawsuits had been endless and expensive, hardly to be carried through without bribery and sacrifice of money. Now it was observed that the number of lawyers decreased, so quickly came the decisions. Under the Austrians, to be sure, the caravan trade with the East had been greater; the people of the Bukowina and Hungary, and also the Poles, turned elsewhere and were already looking toward Trieste; but in place of this, new manufacturing industries arose; wool and textiles, and in the mountain valleys a flourishing linen industry. Many found the new era uncomfortable, many were really incommoded by its severity; but few dared to deny that on the whole things had been greatly improved. But another thing in the Prussian system was astonishing to the Silesians, and soon gained a secret power over their minds. This was the Spartan spirit of devotion on the part of the King's servants, which appeared so frequently even among the humblest officials; for instance, the revenue collectors, never popular even before the introduction of the French system. In this case they were retired subaltern officers, veteran soldiers of the King, who had won his battles for him and grown gray in powder smoke. They sat now by the gates smoking their pipes; with their very small pay they could indulge in no luxuries; but they were on the spot from early morning until late at night, doing their duty skilfully, precisely and quickly, as old soldiers are wont to do. Their minds were always on their service; it was their honor and their pride. For years to come old Silesians from the time of the great King used to tell their grandchildren how the punctuality, strictness, and honesty of the Prussian officials had astonished them. In every district headquarters, for instance, there was a tax collector. He lived in his little office, which was perhaps also his bedroom, and collected in a great wooden bowl the land taxes, which the village officials brought into his room monthly on an appointed day. Many thousand thalers were entered on the lists, and were delivered, to the last penny, to the great main treasuries. The pay too of such a man was small. He sat and collected and stowed in purses until his hair became white and his trembling hands were no longer able to manage the two-groschen pieces. And it was the pride of his life that the King knew him personally, and if he ever drove through the place would silently look at him from his great eyes, while the horses were being changed, or, if he was very gracious, give him a slight nod. With respect and a certain awe the people looked upon even these subordinate servants of the new principle, and the Silesians were not alone in this. Something new had come into the world in general. It was not a mere figure of speech when Frederick called himself the foremost servant of his State. As he had taught his wild nobility on the battlefield that it was the highest honor to die for the Fatherland, so his untiring, faithful care forced upon the soul of the least of his servants in the distant border towns the great idea of the duty of living and working first of all for the good of his King and his country. When the province of Prussia was forced, in the Seven Years' War, to do homage to Empress Elizabeth, and remained for several years incorporated in the Russian Empire, the officers of the district found means nevertheless to raise money and grain for their King in secret, and in spite of a foreign army and government. Great skill was used to accomplish the transportation. There were many in the secret, but not a traitor among them. In disguise they stole through the Russian lines at the risk of their lives, although they knew that they would reap small thanks from the King, who did not care for his East Prussians at all. He spoke contemptuously of them, and showed them unwillingly the favors which he bestowed on the other provinces. His face turned to stone whenever he learned that one of his young officers was born between the Memel and the Vistula, and after the war he never trod on East Prussian soil. But this conduct did not disturb the East Prussians in their admiration. They clung with faithful love to their ungracious lord, and his best and most enthusiastic eulogist was Emanuel Kant. Life in the King's service was serious, often hard--work and deprivation without end. It was difficult even for the best to satisfy the strict master; and the greatest devotion received but curt thanks. If a man was worn out he was likely to be coldly cast aside. There was work without end everywhere: something new, something beginning, some scaffolding of an unfinished structure. To a foreign visitor this life did not seem at all graceful; it was austere, monotonous, and rude, with little beauty or carefree cheerfulness. And as the King's bachelor household, his taciturn servants, and the submissive intimates under the trees of the quiet garden, gave a foreign guest the impression of a monastery, so in all Prussian institutions he found something of the renunciation and the discipline of a great busy monastic brotherhood. For something of this spirit had been transmitted even to the people themselves. Today we honor in this an undying merit of Frederick II., for this spirit of abnegation is still the secret of the greatness of the Prussian State, and the final and best guarantee of its permanence. The artfully constructed machine which the great King had set up with so much intelligence and effectiveness was not to last forever; twenty years after his death it broke down; but in the fact that the State did not perish with it, that the intelligence and patriotism of the citizens were able of their own accord to establish under his successors a new life on a new basis, we see the secret of Frederick's greatness. Nine years after the close of the last war which was fought for the possession of Silesia, Frederick increased his domain by a new acquisition, not much less in area, but thinly populated--the Polish districts which have since become German territory under the name of West Prussia. If the King's claims to Silesia had been doubtful, all the acumen of his officials was now needed to make a show of some uncertain right to portions of the new acquisition. About this the King himself was little concerned. He had defended before the world with almost superhuman heroism the occupation of Silesia. This province was united to Prussia by streams of blood. In the case of West Prussia the craft of the politician did the work almost alone, and for a long time the conqueror lacked in public opinion that justification for his action which, as it seems, is given by the horrors of war and the capricious fortune of the battlefield. But this last acquisition of the King's, though wanting in the thunder of guns and the trumpets of victory, was yet, of all the great gifts which the German people owe to Frederick II., the greatest and most abounding in fortunate consequences. Through several hundred years the Germans had been divided and hemmed in and encroached upon by neighbors greedy for conquest; the great King was the first conqueror who again pushed the German boundaries toward the east. A hundred years after his great ancestor had in vain defended the fortresses of the Rhine against Louis XIV., Frederick gave the Germans again the explicit admonition that it was their duty to carry law, education, liberty, culture, and industry into the east of Europe. His whole territory, with the exception of a few Old Saxon districts, had been originally German, then Slavic, then again won from the Slavs by fierce wars or colonization; never since the migrations of the Middle Ages had the struggle ceased for the broad plains east of the Oder; never since the conquest of Brandenburg had this house forgotten that it was the warden of the German border. Whenever wars ceased the politicians were busy. The Elector Frederick William had freed Prussia, the territory of the Teutonic Knights, from feudal allegiance to Poland. Frederick I. had boldly raised this isolated colony to a kingdom. But the possession of East Prussia was insecure. It was not the corrupt republic of Poland which threatened danger, but the rising power of Russia. Frederick had learned to respect the Russians as enemies; he knew the soaring ambition of Empress Catherine, and as a prudent prince seized the right moment. The new territory--Pomerelia, the _voivodeship_ (administrative province) of Kulm and Marienburg, the bishopric of Ermeland, the city of Elbing, a portion of Cujavia, a portion of Posen--united East Prussia with Pomerania and Brandenburg. It had always been a border land. Since the early times people of different races had crowded into the coasts of the Baltic: Germans, Slavs, Lithuanians, and Finns. From the thirteenth century the Germans had made their way into this Vistula country as founders of cities and agriculturists: Teutonic Knights, merchants, pious monks, German noblemen and peasants. On both sides of the Vistula arose the towers and boundary stones of German colonies--supreme among them the magnificent city of Danzig, the Venice of the Baltic, the great seaport of the Slavic countries, with its rich St. Mary's Church and the palaces of its merchant princes; and beyond it on another arm of the Vistula, its modest rival, Elbing: farther up, the stately towers and broad avenues of Marienburg; near it the great princely castle of the Teutonic order, the most beautiful architectural monument of Northern Germany; and in the Vistula valley, on a rich alluvial soil, the old prosperous colonial estates: one of the most productive countries of the world, protected against the devastations of the Slavic stream by massive dikes dating back to the days of the Knights. Still farther up were Marienwerder, Graudenz, Kulm, and in the low lands of the Netze, Bromberg, the centre of the German border colonies among a Polish population. Smaller German towns and village communities were scattered through the whole territory, and the rich Cistercian monasteries of Oliva and Peplin had been zealous colonizers. But in the fifteenth century the tyrannical severity of the Teutonic order had driven the German cities and landowners of West Prussia to an alliance with Poland. The Reformation of the sixteenth century won the submission not only of the German colonists but of three-quarters of the nobility in the great republic of Poland; and toward 1590 about seventy out of a hundred parishes in the Slavic district of Pomerelia were Protestant. It seemed for a short time as if a new commonwealth and a new culture were about to develop in the Slavic East--a great Polish State with German elements in the cities. But the introduction of the Jesuits brought an unsalutary change. The Polish nobility returned to the Catholic Church: in the Jesuit schools their sons were trained to proselytizing fanaticism, and from that time on the Polish State declined, conditions becoming worse and worse. The attitude of the Germans in West Prussia was not uniform toward the proselytizing Jesuits and Slavic tyranny. A large proportion of the immigrant German nobles became Catholic and Polish; the townsmen and peasants remained for the most part obstinately Protestant. So there was added to the conflict in language conflict in religious creed, and to race hatred a religious frenzy. In this century of enlightenment the persecution of Germans in these districts became fanatical. One church after another was torn down, the wooden ones set on fire, and after the church was burned the village had lost its right to a parish: German preachers and school teachers were driven out and disgracefully maltreated. "_Vexa Lutheranum dabit thalerum_" ("harry a Lutheran and he will give up a thaler") was the usual motto of the Poles against the Germans. One of the greatest landowners in the country, a certain Unruh of the Birnbaum family, the starost of Gnesen, was sentenced to die, after having his tongue pulled out and his hands chopped off, because he had copied from German books into a notebook sarcastic remarks about the Jesuits. There was no more justice, no more safety. The national party of the Polish nobility, in alliance with fanatic priests, persecuted most passionately those whom they hated as Germans and Protestants. All sorts of plunder-loving rabble collected on the side of the "patriots" or "confederates." They collected into bands, overran the country in search of plunder, and fell upon the smaller towns and German villages, not only from religious zeal, but still more from the greed of booty. The Polish nobleman Roskowsky wore boots of different colors, a red one to indicate fire, and a black one for death. Thus he rode, levying blackmail, from one place to another, and in Jastrow he had the hands, the feet, and finally the head of the Protestant preacher Willich cut off and thrown into a swamp. This happened in 1768. Such was the condition of the country just before the Prussian occupation. It was a state of things that might perhaps be found now in Bosnia, but would be unheard of in the most wretched corner of Christian Europe. While still only a boy of twelve in the palace in Berlin, Frederick the Great had been reminded by his father's anger and sorrow that the kings of Prussia had a duty as protectors toward the German colonies on the Vistula. For in 1724 a loud call from that quarter for help had rung through Germany, and the bloody tragedy at Thorn became an important subject of public interest and of diplomacy. During a procession which the Jesuits were conducting through the city, some Polish nobles of the Jesuit college had insulted some citizens and schoolboys, and the angered populace had broken into the Jesuit school and college and inflicted damage. This petty street-riot had been brought up in the Polish parliament, sitting as a trial court, and the parliament, after a passionate speech by the leader of the Jesuits, had condemned to death the two burgomasters of the city and sixteen citizens; whereupon the Jesuit party hastened to put to death the head burgomaster, Rössner, and nine citizens, in some cases with barbarous cruelty. The church of St. Mary was taken from the Protestants, the clergymen driven out, and the school closed. King Frederick William had tried in vain at the time to help the unfortunate city. He had prevailed upon all the neighboring powers to send stern notes, and had felt himself bitterly grieved and humiliated when all his representations were disregarded; now after fifty years his son came to put an end to this barbarous disorder, and to unite again with Prussia this land which before the Polish sovereignty had belonged to the Teutonic order. [Illustration: FREDERICK THE GREAT ON A PLEASURE TRIP _From the Painting by Adolph von Menzel_] Danzig, to be sure, indispensable to the Poles, maintained itself through these decades of disorder in aristocratic seclusion. It remained a free city under Slavic protection, for a long time suspicious of the great King and not well disposed toward him. Thorn also had to wait twenty years longer in oppression, separated from the other German colonies, as a Polish border city. But the energetic assistance of the King saved the country and most of the German towns from destruction. The Prussian officials who were sent into the country were astonished at the desolation of the unheard-of situation which existed but a few days' journey from their capital. Only certain larger towns, in which the German life had been protected by strong walls and the old market traffic, and some sheltered country districts, inhabited exclusively by Germans (such as the lowlands near Danzig, the villages under the mild rule of the Cistercians of Oliva, and the prosperous German places of the Catholic Ermeland), were left in tolerable condition. Other towns lay in ruins, as did most of the farmsteads of the open country. The Prussians found Bromberg, a German colonial city, in ruins; and it is even yet impossible to determine exactly how the city came into that condition. In fact, the vicissitudes which the whole Netze district had undergone in the last nine years before the Prussian occupation are completely unknown. No historian, no document, no chronicle, gives reports of the destruction and the slaughter which must have raged there. Evidently the Polish factions fought between themselves, and crop failures and pestilence may have done the rest. Kulm had preserved from an earlier time its well-built walls and stately churches, but in the streets the foundation walls of the cellars stood out of the decaying wood and broken tiles of the crumbled buildings. There were whole streets of nothing but such cellar rooms in which wretched people lived. Of the forty houses of the main market-place twenty-eight had no doors, no roofs, no windows, and no owners. Other cities were in a similar condition. The majority of the country people also lived in circumstances which seemed pitiable to the King's officers, especially on the borders of Pomerania, where the Wendish Cassubians dwelt. Whoever approached a village there saw gray huts with ragged thatch on a bare plain without a tree, without a garden--only the wild cherry-trees were indigenous. The houses were built of poles daubed with clay. The entrance door opened into a room with a great fireplace and no chimney; heating stoves were unknown. Seldom was a candle lighted, only pineknots brightened the darkness of the long winter evenings. The chief article of the wretched furniture was a crucifix with a holy water basin below. The filthy and uncouth people lived on rye porridge, often on herbs which they cooked like cabbage in a soup, on herrings, and on brandy, to which women as well as men were addicted. Bread was baked only by the richest. Many had never in their lives tasted such a delicacy; few villages had an oven. If the people ever kept bees they sold the honey to the city dwellers, they also trafficked in carved spoons and stolen bark; in exchange for these they got at the fairs their coarse blue cloth coats, black fur caps, and bright red kerchiefs for the women. Looms were rare and spinning-wheels were unknown. The Prussians heard there no popular songs, no dances, no music--pleasures which even the most wretched Pole does not give up; stupid and clumsy, the people drank their wretched brandy, fought, and fell into the corners. And the country nobility were hardly different from the peasants; they drove their own primitive plows and clattered about in wooden shoes on the earthen floors of their cottages. It was difficult even for the King of Prussia to help these people. Only the potato spread quickly; but for a long time the fruit-trees which had been planted by order were destroyed by the people, and all other attempts at promoting agriculture met with opposition. Just as poverty-stricken and ruined were the border districts with a Polish population. But the Polish peasant in all his poverty and disorder at least kept the greater vivacity of his race. Even on the estates of the higher nobility, of the starosts, and of the crown, all the farm buildings were dilapidated and useless. Any one who wished to send a letter must employ a special messenger, for there was no post in the country. To be sure, no need was felt of one in the villages, for most of the nobility knew no more of reading and writing than the peasants. If any one fell ill, he found no help but the secret remedies of some old village crone, for there was not an apothecary in the whole country. If any one needed a coat he could do no better than take needle in hand himself--for many miles there was no tailor, unless one of the trade made a trip through the country on the chances of finding work. If any one wished to build a house he must provide for artisans from the West as best he could. The country people were still living in a hopeless struggle with the packs of wolves, and there were few villages in which every winter men and animals were not decimated. If the smallpox broke out, or any other contagious disease came upon the country, the people saw the white image of pestilence flying through the air and alighting upon their cottages; they knew what such an apparition meant: it was the desolation of their homes, the wiping out of whole communities; and with gloomy resignation they awaited their fate. There was hardly anything like justice in the country. Only the larger cities maintained powerless courts. The noblemen and the starosts inflicted their punishments with unrestrained caprice. They habitually beat and threw into horrible dungeons not only the peasants but the citizens of the country towns who were ruled by them or fell into their hands. In the quarrels which they had with one another, they fought by bribery in the few courts which had jurisdiction over them. In later years that too had almost ceased. They sought vengeance with their own resources, by sudden onslaughts and bloody sword-play. It was in reality an abandoned country without discipline, without law, without masters. It was a desert; on about 13,000 square miles 500,000 people lived, less than forty to a square mile. And the Prussian King treated his acquisition like an uninhabited prairie. He located boundary stones almost at his pleasure, then moved them some miles farther again. Up to the present time the tradition remains in Ermeland, the district around Heilberg and Braunsberg, with twelve towns and a hundred villages, that two Prussian drummers with twelve men conquered all Ermeland with four drumsticks. And then the King in his magnificent manner began to build up the country. He was attracted by precisely these run-down conditions, and West Prussia henceforth became, as Silesia had been before, his favorite child, which with infinite care, like a dutiful mother, he washed and brushed, provided with new clothes, forced into school and good behavior, and never let out of his sight. The diplomatic negotiations about the conquest were still going on when he sent a troop of his best officials into the wilderness. The territory was subdivided into small districts, in the shortest possible time the whole land area was appraised and equitably taxed, each district provided with a provincial magistrate, with a court, and with post-offices and sanitary police. New parishes were called into life as if by magic, a company of 187 school teachers was brought into the country--the worthy Semler had chosen and drilled part of them--and squads of German artisans were got together, from the machinist down to the brickmaker. Everywhere was heard the bustle of digging, hammering, building. The cities were filled with colonists, street after street rose from the ruins, the estates of the starosts were changed into crown estates, new villages of colonists were laid out, new agricultural enterprises ordered. In the first year after the occupation the great canal was dug, which in a course of a dozen miles or so unites the Vistula by way of the Netze with the Oder and the Elbe. A year after the King issued the order for the canal he saw with his own eyes laden Oder barges 120 feet long enter the Vistula, bound east. Through the new waterway broad stretches of land were drained and immediately filled with German colonists. Incessantly the King urged on, praised, and censured. However great the zeal of his officials was, it was seldom able to satisfy him. In this way, in a few years, the wild Slavic weeds which had sprung up here and there even over the German fields were brought under control, and the Polish districts, too, got used to the orderliness of the new life; and West Prussia showed itself, in the wars after 1806, almost as stoutly Prussian as the old provinces. While the gray-haired King planned and created, year after year passed over his thoughtful head. His surroundings became stiller and more solitary; the circle of men whom he took into his confidence became smaller. He had laid aside his flute, and the new French literature appeared to him shallow and tedious. Sometimes it seemed to him as if a new life were budding under him in Germany, but he was a stranger to it. He worked untiringly for his army and for the prosperity of his people; the instruments he used were of less and less importance to him, while his feeling for the great duties of his crown became ever loftier and more passionate. But just as his seven years' struggle in war may be called superhuman, so now there was in his work something tremendous, which appeared to his contemporaries sometimes more than earthly and sometimes inhuman. It was great, but it was also terrible, that for him the prosperity of the whole was at any moment the highest thing, and the comfort of the individual so utterly nothing. When he drove out of the service with bitter censure, in the presence of his men, a colonel whose regiment had made a vexatious mistake on review; when in the swamp land of the Netze he counted more the strokes of the 10,000 spades than the sufferings of the workmen who lay ill with malarial fever in the hospitals he had erected for them; when he anticipated with his restless demands the most rapid execution, there was, though united with the deepest respect and devotion, a feeling of awe among his people, as before one whose being is moved by some unearthly power. He appeared to the Prussians as the fate of the State, unaccountable, inexorable, omniscient, comprehending the greatest as well as the smallest. And when they told each other that he had also tried to overcome Nature, and that yet his orange trees had perished in the last frosts of spring, then they quietly rejoiced that there was a limit for their King after all, but still more that he had submitted to it with such good-humor and had taken off his hat to the cold days of May. With touching sympathy the people collected all the incidents of the King's life which showed human feeling, and thus gave an intimate picture of him. Lonesome as his house and garden were, the imagination of his Prussians hovered incessantly around the consecrated place. If any one on a warm moonlight night succeeded in getting into the vicinity of the palace, he found the doors open, perhaps without a guard, and he could see the great King sleeping in his room on a camp bed. The fragrance of the flowers, the song of the night birds, the quiet moonlight, were the only guards, almost the only courtiers of the lonely man. Fourteen times the oranges bloomed at Sans Souci after the acquisition of West Prussia--then Nature asserted her rights over the great King. He died alone, with but his servants about him. He had set out in his prime with an ambitious spirit and had wrested from fate all the great and magnificent prizes of life. A prince of poets and philosophers, a historian and general, no triumph which he had won had satisfied him. All earthly glory had become to him fortuitous, uncertain and worthless, and he had kept only his iron sense of duty incessantly active. His soul had grown up and out of the dangerous habit of alternating between warm enthusiasm and sober keenness of perception. Once he had idealized with poetic caprice some individuals, and despised the masses that surrounded him. But in the struggles of his life he lost all selfishness, he lost almost everything which was personally dear to him; and at last came to set little value upon the individual, while the need of living for the whole grew stronger and stronger in him. With the most refined selfishness he had desired the greatest things for himself, and unselfishly at last he gave himself for the common good and the happiness of the humble people. He had entered upon life as an idealist, and even the most terrible experiences had not destroyed these ideals but ennobled and purified them. He had sacrificed many men for his State, but no one so completely as himself. Such a phenomenon appeared unusual and great to his contemporaries; it seems still greater to us who can trace even today in the character of our people, in our political life, and in our art and literature, the influence of his activities. * * * * THE LIFE OF THEODOR FONTANE By WILLIAM A. COOPER, A.M. Associate Professor of German, Leland Stanford Jr. University Theodor Fontane was by both his parents a descendant of French Huguenots. His grandfather Fontane, while teaching the princes of Prussia the art of drawing, won the friendship of Queen Luise, who later appointed him her private secretary. Our poet's father, Louis Fontane, served his apprenticeship as an apothecary in Berlin. In 1818 the stately Gascon married Emilie Labry, whose ancestors had come from the Cevennes, not far from the region whence the Fontanes had emigrated to Germany. The young couple moved to Neu-Ruppin, where they bought an apothecary's shop. Here Theodor was born on the thirtieth of December, 1819. Louis Fontane was irresponsible and fantastic, full of _bonhomie_, and an engaging story teller. He possessed a "stupendous" fund of anecdotes of Napoleon and his marshals, and told them with such charm that his son acquired an unusual fondness for anecdotes, which he indulges extensively in some of his writings, particularly the autobiographical works and books of travel. The problem of making both ends meet seems to have occupied the father less than the gratification of his "noble passions," chief among which was card playing. He gambled away so much money that in eight years he was forced to sell his business and move to other parts. He purposely continued the search for a new business as long as possible, but finally bought an apothecary's shop in Swinemünde. His young wife was passionate and independent, energetic and practical, but unselfish. To her husband's democratic tendency she opposed a strong aristocratic leaning. Their ill fortune in Neu-Ruppin affected her nerves so seriously that she went to Berlin for treatment while the family was moving. In Swinemünde the father put the children in the public school, but when the aristocratic mother arrived from Berlin she took them out, and for a time the little ones were taught at home. The unindustrious father was prevailed upon to divide with the mother the burden of teaching them and undertook the task with a mild protest, employing what he humorously designated the "Socratic method." He taught geography and history together, chiefly by means of anecdotes, with little regard for accuracy or thoroughness. Though his method was far from Socratic, it interested young Theodor and left an impression on him for life. His mother confined her efforts mainly to the cultivation of a good appearance and gentle manners, for, as one might perhaps expect of the daughter of a French silk merchant, she valued outward graces above inward culture, and she avowedly had little respect for the authority of scholars and books. After a while an arrangement was made whereby Theodor shared for two years the private lessons given by a Dr. Lau to the children of a neighbor, and "whatever backbone his knowledge possessed" he owed to this instruction. A similar arrangement was made with the private tutor who succeeded Dr. Lau. He had the children learn the most of Schiller's ballads by heart. Fontane always remained grateful for this, probably because it was as a writer of ballads that he first won recognition. If we look upon the ballad as a poetically heightened form of anecdote we discover an element of unity in his early education, and that will help us to understand why the technique of his novels shows such a marked influence of the ballad. "How were we children trained?" asks Fontane in _My Childhood Years_. "Not at all, and excellently," is his answer, referring to the lack of strict parental discipline in the home and to the quiet influence of his mother's example. [Illustration: _Permission Berlin Photo Co, New York_ THEODOR FONTANE HANNS FECHNER] Among the notable events of the five years Theodor spent in Swinemünde, were the liberation of Greece, the war between Russia and Turkey, the conquest of Algiers, the revolution in France, the separation of Belgium from Holland, and the Polish insurrection. Little wonder that the lad watched eagerly for the arrival of the newspapers and quickly devoured their contents. In Swinemünde the family again lived beyond their means. The father's extravagance and his passion for gambling showed no signs of abatement. The mother was very generous in the giving of presents, for she said that what money they had would be spent anyhow and it might as well go for some useful purpose. The city being a popular summer resort, they had a great many guests from Berlin during the season, and in the winter they frequently entertained Swinemünde friends. Theodor left home at the age of twelve to begin his preparation for life. The first year he spent at the gymnasium in Neu-Ruppin. The following year (1833) he was sent to an industrial school in Berlin. There he lived with his uncle August, whose character and financial management remind one of our poet's father. Theodor was irregular in his attendance at school and showed more interest in the newspapers and magazines than in his studies. At the age of sixteen he became the apprentice of a Berlin apothecary with the expectation of eventually succeeding his father in business. After serving his apprenticeship he was employed as assistant dispenser by apothecaries in Berlin, Burg, Leipzig, and Dresden. When he reached the age of thirty he became a full-fledged dispenser and was in a position to manage the business of his father, but the latter had long ago retired and moved to the village of Letschin. The Fontane home was later broken up by the mutual agreement of the parents to dissolve their unhappy union. The father went first to Eberswalde and then to Schiffmühle, where he died in 1867; the mother returned to Neu-Ruppin and died there in 1869. The beginning of Theodor's first published story appeared in the _Berliner Figaro_ a few days before he was twenty years of age. The same organ had previously contained some of his lyrics and ballads. The budding poet had belonged to a Lenau Club and the fondness he had there acquired for Lenau's poetry remained unchanged throughout his long life, which is more than can be said of many literary products that won his admiration in youth. He also joined a Platen Club, which afforded him less literary stimulus, but far more social pleasure. During his year in Leipzig he brought himself to the notice of literary circles by the publication, in the _Tageblatt_, of a satirical poem entitled _Shakespeare's Stocking_. As a result he was made a member of the Herwegh Club, where he met, among others, the celebrated Max Müller, who remained his life-long friend. After a year in Dresden Fontane returned to Leipzig, hoping to be able to support himself there by his writings. He made the venture too soon. When he ran short of funds he visited his parents for a while and then went to Berlin to serve his year in the army (1844). He was granted a furlough of two weeks for a trip to London at the expense of a friend. In Berlin he joined a Sunday Club, humorously called the "Tunnel over the Spree," at the meetings of which original literary productions were read and frankly criticised. During the middle of the nineteenth century almost all the poetic lights of Berlin were members of the "Tunnel." Heyse, Storm, and Dahn were on the roll, and Fontane came into touch with them; he and Storm remained friends in spite of the fact that Storm once called him "frivolous." Fontane later evened the score by classing Storm among the "sacred kiss monopolists." The most productive members of the Club during this period (1844-54) were Fontane, Scherenberg, Hesekiel, and Heinrich Smidt. Smidt, sometimes called the Marryat of Germany, was a prolific spinner of yarns, which were interesting, though of a low quality. He employed, however, many of the same motives that Fontane later put to better use. Hesekiel was a voluminous writer of light fiction. From him Fontane learned to discard high-sounding phrases and to cultivate the true-to-life tone of spoken speech. Scherenberg, enthusiastically heralded as the founder of a new epic style, confined himself largely to poetic descriptions of battles. When Fontane joined the "Tunnel" the particular _genre_ of poetry in vogue at the meetings was the ballad, due to Strachwitz's clever imitations of Scottish models. Fontane's lyrics were too much like Herwegh's to win applause, but his ballads were enthusiastically received. One, in celebration of Derfflinger, established his standing in the Club, and one in honor of Zieten brought him permanently into favor with a wider public; these poems were composed in 1846. Two years later he read two books that for a long time determined his literary trend--Percy's _Reliques of Ancient English Poetry_ and Scott's _Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border_. He began to write ballads on English subjects and one of them, _Archibald Douglas_, created a great sensation at the "Tunnel" meeting and has ever since maintained its place among the best German poems. Its popularity is partly due to the fact that it was so appropriately set to music by Carl Löwe. When Fontane returned to Berlin in 1852, after a summer's absence in England, he felt estranged from the "Tunnel" and ceased attending the meetings. Two noblemen members, von Lepel and von Merckel, who had become his friends, introduced him to the country nobility of the Mark of Brandenburg, which enabled him to make valuable additions to his portfolio of studies later drawn upon for his novels, among others, _Effi Briest_. In 1847 Fontane passed the apothecary's examination by a "hair's breadth" and soon found employment in Berlin. In the March Revolution (1848) he played a comical rôle, but was subsequently elected a delegate to the first convention to choose a representative. For a year and a quarter he taught two deaconesses pharmacy at an institution called "Bethany." When that employment came to an end he decided that the hoped-for time had finally arrived to give up the dispensing of medicines and earn his living by his pen. Some of his new ballads were accepted by the _Morgenblatt_, and a volume of verses, dedicated to his fiancée, found a publisher. When news arrived of the victory of Denmark over Schleswig-Holstein at Idstedt (1850) he set out for Kiel to enlist in the army. In Altona he received a letter offering him a position in the press department of the Prussian Ministry of the Interior. He accepted immediately and at the same time wrote to Emilie Kummer, to whom he had been engaged for five years, proposing that they should be married in October. She hastened to secure an apartment in Berlin and furnish it, and the wedding was celebrated on the sixteenth of October. Fontane thought he had entered the harbor of success, but he lost his ministerial position in six weeks and was again at sea. He had, however, a companion ready to share his trials and triumphs, and their union proved to be very happy. In the summer of 1852 he was sent by the Prussian Ministry to London to study English conditions and write reports for the government journals, _Preussische Zeitung_ and _Die Zeit_. In 1855 he was again sent to England, and this time his journalistic engagement lasted for four years. Accounts of his experiences are contained in _A Summer in London_ (1854) and _Beyond the Tweed_ (1860). From 1860 to 1870 he was on the staff of the _Kreuzzeitung_ and during this time served as a war correspondent in the campaigns of 1864, 1866, and 1870-71. While accompanying the army in France he was seized with a desire to visit the home of Joan of Arc at Domrémy, and was captured, taken for a spy, and imprisoned for a time on the island of Oléron in the Atlantic Ocean. An interesting account of his experiences is given in _Prisoner of War_ (1871). During his years in England he had taken advantage of the opportunity to visit Scotland and familiarize himself with its picturesque beauties and its wealth of historical and literary associations. In the midst of these travels the thought had occurred to him that his own Mark of Brandenburg had its beauties, too, and its wealth of associations. On returning to Berlin he began his long series of journeyings through his native province, making a thorough study of both country and people, particularly the Junkers, for which his trained powers of observation, combined with warm patriotism and true love of historical research, eminently fitted him. His published records of these travels, _Rambles through the Mark of Brandenburg_ (1862-81) and _Five Castles_ (1889), won for him the title of the interpreter of the Mark. His right to this distinction was further established by the novels in which he later employed the fruits of these studies. Fontane is equally celebrated as an interpreter of Berlin, where he lived for over fifty years, being the one prominent German writer to identify himself with a great city. His two autobiographical works, _From Twenty to Thirty_ and _C.F. Scherenberg_, tell of his early experiences in the Prussian capital. From 1870 to 1889 he was dramatic critic for the _Vossische Zeitung_, for which he reviewed the performances at the Royal Theatre. In one of his last criticisms he hailed Hauptmann as a dramatist of promise. In 1876 he was elected secretary of the Berlin Academy of Arts, but served only a brief time. In 1891 the Emperor made him a present of three thousand marks for his services to German literature. In 1894 the University of Berlin bestowed upon him the honorary title of doctor of philosophy. He died on the twentieth day of September, 1898. Fontane's lyric poetry in the narrower sense is not of a high order; in fact almost none of his writings show the true lyric quality. There is also a striking lack of the dramatic element in his works, and he seems to have felt this limitation of his genius, for he studiously avoided the portrayal of scenes that might prove intensely dramatic. As a writer of ballads he excelled and ranks among the foremost of Germany. The British subjects he treated were impressed upon him during his travels in England and his study of English history. His German themes were taken largely from Prussian history, particularly the period of Frederick the Great. His permanent place in the history of German literature is due, however, not so much to his verse as to his prose writings. He is best known as a novelist, and in the field of the modern novel he is one of the most conspicuous figures. German novels of the older school were usually too long for a single volume. Fontane's first important work of fiction, _Before the Storm_, filled four volumes; but he had so much trouble in finding a publisher for it that he began to write one-volume novels, introducing a practice which has since become the common tradition. He employed in them a typical feature of the technique of the ballad, which leaps from one situation to another, leaving gaps to be filled by the fancy of the reader. He says himself, in _Before the Storm_: "I have always observed that the leaping action of the ballad is one of the chief characteristics and beauties of this branch of poetry. All that is necessary is that fancy be given the right kind of a stimulus. When that end is attained, one may boldly assert, the less told the better." At the beginning of Fontane's career the Berlin novelists were disciples of Scott, but the only one to survive was Alexis, who adapted Scott's method to the Mark of Brandenburg. Fontane imitated him in _Before the Storm_ (1878), which deals with conditions in the Mark before the wars of liberation. _Schach von Wuthenow_ (1883), a sort of prelude to _Before the Storm_, was far superior as a novel and helped to establish Fontane's supremacy among his contemporaries, for he had become the leader of the younger generation after the publication of two stories of crimes, _Grete Minde_ (1880) and _Ellernklipp_ (1881), and the creation of the modern Berlin novel, in _L'Adultera_ (1882). _L'Adultera_ unfolds the history of a marriage of reason between a young wife and a considerably older husband, a situation which Fontane later treated, with important variations and ever increasing skill, in _Count Petöfi_ (1884), _Cécile_ (1887), and _Effi Briest_ (1895). With his inexhaustible fund of observation to draw upon he could make the action of his novels a minor consideration and concentrate his rare psychological powers upon realistic conversations in which characters reveal themselves and incidentally acquaint us intimately with others. We see and hear what the world ordinarily sees and hears. A past master in the art of suggestion, which he acquired in his ballad period, Fontane omits many scenes that others would elaborate with minute detail, such as love scenes and passionate crises, and contents himself with bringing vividly before us his true-to-life figures in their historical and social environments. As a conservative Prussian he believed in the supremacy of the law and the punishment of transgression, and his works reflect this belief. _Trials and Tribulations_ (1887) and _Stine_ (1890) were the first German novels absolutely to avoid the introduction of exciting scenes merely for effect. These histories of mismated couples from different social strata are recounted with hearty simplicity, deep understanding of life, and frank recognition of human weakness, but without condemnation, tears, or pointing a moral. They made Fontane famous. _Frau Jenny Treibel_ (1892), an exquisitely humorous picture of the Berlin _bourgeoisie_, and _Effi Briest_ "the most profound miracle of Fontane's youthful art," added considerably to the fame of the gray-haired "modern," while _The Poggenpuhls_ (1896) and _Stechlin_ (1898) won him further laurels at a time when most writers would long ago have been resting on those they had already achieved. If a line were drawn to represent graphically his productivity from his sixtieth year on, it would take the form of a gradually rising curve. His career as a novelist began so late in life that when he once discovered his particular field he cultivated it with persistent diligence and would not allow himself to be drawn away by enthusiasts into other fields. Strength of character was not, however, a new phenomenon in his life, for as long ago as the days when he was an active member of the "Tunnel" he had come in close contact with the Kugler coterie in Berlin, where the so-called Munich school originated, and yet he did not follow his friends in that eclectic movement. So when the naturalistic school of writers began to win enthusiastic support, even though he found himself in the main in sympathy with their announced creed, he did not join them in practice. He felt that what the literature of the Fatherland needed was "originality," and he sought to attain it in his own way, apart from storm and stress. As his mind matured through accumulated knowledge of the world, and his heart mellowed through years of experience and observation, he rose to a point of view above sentiment and prejudice, where the fogs of passion melt away and the light of kindly wisdom shines. [Illustration: FONTANE MONUMENT AT NEU RUPPIN.] * * * * * _THEODOR FONTANE_ * * * * * EFFI BRIEST (1895) TRANSLATED AND ABRIDGED BY WILLIAM A. COOPER, A.M. Associate Professor of German, Leland Stanford Jr. University CHAPTER I In front of the old manor house occupied by the von Briest family since the days of Elector George William, the bright sunshine was pouring down upon the village road, at the quiet hour of noon. The wing of the mansion looking toward the garden and park cast its broad shadow over a white and green checkered tile walk and extended out over a large round bed, with a sundial in its centre and a border of Indian shot and rhubarb. Some twenty paces further, and parallel to the wing of the house, there ran a churchyard wall, entirely covered with a small-leaved ivy, except at the place where an opening had been made for a little white iron gate. Behind this arose the shingled tower of Hohen-Cremmen, whose weather vane glistened in the sunshine, having only recently been regilded. The front of the house, the wing, and the churchyard wall formed, so to speak, a horseshoe, inclosing a small ornamental garden, at the open side of which was seen a pond, with a small footbridge and a tied-up boat. Close by was a swing, with its crossboard hanging from two ropes at either end, and its frame posts beginning to lean to one side. Between the pond and the circular bed stood a clump of giant plane trees, half hiding the swing. The terrace in front of the manor house, with its tubbed aloe plants and a few garden chairs, was an agreeable place to sit on cloudy days, besides affording a variety of things to attract the attention. But, on days when the hot sun beat down there, the side of the house toward the garden was given a decided preference, especially by the mother and the daughter of the house. On this account they were today sitting on the tile walk in the shade, with their backs to the open windows, which were all overgrown with wild grape-vines, and by the side of a little projecting stairway, whose four stone steps led from the garden to the ground floor of the wing of the mansion. Both mother and daughter were busy at work, making an altar cloth out of separate squares, which they were piecing together. Skeins of woolen yarn of various colors, and an equal variety of silk thread lay in confusion upon a large round table, upon which were still standing the luncheon dessert plates and a majolica dish filled with fine large gooseberries. Swiftly and deftly the wool-threaded needles were drawn back and forth, and the mother seemed never to let her eyes wander from the work. But the daughter, who bore the Christian name of Effi, laid aside her needle from time to time and arose from her seat to practice a course of healthy home gymnastics, with every variety of bending and stretching. It was apparent that she took particular delight in these exercises, to which she gave a somewhat comical turn, and whenever she stood there thus engaged, slowly raising her arms and bringing the palms of her hands together high above her head, her mother would occasionally glance up from her needlework, though always but for a moment and that, too, furtively, because she did not wish to show how fascinating she considered her own child, although in this feeling of motherly pride she was fully justified. Effi wore a blue and white striped linen dress, a sort of smock-frock, which would have shown no waist line at all but for the bronze-colored leather belt which she drew up tight. Her neck was bare and a broad sailor collar fell over her shoulders and back. In everything she did there was a union of haughtiness and gracefulness, and her laughing brown eyes betrayed great natural cleverness and abundant enjoyment of life and goodness of heart. She was called the "little girl," which she had to suffer only because her beautiful slender mother was a full hand's breadth taller than she. Effi had just stood up again to perform her calisthenic exercises when her mother, who at the moment chanced to be looking up from her embroidery, called to her: "Effi, you really ought to have been an equestrienne, I'm thinking. Always on the trapeze, always a daughter of the air. I almost believe you would like something of the sort." "Perhaps, mama. But if it were so, whose fault would it be? From whom do I get it? Why, from no one but you. Or do you think, from papa? There, it makes you laugh yourself. And then, why do you always dress me in this rig, this boy's smock? Sometimes I fancy I shall be put back in short clothes yet. Once I have them on again I shall courtesy like a girl in her early teens, and when our friends in Rathenow come over I shall sit in Colonel Goetze's lap and ride a trot horse. Why not? He is three-fourths an uncle and only one-fourth a suitor. You are to blame. Why don't I have any party clothes? Why don't you make a lady of me?" "Should you like me to?" "No." With that she ran to her mother, embraced her effusively and kissed her. "Not so savagely, Effi, not so passionately. I am always disturbed when I see you thus." At this point three young girls stepped into the garden through the little iron gate in the churchyard wall and started along the gravel walk toward the round bed and the sundial. They all waved their umbrellas at Effi and then ran up to Mrs. von Briest and kissed her hand. She hurriedly asked a few questions and then invited the girls to stay and visit with them, or at least with Effi, for half an hour. "Besides, I have something else that I must do and young folks like best to be left to themselves. Fare ye well." With these words she went up the stone steps into the house. Two of the young girls, plump little creatures, whose freckles and good nature well matched their curly red hair, were daughters of Precentor Jahnke, who swore by the Hanseatic League, Scandinavia, and Fritz Reuter, and following the example of his favorite writer and fellow countryman, had named his twin daughters Bertha and Hertha, in imitation of Mining and Lining. The third young lady was Hulda Niemeyer, Pastor Niemeyer's only child. She was more ladylike than the other two, but, on the other hand, tedious and conceited, a lymphatic blonde, with slightly protruding dim eyes, which, nevertheless, seemed always to be seeking something, for which reason the Hussar Klitzing once said: "Doesn't she look as though she were every moment expecting the angel Gabriel?" Effi felt that the rather captious Klitzing was only too right in his criticism, yet she avoided making any distinction between the three girl friends. Nothing could have been farther from her mind at this moment. Resting her arms on the table, she exclaimed: "Oh, this tedious embroidery! Thank heaven, you are here." "But we have driven your mama away," said Hulda. "Oh no. She would have gone anyhow. She is expecting a visitor, an old friend of her girlhood days. I must tell you a story about him later, a love story with a real hero and a real heroine, and ending with resignation. It will make you open your eyes wide with amazement. Moreover, I saw mama's old friend over in Schwantikow. He is a district councillor, a fine figure, and very manly." "Manly? That's a most important consideration," said Hertha. "Certainly, it's the chief consideration. 'Women womanly, men manly,' is, you know, one of papa's favorite maxims. And now help me put the table in order, or there will be another scolding." It took but a moment to put the things in the basket and, when the girls sat down again, Hulda said: "Now, Effi, now we are ready, now for the love story with resignation. Or isn't it so bad?" "A story with resignation is never bad. But I can't begin till Hertha has taken some gooseberries; she keeps her eyes glued on them. Please take as many as you like, we can pick some more afterward. But be sure to throw the hulls far enough away, or, better still, lay them here on this newspaper supplement, then we can wrap them up in a bundle and dispose of everything at once. Mama can't bear to see hulls lying about everywhere. She always says that some one might slip on them and break a leg." "I don't believe it," said Hertha, applying herself closely to the berries. "Nor I either," replied Effi, confirming the opinion. "Just think of it, I fall at least two or three times every day and have never broken any bones yet. The right kind of leg doesn't break so easily; certainly mine doesn't, neither does yours, Hertha. What do you think, Hulda?" "One ought not to tempt fate. Pride will have a fall." "Always the governess. You are just a born old maid." "And yet I still have hopes of finding a husband, perhaps even before you do." "For aught I care. Do you think I shall wait for that? The idea! Furthermore one has already been picked out for me and perhaps I shall soon have him. Oh, I am not worrying about that. Not long ago little Ventivegni from over the way said to me: 'Miss Effi, what will you bet we shall not have a charivari and a wedding here this year yet?'" "And what did you say to that?" "Quite possible, I said, quite possible; Hulda is the oldest; she may be married any day. But he refused to listen to that and said: 'No, I mean at the home of another young lady who is just as decided a brunette as Miss Hulda is a blonde.' As he said this he looked at me quite seriously--But I am wandering and am forgetting the story." "Yes, you keep dropping it all the while; may be you don't want to tell it, after all?" "Oh, I want to, but I have interrupted the story a good many times, chiefly because it is a little bit strange, indeed, almost romantic." "Why, you said he was a district councillor." "Certainly, a district councillor, and his name is Geert von Innstetten, Baron von Innstetten." All three laughed. "Why do you laugh?" said Effi, nettled. "What does this mean?" "Ah, Effi, we don't mean to offend you, nor the Baron either. Innstetten did you say? And Geert? Why, there is nobody by that name about here. And then you know the names of noblemen are often a bit comical." "Yes, my dear, they are. But people do not belong to the nobility for nothing. They can endure such things, and the farther back their nobility goes, I mean in point of time, the better they are able to endure them. But you don't know anything about this and you must not take offense at me for saying so. We shall continue to be good friends just the same. So it is Geert von Innstetten and he is a Baron. He is just as old as mama, to the day." "And how old, pray, is your mama?" "Thirty-eight." "A fine age." "Indeed it is, especially when one still looks as well as mama. I consider her truly a beautiful woman, don't you, too? And how accomplished she is in everything, always so sure and at the same time so ladylike, and never unconventional, like papa. If I were a young lieutenant I should fall in love with mama." "Oh, Effi, how can you ever say such a thing?" said Hulda. "Why, that is contrary to the fourth commandment." "Nonsense. How can it be? I think it would please mama if she knew I said such a thing." "That may be," interrupted Hertha. "But are you ever going to tell the story?" "Yes, compose yourself and I'll begin. We were speaking of Baron von Innstetten. Before he had reached the age of twenty he was living over in Rathenow, but spent much of his time on the seignioral estates of this region, and liked best of all to visit in Schwantikow, at my grandfather Belling's. Of course, it was not on account of my grandfather that he was so often there, and when mama tells about it one can easily see on whose account it really was. I think it was mutual, too." "And what came of it?" "The thing that was bound to come and always does come. He was still much too young and when my papa appeared on the scene, who had already attained the title of baronial councillor and the proprietorship of Hohen-Cremmen, there was no need of further time for consideration. She accepted him and became Mrs. von Briest." "What did Innstetten do?" said Bertha, "what became of him? He didn't commit suicide, otherwise you could not be expecting him today." "No, he didn't commit suicide, but it was something of that nature." "Did he make an unsuccessful attempt?" "No, not that. But he didn't care to remain here in the neighborhood any longer, and he must have lost all taste for the soldier's career, generally speaking. Besides, it was an era of peace, you know. In short, he asked for his discharge and took up the study of the law, as papa would say, with a 'true beer zeal.' But when the war of seventy broke out he returned to the army, with the Perleberg troops, instead of his old regiment, and he now wears the cross. Naturally, for he is a smart fellow. Right after the war he returned to his documents, and it is said that Bismarck thinks very highly of him, and so does the Emperor. Thus it came about that he was made district councillor in the district of Kessin." "What is Kessin? I don't know of any Kessin here." "No, it is not situated here in our region; it is a long distance away from here, in Pomerania, in Farther Pomerania, in fact, which signifies nothing, however, for it is a watering place (every place about there is a summer resort), and the vacation journey that Baron Innstetten is now enjoying is in reality a tour of his cousins, or something of the sort. He wishes to visit his old friends and relatives here." "Has he relatives here?" "Yes and no, depending on how you look at it. There are no Innstettens here, there are none anywhere any more, I believe. But he has here distant cousins on his mother's side, and he doubtless wished above all to see Schwantikow once more and the Belling house, to which he was attached by so many memories. So he was over there the day before yesterday and today he plans to be here in Hohen-Cremmen." "And what does your father say about it?" "Nothing at all. It is not his way. Besides, he knows mama, you see. He only teases her." At this moment the clock struck twelve and before it had ceased striking, Wilke, the old factotum of the Briest family, came on the scene to give a message to Miss Effi: "Your Ladyship's mother sends the request that your Ladyship make her toilet in good season; the Baron will presumably drive up immediately after one o'clock." While Wilke was still delivering this message he began to put the ladies' work-table in order and reached first for the sheet of newspaper, on which the gooseberry hulls lay. "No, Wilke, don't bother with that. It is our affair to dispose of the hulls--Hertha, you must now wrap up the bundle and put a stone in it, so that it will sink better. Then we will march out in a long funeral procession and bury the bundle at sea." Wilke smiled with satisfaction. "Oh, Miss Effi, she's a trump," was about what he was thinking. But Effi laid the paper bundle in the centre of the quickly gathered up tablecloth and said: "Now let all four of us take hold, each by a corner, and sing something sorrowful." "Yes, Effi, that is easy enough to say, but what, pray, shall we sing?" "Just anything. It is quite immaterial, only it must have a rime in 'oo;' 'oo' is always a sad vowel. Let us sing, say: 'Flood, flood, Make it all good.'" While Effi was solemnly intoning this litany, all four marched out upon the landing pier, stepped into the boat tied there, and from the further end of it slowly lowered into the pond the pebble-weighted paper bundle. "Hertha, now your guilt is sunk out of sight," said Effi, "in which connection it occurs to me, by the way, that in former times poor unfortunate women are said to have been thrown overboard thus from a boat, of course for unfaithfulness." "But not here, certainly." "No, not here," laughed Effi, "such things do not take place here. But they do in Constantinople and it just occurs to me that you must know about it, for you were present in the geography class when the teacher told about it." "Yes," said Hulda, "he was always telling us about such things. But one naturally forgets them in the course of time." "Not I, I remember things like that." CHAPTER II The conversation ran on thus for some time, the girls recalling with mingled disgust and delight the school lessons they had had in common, and a great many of the teacher's uncalled-for remarks. Suddenly Hulda said: "But you must make haste, Effi; why, you look--why, what shall I say--why, you look as though you had just come from a cherry picking, all rumpled and crumpled. Linen always gets so badly creased, and that large white turned down collar--oh, yes, I have it now; you look like a cabin boy." "Midshipman, if you please. I must derive some advantage from my nobility. But midshipman or cabin boy, only recently papa again promised me a mast, here close by the swing, with yards and a rope ladder. Most assuredly I should like one and I should not allow anybody to interfere with my fastening the pennant at the top. And you, Hulda, would climb up then on the other side and high in the air we would shout: 'Hurrah!' and give each other a kiss. By Jingo, that would be a sweet one." "'By Jingo.' Now just listen to that. You really talk like a midshipman. However, I shall take care not to climb up after you, I am not such a dare-devil. Jahnke is quite right when he says, as he always does, that you have too much Billing in you, from your mother. I am only a preacher's daughter." "Ah, go along. Still waters run deep--But come, let us swing, two on a side; I don't believe it will break. Or if you don't care to, for you are drawing long faces again, then we will play hide-and-seek. I still have a quarter of an hour. I don't want to go in, yet, and anyhow it is merely to say: 'How do you do?' to a district councillor, and a district councillor from Further Pomerania to boot. He is elderly, too. Why he might almost be my father; and if he actually lives in a seaport, for, you know, that is what Kessin is said to be, I really ought to make the best impression upon him in this sailor costume, and he ought almost to consider it a delicate attention. When princes receive anybody, I know from what papa has told me, they always put on the uniform of the country of their guest. So don't worry--Quick, quick, I am going to hide and here by the bench is the base." Hulda was about to fix a few boundaries, but Effi had already run up the first gravel walk, turning to the left, then to the right, and suddenly vanishing from sight. "Effi, that does not count; where are you? We are not playing run away; we are playing hide-and-seek." With these and similar reproaches the girls ran to search for her, far beyond the circular bed and the two plane trees standing by the side of the path. She first let them get much farther than she was from the base and then, rushing suddenly from her hiding place, reached the bench, without any special exertion, before there was time to say: "one, two, three." "Where were you?" "Behind the rhubarb plants; they have such large leaves, larger even than a fig leaf." "Shame on you." "No, shame on you, because you didn't catch me. Hulda, with her big eyes, again failed to see anything. She is always slow." Hereupon Effi again flew away across the circle toward the pond, probably because she planned to hide at first behind a dense-growing hazelnut hedge over there, and then from that point to take a long roundabout way past the churchyard and the front house and thence back to the wing and the base. Everything was well calculated, but before she was half way round the pond she heard some one at the house calling her name and, as she turned around, saw her mother waving a handkerchief from the stone steps. In a moment Effi was standing by her. "Now you see that I knew what I was talking about. You still have that smock-frock on and the caller has arrived. You are never on time." "I shall be on time, easily, but the caller has not kept his appointment. It is not yet one o'clock, not by a good deal," she said, and turning to the twins, who had been lagging behind, called to them: "Just go on playing; I shall be back right away." The next moment Effi and her mama entered the spacious drawing-room, which occupied almost the whole ground floor of the side wing. "Mama, you daren't scold me. It is really only half past. Why does he come so early? Cavaliers never arrive too late, much less too early." Mrs. von Briest was evidently embarrassed. But Effi cuddled up to her fondly and said: "Forgive me, I will hurry now. You know I can be quick, too, and in five minutes Cinderella will be transformed into a princess. Meanwhile he can wait or chat with papa." Bowing to her mother, she was about to trip lightly up the little iron stairway leading from the drawing-room to the story above. But Mrs. von Briest, who could be unconventional on occasion, if she took a notion to, suddenly held Effi back, cast a glance at the charming young creature, still all in a heat from the excitement of the game, a perfect picture of youthful freshness, and said in an almost confidential tone: "After all, the best thing for you to do is to remain as you are. Yes, don't change. You look very well indeed. And even if you didn't, you look so unprepared, you show absolutely no signs of being dressed for the occasion, and that is the most important consideration at this moment. For I must tell you, my sweet Effi--" and she clasped her daughter's hands--"for I must tell you--" "Why, mama, what in the world is the matter with you? You frighten me terribly." "I must tell you, Effi, that Baron Innstetten has just asked me for your hand." "Asked for my hand? In earnest?" "That is not a matter to make a jest of. You saw him the day before yesterday and I think you liked him. To be sure, he is older than you, which, all things considered, is a fortunate circumstance. Besides, he is a man of character, position, and good breeding, and if you do not say 'no,' which I could hardly expect of my shrewd Effi, you will be standing at the age of twenty where others stand at forty. You will surpass your mama by far." Effi remained silent, seeking a suitable answer. Before she could find one she heard her father's voice in the adjoining room. The next moment Councillor von Briest, a well preserved man in the fifties, and of pronounced _bonhomie_, entered the drawing-room, and with him Baron Innstetten, a man of slender figure, dark complexion, and military bearing. When Effi caught sight of him she fell into a nervous tremble, but only for an instant, as almost at the very moment when he was approaching her with a friendly bow there appeared at one of the wide open vine-covered windows the sandy heads of the Jahnke twins, and Hertha, the more hoidenish, called into the room: "Come, Effi." Then she ducked from sight and the two sprang from the back of the bench, upon which they had been standing, down into the garden and nothing more was heard from them except their giggling and laughing. CHAPTER III Later in the day Baron Innstetten was betrothed to Effi von Briest. At the dinner which followed, her jovial father found it no easy matter to adjust himself to the solemn rôle that had fallen to him. He proposed a toast to the health of the young couple, which was not without its touching effect upon Mrs. von Briest, for she obviously recalled the experiences of scarcely eighteen years ago. However, the feeling did not last long. What it had been impossible for her to be, her daughter now was, in her stead. All things considered, it was just as well, perhaps even better. For one could live with von Briest, in spite of the fact that he was a bit prosaic and now and then showed a slight streak of frivolity. Toward the end of the meal--the ice was being served--the elderly baronial councillor once more arose to his feet to propose in a second speech that from now on they should all address each other by the familiar pronoun "Du." Thereupon he embraced Innstetten and gave him a kiss on the left cheek. But this was not the end of the matter for him. On the contrary, he went on to recommend, in addition to the "Du," a set of more intimate names and titles for use in the home, seeking to establish a sort of basis for hearty intercourse, at the same time preserving certain well-earned, and hence justified, distinctions. For his wife he suggested, as the best solution of the problem, the continuation of "Mama," for there are young mamas, as well as old; whereas for himself, he was willing to forego the honorable title of "Papa," and could not help feeling a decided preference for the simple name of Briest, if for no other reason, because it was so beautifully short. "And then as for the children," he said--at which word he had to give himself a jerk as he exchanged gazes with Innstetten, who was only about a dozen years his junior--"well, let Effi just remain Effi, and Geert, Geert. Geert, if I am not mistaken, signifies a tall and slender trunk, and so Effi may be the ivy destined to twine about it." At these words the betrothed couple looked at each other somewhat embarrassed, Effi's face showing at the same time an expression of childlike mirth, but Mrs. von Briest said: "Say what you like, Briest, and formulate your toasts to suit your own taste, but if you will allow me one request, avoid poetic imagery; it is beyond your sphere." These silencing words were received by von Briest with more assent than dissent. "It is possible that you are right, Luise." Immediately after rising from the table, Effi took leave to pay a visit over at the pastor's. On the way she said to herself: "I think Hulda will be vexed. I have got ahead of her after all. She always was too vain and conceited." But Effi was not quite right in all that she expected. Hulda behaved very well, preserving her composure absolutely and leaving the indication of anger and vexation to her mother, the pastor's wife, who, indeed, made some very strange remarks. "Yes, yes, that's the way it goes. Of course. Since it couldn't be the mother, it has to be the daughter. That's nothing new. Old families always hold together, and where there is a beginning there will be an increase." The elder Niemeyer, painfully embarrassed by these and similar pointed remarks, which showed a lack of culture and refinement, lamented once more the fact that he had married a mere housekeeper. [Illustration: _Permission F. Bruckmann A.-G. Munich_ A SUNDAY IN THE GARDEN OF THE TUILERIES ADOLPH VON MENZEL.] After visiting the pastor's family Effi naturally went next to the home of the precentor Jahnke. The twins had been watching for her and received her in the front yard. "Well, Effi," said Hertha, as all three walked up and down between the two rows of amaranths, "well, Effi, how do you really feel?" "How do I feel? O, quite well. We already say 'Du' to each other and call each other by our first names. His name is Geert, but it just occurs to me that I have already told you that." "Yes, you have. But in spite of myself I feel so uneasy about it. Is he really the right man?" "Certainly he is the right man. You don't know anything about such matters, Hertha. Any man is the right one. Of course he must be a nobleman, have a position, and be handsome." "Goodness, Effi, how you do talk! You used to talk quite differently." "Yes, I used to." "And are you quite happy already?" "When one has been two hours betrothed, one is always quite happy. At least, that is my idea about it." "And don't you feel at all--oh, what shall I say?--a bit awkward?" "Yes, I do feel a bit awkward, but not very. And I fancy I shall get over it." After these visits at the parsonage and the home of the precentor, which together had not consumed half an hour, Effi returned to the garden veranda, where coffee was about to be served. Father-in-law and son-in-law were walking up and down along the gravel path by the plane trees. Von Briest was talking about the difficulties of a district councillor's position, saying that he had been offered one at various times, but had always declined. "The ability to have my own way in all matters has always been the thing that was most to my liking, at least more--I beg your pardon, Innstetten--than always having to look up to some one else. For in the latter case one is always obliged to bear in mind and pay heed to exalted and most exalted superiors. That is no life for me. Here I live along in such liberty and rejoice at every green leaf and the wild grape-vine that grows over those windows yonder." He spoke further in this vein, indulging in all sorts of anti-bureaucratic remarks, and excusing himself from time to time with a blunt "I beg your pardon, Innstetten," which he interjected in a variety of ways. The Baron mechanically nodded assent, but in reality paid little attention to what was said. He turned his gaze again and again, as though spellbound, to the wild grape-vine twining about the window, of which Briest had just spoken, and as his thoughts were thus engaged, it seemed to him as though he saw again the girls' sandy heads among the vines and heard the saucy call, "Come, Effi." He did not believe in omens and the like; on the contrary, he was far from entertaining superstitious ideas. Nevertheless he could not rid his mind of the two words, and while Briest's peroration rambled on and on he had the constant feeling that the little incident was something more than mere chance. Innstetten, who had taken only a short vacation, departed the following morning, after promising to write every day. "Yes, you must do that," Effi had said, and these words came from her heart. She had for years known nothing more delightful than, for example, to receive a large number of birthday letters. Everybody had to write her a letter for that day. Such expressions as "Gertrude and Clara join me in sending you heartiest congratulations," were tabooed. Gertrude and Clara, if they wished to be considered friends, had to see to it that they sent individual letters with separate postage stamps, and, if possible, foreign ones, from Switzerland or Carlsbad, for her birthday came in the traveling season. Innstetten actually wrote every day, as he had promised. The thing that made the receipt of his letters particularly pleasurable was the circumstance that he expected in return only one very short letter every week. This he received regularly and it was always full of charming trifles, which never failed to delight him. Mrs. von Briest undertook to carry on the correspondence with her future son-in-law whenever there was any serious matter to be discussed, as, for example, the settling of the details of the wedding, and questions of the dowry and the furnishing of the new home. Innstetten was now nearly three years in office, and his house in Kessin, while not splendidly furnished, was nevertheless very well suited to his station, and it seemed advisable to gain from correspondence with him some idea of what he already had, in order not to buy anything superfluous. When Mrs. von Briest was finally well enough informed concerning all these details it was decided that the mother and daughter should go to Berlin, in order, as Briest expressed himself, to buy up the trousseau for Princess Effi. Effi looked forward to the sojourn in Berlin with great pleasure, the more so because her father had consented that they should take lodgings in the Hotel du Nord. "Whatever it costs can be deducted from the dowry, you know, for Innstetten already has everything." Mrs. von Briest forbade such "mesquineries" in the future, once for all, but Effi, on the other hand, joyously assented to her father's plan, without so much as stopping to think whether he had meant it as a jest or in earnest, for her thoughts were occupied far, far more with the impression she and her mother should make by their appearance at the table d'hôte, than with Spinn and Mencke, Goschenhofer, and other such firms, whose names had been provisionally entered in her memorandum book. And her demeanor was entirely in keeping with these frivolous fancies, when the great Berlin week had actually come. Cousin von Briest of the Alexander regiment, an uncommonly jolly young lieutenant, who took the _Fliegende Blatter_ and kept a record of the best jokes, placed himself at the disposal of the ladies for every hour he should be off duty, and so they would sit with him at the corner window of Kranzler's, or perhaps in the Café Bauer, when permissible, or would drive out in the afternoon to the Zoological Garden, to see the giraffes, of which Cousin von Briest, whose name, by the way, was Dagobert, was fond of saying: "They look like old maids of noble birth." Every day passed according to program, and on the third or fourth day they went, as directed, to the National Gallery, because Dagobert wished to show his cousin the "Isle of the Blessed." "To be sure, Cousin Effi is on the point of marrying, and yet it may perhaps be well to have made the acquaintance of the 'Isle of the Blessed' beforehand." His aunt gave him a slap with her fan, but accompanied the blow with such a gracious look that he saw no occasion to change the tone. These were heavenly days for all three, no less for Cousin Dagobert than for the ladies, for he was a past master in the art of escorting and always knew how quickly to compromise little differences. Of the differences of opinion to be expected between mother and daughter there was never any lack during the whole time, but fortunately they never came out in connection with the purchases to be made. Whether they bought a half dozen or three dozen of a particular thing, Effi was uniformly satisfied, and when they talked, on the way home, about the prices of the articles bought, she regularly confounded the figures. Mrs. von Briest, ordinarily so critical, even toward her own beloved child, not only took this apparent lack of interest lightly, she even recognized in it an advantage. "All these things," said she to herself, "do not mean much to Effi. Effi is unpretentious; she lives in her own ideas and dreams, and when one of the Hohenzollern princesses drives by and bows a friendly greeting from her carriage that means more to Effi than a whole chest full of linen." That was all correct enough, and yet only half the truth. Effi cared but little for the possession of more or less commonplace things, but when she walked up and down Unter den Linden with her mother, and, after inspecting the most beautiful show-windows, went into Demuth's to buy a number of things for the honeymoon tour of Italy, her true, character showed itself. Only the most elegant articles found favor in her sight, and, if she could not have the best, she forewent the second-best, because this second meant nothing to her. Beyond question, she was able to forego,--in that her mother was right,--and in this ability to forego there was a certain amount of unpretentiousness. But when, by way of exception, it became a question of really possessing a thing, it always had to be something out of the ordinary. In this regard she was pretentious. CHAPTER IV Cousin Dagobert was at the station when the ladies took the train for Hohen-Cremmen. The Berlin sojourn had been a succession of happy days, chiefly because there had been no suffering from disagreeable and, one might almost say, inferior relatives. Immediately after their arrival Effi had said: "This time we must remain incognito, so far as Aunt Therese is concerned. It will not do for her to come to see us here in the hotel. Either Hotel du Nord or Aunt Therese; the two would not go together at all." The mother had finally agreed to this, had, in fact, sealed the agreement with a kiss on her daughter's forehead. With Cousin Dagobert, of course, it was an entirely different matter. Not only did he have the social grace of the Guards, but also, what is more, the peculiarly good humor now almost a tradition with the officers of the Alexander regiment, and this enabled him from the outset to draw out both the mother and the daughter and keep them in good spirits to the end of their stay. "Dagobert," said Effi at the moment of parting, "remember that you are to come to my nuptial-eve celebration; that you are to bring a cortège goes without saying. But don't you bring any porter or mousetrap seller. For after the theatrical performances there will be a ball, and you must take into consideration that my first grand ball will probably be also my last. Fewer than six companions--superb dancers, that goes without saying--will not be approved. And you can return by the early morning train." Her cousin promised everything she asked and so they bade each other farewell. Toward noon the two women arrived at their Havelland station in the middle of the marsh and after a drive of half an hour were at Hohen-Cremmen. Von Briest was very happy to have his wife and daughter at home again, and asked questions upon questions, but in most cases did not wait for the answers. Instead of that he launched out into a long account of what he had experienced in the meantime. "A while ago you were telling me about the National Gallery and the 'Isle of the Blessed.' Well, while you were away, there was something going on here, too. It was our overseer Pink and the gardener's wife. Of course, I had to dismiss Pink, but it went against the grain to do it. It is very unfortunate that such affairs almost always occur in the harvest season. And Pink was otherwise an uncommonly efficient man, though here, I regret to say, in the wrong place. But enough of that; Wilke is showing signs of restlessness too." At dinner von Briest listened better. The friendly intercourse with Cousin Dagobert, of whom he heard a good deal, met with his approval, less so the conduct toward Aunt Therese. But one could see plainly that, at the same time that he was declaring his disapproval, he was rejoicing; for a little mischievous trick just suited his taste, and Aunt Therese was unquestionably a ridiculous figure. He raised his glass and invited his wife and daughter to join him in a toast. After dinner, when some of the handsomest purchases were unpacked and laid before him for his judgment, he betrayed a great deal of interest, which still remained alive, or, at least did not die out entirely, even after he had glanced over the bills. "A little bit dear, or let us say, rather, very dear; however, it makes no difference. Everything has so much style about it, I might almost say, so much inspiration, that I feel in my bones, if you give me a trunk like that and a traveling rug like this for Christmas, I shall be ready to take our wedding journey after a delay of eighteen years, and we, too, shall be in Rome for Easter. What do you think, Luise? Shall we make up what we are behind? Better late than never." Mrs. von Briest made a motion with her hand, as if to say: "Incorrigible," and then left him to his own humiliation, which, however, was not very deep. * * * * * The end of August had come, the wedding day (October the 3d) was drawing nearer, and in the manor house, as well as at the parsonage and the schoolhouse, all hands were incessantly occupied with the preparations for the pre-nuptial eve. Jahnke, faithful to his passion for Fritz Reuter, had fancied it would be particularly "ingenious" to have Bertha and Hertha appear as Lining and Mining, speaking Low German, of course, whereas Hulda was to present the elder-tree scene of _Käthchen von Heilbronn_, with Lieutenant Engelbrecht of the Hussars as Wetter vom Strahl. Niemeyer, who by rights was the father of the idea, had felt no hesitation to compose additional lines containing a modest application to Innstetten and Effi. He himself was satisfied with his effort and at the end of the first rehearsal heard only very favorable criticisms of it, with one exception, to be sure, viz., that of his patron lord, and old friend, Briest, who, when he had heard the admixture of Kleist and Niemeyer, protested vigorously, though not on literary grounds. "High Lord, and over and over, High Lord--what does that mean? That is misleading and it distorts the whole situation. Innstetten is unquestionably a fine specimen of the race, a man of character and energy, but, when it comes to that, the Briests are not of base parentage either. We are indisputably a historic family--let me add: 'Thank God'--and the Innstettens are not. The Innstettens are merely old, belong to the oldest nobility, if you like; but what does oldest nobility mean? I will not permit that a von Briest, or even a figure in the wedding-eve performance, whom everybody must recognize as the counterpart of our Effi--I will not permit, I say, that a Briest either in person or through a representative speak incessantly of 'High Lord.' Certainly not, unless Innstetten were at least a disguised Hohenzollern; there are some, you know. But he is not one and hence I can only repeat that it distorts the whole situation." For a long time von Briest really held fast to this view with remarkable tenacity. But after the second rehearsal, at which Käthchen was half in costume, wearing a tight-fitting velvet bodice, he was so carried away as to remark: "Käthchen lies there beautifully," which turn was pretty much the equivalent of a surrender, or at least prepared the way for one. That all these things were kept secret from Effi goes without saying. With more curiosity on her part, however, it would have been wholly impossible. But she had so little desire to find out about the preparations made and the surprises planned that she declared to her mother with all emphasis: "I can wait and see," and, when Mrs. von Briest still doubted her, Effi closed the conversation with repeated assurances that it was really true and her mother might just as well believe it. And why not? It was all just a theatrical performance, and prettier and more poetical than _Cinderella_, which she had seen on the last evening in Berlin--no, on second thought, it couldn't be prettier and more poetical. In this play she herself would have been glad to take a part, even if only for the purpose of making a chalk mark on the back of the ridiculous boarding-school teacher. "And how charming in the last act is 'Cinderella's awakening as a princess,' or at least as a countess! Really, it was just like a fairy tale." She often spoke in this way, was for the most part more exuberant than before, and was vexed only at the constant whisperings and mysterious conduct of her girl friends. "I wish they felt less important and paid more attention to me. When the time comes they will only forget their lines and I shall have to be in suspense on their account and be ashamed that they are my friends." Thus ran Effi's scoffing remarks and there was no mistaking the fact that she was not troubling herself any too much about the pre-nuptial exercises and the wedding day. Mrs. von Briest had her own ideas on the subject, but did not permit herself to worry about it, as Effi's mind was, to a considerable extent, occupied with the future, which after all was a good sign. Furthermore Effi, by virtue of her wealth of imagination, often launched out into descriptions of her future life in Kessin for a quarter of an hour at a time,--descriptions which, incidentally, and much to the amusement of her mother, revealed a remarkable conception of Further Pomerania, or, perhaps it would be more correct to say, they embodied this conception, with clever calculation and definite purpose. For Effi delighted to think of Kessin as a half-Siberian locality, where the ice and snow never fully melted. "Today Goschenhofer has sent the last thing," said Mrs. von Briest, sitting, as was her custom, out in front of the wing of the mansion with Effi at the work-table, upon which the supplies of linen and underclothing kept increasing, whereas the newspapers, which merely took up space, were constantly decreasing. "I hope you have everything now, Effi. But if you still cherish little wishes you must speak them out, if possible, this very hour. Papa has sold the rape crop at a good price and is in an unusually good humor." "Unusually? He is always in a good humor." "In an unusually good humor," repeated the mother. "And it must be taken advantage of. So speak. Several times during our stay in Berlin I had the feeling that you had a very special desire for something or other more." "Well, dear mama, what can I say? As a matter of fact I have everything that one needs, I mean that one needs _here_. But as it is once for all decided that I am to go so far north--let me say in passing that I have no objections; on the contrary I look forward with pleasure to it, to the northern lights and the brighter splendor of the stars--as this has been definitely decided, I should like to have a set of furs." "Why, Effi, child, that is empty folly. You are not going to St. Petersburg or Archangel." "No, but I am a part of the way." "Certainly, child, you are a part of the way; but what does that mean? If you go from here to Nauen you are, by the same train of reasoning, a part of the way to Russia. However, if you want some furs you shall have them. But let me tell you beforehand, I advise you not to buy them. Furs are proper for elderly people; even your old mother is still too young for them, and if you, in your seventeenth year, come out in mink or marten the people of Kessin will consider it a masquerade." It was on the second of September that these words were spoken, and the conversation would doubtless have been continued, if it had not happened to be the anniversary of the battle of Sedan. But because of the day they were interrupted by the sound of drum and fife, and Effi, who had heard before of the proposed parade, but had meanwhile forgotten about it, rushed suddenly away from the work-table, past the circular plot and the pond, in the direction of a balcony built on the churchyard wall, to which one could climb by six steps not much broader than the rungs of a ladder. In an instant she was at the top and, surely enough, there came all the school children marching along, Jahnke strutting majestically beside the right flank, while a little drum major marched at the head of the procession, several paces in advance, with an expression on his countenance as though it were incumbent upon him to fight the battle of Sedan all over again. Effi waved her handkerchief and he promptly returned the greeting by a salute with his shining baton. A week later mother and daughter were again sitting in the same place, busy, as before, with their work. It was an exceptionally beautiful day; the heliotrope growing in a neat bed around the sundial was still in bloom, and the soft breeze that was stirring bore its fragrance over to them. "Oh, how well I feel," said Effi, "so well and so happy! I can't think of heaven as more beautiful. And, after all, who knows whether they have such wonderful heliotrope in heaven?" "Why, Effi, you must not talk like that. You get that from your father, to whom nothing is sacred. Not long ago he even said: 'Niemeyer looks like Lot.' Unheard of. And what in the world can he mean by it? In the first place he doesn't know how Lot looked, and secondly it shows an absolute lack of consideration for Hulda. Luckily, Niemeyer has only the one daughter, and for this reason the comparison really falls to the ground. In one regard, to be sure, he was only too right, viz., in each and every thing that he said about 'Lot's wife,' our good pastor's better half, who again this year, as was to be expected, simply ruined our Sedan celebration by her folly and presumption. By the by it just occurs to me that we were interrupted in our conversation when Jahnke came by with the school. At least I cannot imagine that the furs, of which you were speaking at that time, should have been your only wish. So let me know, darling, what further things you have set your heart upon." "None, mama." "Truly, none?" "No, none, truly; perfectly in earnest. But, on second thought, if there were anything--" "Well?" "It would be a Japanese bed screen, black, with gold birds on it, all with long crane bills. And then perhaps, besides, a hanging lamp for our bedroom, with a red shade." Mrs. von Briest remained silent. "Now you see, mama, you are silent and look as though I had said something especially improper." "No, Effi, nothing improper. Certainly not in the presence of your mother, for I know you so well. You are a fantastic little person, you like nothing better than to paint fanciful pictures of the future, and the richer their coloring the more beautiful and desirable they appear to you. I saw that when we were buying the traveling articles. And now you fancy it would be altogether adorable to have a bed screen with a variety of fabulous beasts on it, all in the dim light of a red hanging lamp. It appeals to you as a fairy tale and you would like to be a princess." Effi took her mother's hand and kissed it. "Yes, mama, that is my nature." "Yes, that is your nature. I know it only too well. But, my dear Effi, we must be circumspect in life, and we women especially. Now when you go to Kessin, a small place, where hardly a streetlamp is lit at night, the people will laugh at such things. And if they would only stop with laughing! Those who are ill-disposed toward you--and there are always some--will speak of your bad bringing-up, and many will doubtless say even worse things." "Nothing Japanese, then, and no hanging lamp either. But I confess I had thought it would be so beautiful and poetical to see everything in a dim red light." Mrs. von Briest was moved. She got up and kissed Effi. "You are a child. Beautiful and poetical. Nothing but fancies. The reality is different, and often it is well that there should be dark instead of light and shimmer." Effi seemed on the point of answering, but at this moment Wilke came and brought some letters. One was from Kessin, from Innstetten. "Ah, from Geert," said Effi, and putting the letter in her pocket, she continued in a calm tone: "But you surely will allow me to set the grand piano across one corner of the room. I care more for that than for the open fireplace that Geert has promised me. And then I am going to put your portrait on an easel. I can't be entirely without you. Oh, how I shall be homesick to see you, perhaps even on the wedding tour, and most certainly in Kessin. Why, they say the place has no garrison, not even a staff surgeon, and how fortunate it is that it is at least a watering place. Cousin von Briest, upon whom I shall rely as my chief support, always goes with his mother and sister to Warnemunde. Now I really do not see why he should not, for a change, some day direct our dear relatives toward Kessin. Besides, 'direct' seems to suggest a position on the staff, to which, I believe, he aspires. And then, of course, he will come along and live at our house. Moreover Kessin, as somebody just recently told me, has a rather large steamer, which runs over to Sweden twice a week. And on the ship there is dancing (of course they have a band on board), and he dances very well." "Who?" "Why, Dagobert." "I thought you meant Innstetten. In any case the time has now come to know what he writes. You still have the letter in your pocket, you know." "That's right. I had almost forgotten it." She opened the letter and glanced over it. "Well, Effi, not a word? You are not beaming and not even smiling. And yet he always writes such bright and entertaining letters, and not a word of fatherly wisdom in them." "That I should not allow. He has his age and I have my youth. I should shake my finger at him and say: 'Geert, consider which is better.'" "And then he would answer: 'You have what is better.' For he is not only a man of most refined manners, he is at the same time just and sensible and knows very well what youth means. He is always reminding himself of that and adapting himself to youthful ways, and if he remains the same after marriage you will lead a model married life." "Yes, I think so, too, mama. But just imagine--and I am almost ashamed to say it--I am not so very much in favor of what is called a model married life." "That is just like you. And now tell me, pray, what are you really in favor of?" "I am--well, I am in favor of like and like and naturally also of tenderness and love. And if tenderness and love are out of the question, because, as papa says, love is after all only fiddle-faddle, which I, however, do not believe, well, then I am in favor of wealth and an aristocratic house, a really aristocratic one, to which Prince Frederick Charles will come for an elk or grouse hunt, or where the old Emperor will call and have a gracious word for every lady, even for the younger ones. And then when we are in Berlin I am for court balls and gala performances at the Opera, with seats always close by the grand central box." "Do you say that out of pure sauciness and caprice?" "No, mama, I am fully in earnest. Love comes first, but right after love come splendor and honor, and then comes amusement--yes, amusement, always something new, always something to make me laugh or weep. The thing I cannot endure is _ennui_." "If that is the case, how in the world have you managed to get along with us?" "Why, mama, I am amazed to hear you say such a thing. To be sure, in the winter time, when our dear relatives come driving up to see us and stay for six hours, or perhaps even longer, and Aunt Gundel and Aunt Olga eye me from head to foot and find me impertinent--and Aunt Gundel once told me that I was--well, then occasionally it is not very pleasant, that I must admit. But otherwise I have always been happy here, so happy--" As she said the last words she fell, sobbing convulsively, at her mother's feet and kissed her hands. "Get up, Effi. Such emotions as these overcome one, when one is as young as you and facing her wedding and the uncertain future. But now read me the letter, unless it contains something very special, or perhaps secrets." "Secrets," laughed Effi and sprang to her feet in a suddenly changed mood. "Secrets! Yes, yes, he is always coming to the point of telling me some, but the most of what he writes might with perfect propriety be posted on the bulletin board at the mayor's office, where the ordinances of the district council are posted. But then, you know, Geert is one of the councillors." "Read, read." "Dear Effi: The nearer we come to our wedding day, the more scanty your letters grow. When the mail arrives I always look first of all for your handwriting, but, as you know, all in vain, as a rule, and yet I did not ask to have it otherwise. The workmen are now in the house who are to prepare the rooms, few in number, to be sure, for your coming. The best part of the work will doubtless not be done till we are on our journey. Paper-hanger Madelung, who is to furnish everything, is an odd original. I shall tell you about him the next time. Now I must tell you first of all how happy I am over you, over my sweet little Effi. The very ground beneath my feet here is on fire, and yet our good city is growing more and more quiet and lonesome. The last summer guest left yesterday. Toward the end he went swimming at nine degrees above zero (Centigrade), and the attendants were always rejoiced when he came out alive. For they feared a stroke of apoplexy, which would give the baths a bad reputation, as though the water were worse here than elsewhere. I rejoice when I think that in four weeks I shall row with you from the Piazzetta out to the Lido or to Murano, where they make glass beads and beautiful jewelry. And the most beautiful shall be yours. Many greetings to your parents and the tenderest kiss for yourself from your Geert." Effi folded the letter and put it back into the envelope. "That is a very pretty letter," said Mrs. von Briest, "and that it observes due moderation throughout is a further merit." "Yes, due moderation it surely does observe." "My dear Effi, let me ask a question. Do you wish that the letter did not observe due moderation? Do you wish that it were more affectionate, perhaps gushingly affectionate?" "No, no, mama. Honestly and truly no, I do not wish that. So it is better as it is." "So it is better as it is. There you go again. You are so queer. And by the by, a moment ago you were weeping. Is something troubling you? It is not yet too late. Don't you love Geert?" "Why shouldn't I love him? I love Hulda, and I love Bertha, and I love Hertha. And I love old Mr. Niemeyer, too. And that I love you and papa I don't even need to mention. I love all who mean well by me and are kind to me and humor me. No doubt Geert will humor me, too. To be sure, in his own way. You see he is already thinking of giving me jewelry in Venice. He hasn't the faintest suspicion that I care nothing for jewelry. I care more for climbing and swinging and am always happiest when I expect every moment that something will give way or break and cause me to tumble. It will not cost me my head the first time, you know." "And perhaps you also love your Cousin von Briest?" "Yes, very much. He always cheers me." "And would you have liked to marry Cousin von Briest?" "Marry? For heaven's sake no. Why, he is still half a boy. Geert is a man, a handsome man, a man with whom I can shine and he will make something of himself in the world. What are you thinking of, mama?" "Well, that is all right, Effi, I am glad to hear it. But there is something else troubling you." "Perhaps." "Well, speak." "You see, mama, the fact that he is older than I does no harm. Perhaps that is a very good thing. After all he is not old and is well and strong and is so soldierly and so keen. And I might almost say I am altogether in favor of him, if he only--oh, if he were only a little bit different." "How, pray, Effi." "Yes, how? Well, you must not laugh at me. It is something that I only very recently overheard, over at the parsonage. We were talking about Innstetten and all of a sudden old Mr. Niemeyer wrinkled his forehead, in wrinkles of respect and admiration, of course, and said: 'Oh yes, the Baron. He is a man of character, a man of principles." "And that he is, Effi." "Certainly. And later, I believe, Niemeyer said he is even a man of convictions. Now that, it seems to me, is something more. Alas, and I--I have none. You see, mama, there is something about this that worries me and makes me uneasy. He is so dear and good to me and so considerate, but I am afraid of him." CHAPTER V The days of festivity at Hohen-Cremmen were past; all the guests had departed, likewise the newly married couple, who left the evening of the wedding day. The nuptial-eve performance had pleased everybody, especially the players, and Hulda had been the delight of all the young officers, not only the Rathenow Hussars, but also their more critically inclined comrades of the Alexander regiment. Indeed everything had gone well and smoothly, almost better than expected. The only thing to be regretted was that Bertha and Hertha had sobbed so violently that Jahnke's Low German verses had been virtually lost. But even that had made but little difference. A few fine connoisseurs had even expressed the opinion that, "to tell the truth, forgetting what to say, sobbing, and unintelligibility, together form the standard under which the most decided victories are won, particularly in the case of pretty, curly red heads." Cousin von Briest had won a signal triumph in his self-composed rôle. He had appeared as one of Demuth's clerks, who had found out that the young bride was planning to go to Italy immediately after the wedding, for which reason he wished to deliver to her a traveling trunk. This trunk proved, of course, to be a giant box of bonbons from Hövel's. The dancing had continued till three o'clock, with the effect that Briest, who had been gradually talking himself into the highest pitch of champagne excitement, had made various remarks about the torch dance, still in vogue at many courts, and the remarkable custom of the garter dance. Since these remarks showed no signs of coming to an end, and kept getting worse and worse, they finally reached the point where they simply had to be choked off. "Pull yourself together, Briest," his wife had whispered to him in a rather earnest tone; "you are not here for the purpose of making indecent remarks, but of doing the honors of the house. We are having at present a wedding and not a hunting party." Whereupon von Briest answered: "I see no difference between the two; besides, I am happy." The wedding itself had also gone well, Niemeyer had conducted the service in an exquisite fashion, and on the way home from the church one of the old men from Berlin, who half-way belonged to the court circle, made a remark to the effect that it was truly wonderful how thickly talents are distributed in a state like ours. "I see therein a triumph of our schools, and perhaps even more of our philosophy. When I consider how this Niemeyer, an old village preacher, who at first looked like a hospitaler--why, friend, what do you say? Didn't he speak like a court preacher? Such tact, and such skill in antithesis, quite the equal of Kögel, and in feeling even better. Kögel is too cold. To be sure, a man in his position has to be cold. Generally speaking, what is it that makes wrecks of the lives of men? Always warmth, and nothing else." It goes without saying that these remarks were assented to by the dignitary to whom they were addressed, a gentleman as yet unmarried, who doubtless for this very reason was, at the time being, involved in his fourth "relation." "Only too true, dear friend," said he. "Too much warmth--most excellent--Besides, I must tell you a story, later." The day after the wedding was a clear October day. The morning sun shone bright, yet there was a feeling of autumn chilliness in the air, and von Briest, who had just taken breakfast in company with his wife, arose from his seat and stood, with his hands behind his back, before the slowly dying open fire. Mrs. von Briest, with her fancy work in her hands, moved likewise closer to the fireplace and said to Wilke, who entered just at this point to clear away the breakfast table: "And now, Wilke, when you have everything in order in the dining hall--but that comes first--then see to it that the cakes are taken over to the neighbors, the nutcake to the pastor's and the dish of small cakes to the Jahnkes'. And be careful with the goblets. I mean the thin cut glasses." Briest had already lighted his third cigarette, and, looking in the best of health, declared that "nothing agrees with one so well as a wedding, excepting one's own, of course." "I don't know why you should make that remark, Briest. It is absolutely news to me that you suffered at your wedding. I can't imagine why you should have, either." "Luise, you are a wet blanket, so to speak. But I take nothing amiss, not even a thing like that. Moreover, why should we be talking about ourselves, we who have never even taken a wedding tour? Your father was opposed to it. But Effi is taking a wedding tour now. To be envied. Started on the ten o'clock train. By this time they must be near Ratisbon, and I presume he is enumerating to her the chief art treasures of the Walhalla, without getting off the train--that goes without saying. Innstetten is a splendid fellow, but he is pretty much of an art crank, and Effi, heaven knows, our poor Effi is a child of nature. I am afraid he will annoy her somewhat with his enthusiasm for art." "Every man annoys his wife, and enthusiasm for art is not the worst thing by a good deal." "No, certainly not. At all events we will not quarrel about that; it is a wide field. Then, too, people are so different. Now you, you know, would have been the right person for that. Generally speaking, you would have been better suited to Innstetten than Effi. What a pity! But it is too late now." "Extremely gallant remark, except for the fact that it is not apropos. However, in any case, what has been has been. Now he is my son-in-law, and it can accomplish nothing to be referring back all the while to the affairs of youth." "I wished merely to rouse you to an animated humor." "Very kind of you, but it was not necessary. I am in an animated humor." "Likewise a good one?" "I might almost say so. But you must not spoil it.--Well, what else is troubling you? I see there is something on your mind." "Were you pleased with Effi? Were you satisfied with the whole affair? She was so peculiar, half naïve, and then again very self-conscious and by no means as demure as she ought to be toward such a husband. That surely must be due solely to the fact that she does not yet fully know what she has in him. Or is it simply that she does not love him very much? That would be bad. For with all his virtues he is not the man to win her love with an easy grace." Mrs. von Briest kept silent and counted the stitches of her fancy work. Finally she said: "What you just said, Briest, is the most sensible thing I have heard from you for the last three days, including your speech at dinner. I, too, have had my misgivings. But I believe we have reason to feel satisfied." "Has she poured out her heart to you?" "I should hardly call it that. True, she cannot help talking, but she is not disposed to tell everything she has in her heart, and she settles a good many things for herself. She is at once communicative and reticent, almost secretive; in general, a very peculiar mixture." "I am entirely of your opinion. But how do you know about this if she didn't tell you?" "I only said she did not pour out her heart to me. Such a general confession, such a complete unburdening of the soul, it is not in her to make. It all came out of her by sudden jerks, so to speak, and then it was all over. But just because it came from her soul so unintentionally and accidentally, as it were, it seemed to me for that very reason so significant." "When was this, pray, and what was the occasion?" "Unless I am mistaken, it was just three weeks ago, and we were sitting in the garden, busied with all sorts of things belonging to her trousseau, when Wilke brought a letter from Innstetten. She put it in her pocket and a quarter of an hour later had wholly forgotten about it, till I reminded her that she had a letter. Then she read it, but the expression of her face hardly changed. I confess to you that an anxious feeling came over me, so intense that I felt a strong desire to have all the light on the matter that it is possible to have under the circumstances." "Very true, very true." "What do you mean by that?" "Well, I mean only--But that is wholly immaterial. Go on with your story; I am all ears." "So I asked her straight out how matters stood, and as I wished to avoid anything bordering on solemnity, in view of her peculiar character, and sought to take the whole matter as lightly as possible, almost as a joke, in fact, I threw out the question, whether she would perhaps prefer to marry Cousin von Briest, who had showered his attentions upon her in Berlin." "And?" "You ought to have seen her then. Her first answer was a saucy laugh. Why, she said, her cousin was really only a big cadet in lieutenant's uniform. And she could not even love a cadet, to saying nothing of marrying one. Then she spoke of Innstetten, who suddenly became for her a paragon of manly virtues." "How do you explain that?" "It's quite simple. Lively, emotional, I might almost say, passionate as she is, or perhaps just because she is so constituted, she is not one of those who are so particularly dependent upon love, at least not upon what truly deserves the name. To be sure, she speaks of love, even with emphasis and a certain tone of conviction, but only because she has somewhere read that love is indisputably the most exalted, most beautiful, most glorious thing in the world. And it may be, perhaps, that she has merely heard it from that sentimental person, Hulda, and repeats it after her. But she does not feel it very deeply. It is barely possible that it will come later. God forbid. But it is not yet at hand." "Then what is at hand? What ails her?" "In my judgment, and according to her own testimony, she has two things: mania for amusement and ambition." "Well, those things can pass away. They do not disturb me." "They do me. Innstetten is the kind of a man who makes his own career. I will not call him pushing, for he is not, he has too much of the real gentleman in him for that. Let us say, then, he is a man who will make his own career. That will satisfy Effi's ambition." "Very well. I call that good." "Yes, it is good. But that is only the half. Her ambition will be satisfied, but how about her inclination for amusement and adventure? I have my doubts. For the little entertainment and awakening of interest, demanded every hour, for the thousand things that overcome ennui, the mortal enemy of a spiritual little person, for these Innstetten will make poor provision. He will not leave her in the midst of an intellectual desert; he is too wise and has had too much experience in the world for that, but he will not specially amuse her either. And, most of all, he will not even bother to ask himself seriously how to go about it. Things can go on thus for a while without doing much harm, but she will finally become aware of the situation and be offended. And then I don't know what will happen. For gentle and yielding as she is, she has, along with these qualities, a certain inclination to fly into a fury, and at such times she hazards everything." At this point Wilke came in from the dining hall and reported that he had counted everything and found everything there, except that one of the fine wine glasses was broken, but that had occurred yesterday when the toast was drunk. Miss Hulda had clinked her glass too hard against Lieutenant Nienkerk's. "Of course, half asleep and always has been, and lying under the elder tree has obviously not improved matters. A silly person, and I don't understand Nienkerk." "I understand him perfectly." "But he can't marry her." "No." "His purpose, then?" "A wide field, Luise." This was the day after the wedding. Three days later came a scribbled little card from Munich, with all the names on it indicated by two letters only. "Dear mama: This morning we visited the Pinakothek. Geert wanted to go over to the other museum, too, the name of which I will not mention here, because I am in doubt about the right way to spell it, and I dislike to ask him. I must say, he is angelic to me and explains everything. Generally speaking, everything is very beautiful, but it's a strain. In Italy it will probably slacken somewhat and get better. We are lodging at the 'Four Seasons,' which fact gave Geert occasion to remark to me, that 'outside it was autumn, but in me he was having spring.' I consider that a very graceful compliment. He is really very attentive. To be sure, I have to be attentive, too, especially when he says something or is giving me an explanation. Besides, he knows everything so well that he doesn't even need to consult a guide book. He delights to talk of you two, especially mama. He considers Hulda somewhat affected, but old Mr. Niemeyer has completely captivated him. A thousand greetings from your thoroughly entranced, but somewhat weary Effi." Similar cards now arrived daily, from Innsbruck, from Vicenza, from Padua. Every one began: "We visited the famous gallery here this morning," or, if it was not the gallery, it was an arena or some church of "St. Mary" with a surname. From Padua came, along with the card, a real letter. "Yesterday we were in Vicenza. One must see Vicenza on account of Palladio. Geert told me that everything modern had its roots in him. Of course, with reference only to architecture. Here in Padua, where we arrived this morning, he said to himself several times in the hotel omnibus, 'He lies in Padua interred,' and was surprised when he discovered that I had never heard these words. But finally he said it was really very well and in my favor that I knew nothing about them. He is very just, I must say. And above all he is angelic to me and not a bit overbearing and not at all old, either. I still have pains in my feet, and the consulting of guide books and standing so long before pictures wears me out. But it can't be helped, you know. I am looking forward to Venice with much pleasure. We shall stay there five days, perhaps even a whole week. Geert has already begun to rave about the pigeons in St. Mark's Square, and the fact that one can buy there little bags of peas and feed them to the pretty birds. There are said to be paintings representing this scene, with beautiful blonde maidens, 'a type like Hulda,' as he said. And that reminds me of the Jahnke girls. I would give a good deal if I could be sitting with them on a wagon tongue in our yard and feeding _our_ pigeons. Now, you must not kill the fan tail pigeon with the big breast; I want to see it again. Oh, it is so beautiful here. This is even said to be the most beautiful of all. Your happy, but somewhat weary Effi." When Mrs. von Briest had finished reading the letter she said: "The poor child. She is homesick." "Yes," said von Briest, "she is homesick. This accursed traveling--" "Why do you say that now! You might have hindered it, you know. But it is just your way to play the wise man after a thing is all over. After a child has fallen into the well the aldermen cover up the well." "Ah, Luise, don't bother me with that kind of stuff. Effi is our child, but since the 3d of October she has been the Baroness of Innstetten. And if her husband, our son-in-law, desires to take a wedding tour and use it as an occasion for making a new catalogue of every gallery, I can't keep him from doing it. That is what it means to get married." "So now you admit it. In talking with me you have always denied, yes, always denied that the wife is in a condition of restraint." "Yes, Luise, I have. But what is the use of discussing that now? It is really too wide a field." CHAPTER VI Innstetten's leave of absence was to expire the 15th of November, and so when they had reached Capri and Sorrento he felt morally bound to follow his usual habit of returning to his duties on the day and at the hour designated. So on the morning of the 14th they arrived by the fast express in Berlin, where Cousin von Briest met them and proposed that they should make use of the two hours before the departure of the Stettin train to pay a visit to the Panorama and then have a little luncheon together. Both proposals were accepted with thanks. At noon they returned to the station, shook hands heartily and said good-by, after both Effi and her husband had extended the customary invitation, "Do come to see us some day," which fortunately is never taken seriously. As the train started Effi waved a last farewell from her compartment. Then she leaned back and made herself comfortable, but from time to time sat up and held out her hand to Innstetten. It was a pleasant journey, and the train arrived on time at the Klein-Tantow station, from which a turnpike led to Kessin, ten miles away. In the summer time, especially during the tourist season, travelers were accustomed to avoid the turnpike and take the water route, going by an old sidewheel steamer down the Kessine, the river from which Kessin derived its name. But the "Phoenix"--about which the wish had long been vainly cherished, that, at some time when there were no passengers on board, it might justify its name and burn to ashes--regularly stopped running on the 1st of October. For this reason Innstetten had telegraphed from Stettin to his coachman Kruse: "Five o'clock, Klein-Tantow station. Open carriage, if good weather." It certainly was good weather, and there sat Kruse in the open carriage at the station. He greeted the newly arrived couple with all the prescribed dignity of a first-class coachman. "Well, Kruse, everything in order?" "At your service, Sir Councillor." "Then, Effi, please get in." As Effi was doing as bid, and one of the station porters was finding a place for a small satchel by the coachman, in front, Innstetten left orders to send the rest of the luggage by the omnibus. Then he, too, took his seat and after condescendingly asking one of the bystanders for a light called to Kruse: "Drive on, Kruse." The carriage rolled quickly over the rails of the many tracks at the crossing, then slantingly down the slope of the embankment, and on the turnpike past an inn called "The Prince Bismarck." At this point the road forked, one branch leading to the right to Kessin, the other to the left to Varzin. In front of the inn stood a moderately tall, broad-shouldered man in a fur coat and a fur cap. The cap he took off with great deference as the District Councillor drove by. "Pray, who was that?" said Effi, who was extremely interested in all she saw and consequently in the best of humor. "He looked like a starost, though I am forced to confess I never saw a starost before." "Which is no loss, Effi. You guessed very well just the same. He does really look like a starost and is something of the sort, too. I mean by that, he is half Polish. His name is Golchowski, and whenever we have an election or a hunt here, he is at the top of the list. In reality he is a very unsafe fellow, whom I would not trust across the road, and he doubtless has a great deal on his conscience. But he assumes an air of loyalty, and when the quality of Varzin go by here he would like nothing better than to throw himself before their carriages. I know that at the same time he is hostile to the Prince. But what is the use? We must not have any misunderstandings with him, for we need him. He has this whole region in his pocket and understands electioneering better than any one else. Besides, he is considered well-to-do and lends out money at usury which is contrary to the ordinary practice of the Poles." "But he was good-looking." "Yes, good-looking he is. Most of the people here are good-looking. A handsome strain of human beings. But that is the best that can be said of them. Your Brandenburg people look more unostentatious and more ill-humored, and in their conduct they are less respectful, in fact, are not at all respectful, but their yes is yes and no is no, and one can depend upon them. Here everybody is uncertain." "Why do you tell me that, since I am obliged to live here among them now?" "Not you. You will not hear or see much of them. For city and country are here very different, and you will become acquainted with our city people only, our good people of Kessin." "Our good people of Kessin. Is that sarcasm, or are they really so good?" "That they are really good is not exactly what I mean to say, but they are different from the others; in fact, they have no similarity whatever to the country inhabitants here." "How does that come?" "Because they are entirely different human beings, by ancestry and association. The people you find in the country here are the so-called Cassubians, of whom you may have heard, a Slavic race, who have been living here for a thousand years and probably much longer. But all the inhabitants of our seaports, and the commercial cities near the coast, have moved here from a distance and trouble themselves very little about the Cassubian backwoods, because they derive little profit from that source and are dependent upon entirely different sources. The sources upon which they are dependent are the regions with which they have commercial relations, and as their commerce brings them into touch with the whole world you will find among them people from every nook and corner of the earth, even here in our good Kessin, in spite of the fact that it is nothing but a miserable hole." "Why, that is perfectly charming, Geert. You are always talking about the miserable hole, but I shall find here an entirely new world, if you have not exaggerated. All kinds of exotics. That is about what you meant, isn't it?" He nodded his head. "An entirely new world, I say, perhaps a negro, or a Turk, or perhaps even a Chinaman." "Yes, a Chinaman, too. How well you can guess! It may be that we still have one. He is dead now and buried in a little fenced-in plot of ground close by the churchyard. If you are not easily frightened I will show you his grave some day. It is situated among the dunes, with nothing but lyme grass around it, and here and there a few immortelles, and one always hears the sea. It is very beautiful and very uncanny." "Oh, uncanny? I should like to know more about it. But I would better not. Such stories make me have visions and dreams, and if, as I hope, I sleep well tonight, I should certainly not like to see a Chinaman come walking up to my bed the first thing." "You will not, either." "Not, either? Upon my word, that sounds strange, as though, after all, it were possible. You seek to make Kessin interesting to me, but you carry it a trifle too far. And have you many such foreigners in Kessin?" "A great many. The whole population is made up of such foreigners, people whose parents and grandparents lived in an entirely different region." "Most remarkable. Please tell me more about them. But no more creepy stories. I feel that there is always something creepy about a Chinaman." "Yes, there is," laughed Geert, "but the rest, thank heaven, are of an entirely different sort, all mannerly people, perhaps a little bit too commercial, too thoughtful of their own advantage, and always on hand with bills of questionable value. In fact, one must be cautious with them. But otherwise they are quite agreeable. And to let you see that I have not been deceiving you I will just give you a little sample, a sort of index or list of names." "Please do, Geert." "For example, we have, not fifty paces from our house, and our gardens are even adjoining, the master machinist and dredger Macpherson, a real Scotchman and a Highlander." "And he still wears the native costume?" "No, thank heaven, he doesn't, for he is a shriveled up little man, of whom neither his clan nor Walter Scott would be particularly proud. And then we have, further, in the same house where this Macpherson lives, an old surgeon by the name of Beza, in reality only a barber. He comes from Lisbon, the same place that the famous general De Meza comes from. Meza, Beza; you can hear the national relationship. And then we have, up the river by the quay, where the ships lie, a goldsmith by the name of Stedingk, who is descended from an old Swedish family; indeed, I believe there are counts of the empire by that name. Further, and with this man I will close for the present, we have good old Dr. Hannemann, who of course is a Dane, and was a long time in Iceland, has even written a book on the last eruption of Hekla, or Krabla." "Why, that is magnificent, Geert. It is like having six novels that one can never finish reading. At first it sounds commonplace, but afterward seems quite out of the ordinary. And then you must also have people, simply because it is a seaport, who are not mere surgeons or barbers or anything of the sort. You must also have captains, some flying Dutchman or other, or--" "You are quite right. We even have a captain who was once a pirate among the Black Flags." "I don't know what you mean. What are Black Flags?" "They are people away off in Tonquin and the South Sea--But since he has been back among men he has resumed the best kind of manners and is quite entertaining." "I should be afraid of him nevertheless." "You don't need to be, at any time, not even when I am out in the country or at the Prince's for tea, for along with everything else that we have, we have, thank heaven, also Rollo." "Rollo?" "Yes, Bollo. The name makes you think of the Norman Duke, provided you have ever heard Niemeyer or Jahnke speak of him. Our Rollo has somewhat the same character. But he is only a Newfoundland dog, a most beautiful animal, that loves me and will love you, too. For Rollo is a connoisseur. So long as you have him about you, you are safe, and nothing can get at you, neither a live man nor a dead one. But just see the moon over yonder. Isn't it beautiful?" [Illustration: _Permission F Bruckmann A -G, Munich_ DIVINE SERVICE IN THE WOODS AT KOSEN ADOLPH VON MENZEL] Effi, who had been leaning back quietly absorbed, drinking in every word, half timorously, half eagerly, now sat erect and looked out to the right, where the moon had just risen behind a white mass of clouds, which quickly floated by. Copper-colored hung the great disk behind a clump of alders and shed its light upon the expanse of water into which the Kessine here widens out. Or perhaps it might be looked upon as one of the fresh-water lakes connected with the Baltic Sea. Effi was stupefied. "Yes, you are right, Geert, how beautiful! But at the same time there is something uncanny about it. In Italy I never had such a sensation, not even when we were going over from Mestre to Venice. There, too, we had water and swamps and moonlight, and I thought the bridge would break. But it was not so spooky. What is the cause of it, I wonder? Can it be the northern latitude?" Innstetten laughed. "We are here seventy-five miles further north than in Hohen-Cremmen, and you have still a while to wait before we come to the first polar bear. I think you are nervous from the long journey and the Panorama, not to speak of the story of the Chinaman." "Why, you didn't tell me any story." "No, I only mentioned him. But a Chinaman is in himself a story." "Yes," she laughed. "In any case you will soon recover. Do you see the little house yonder with the light? It is a blacksmith's shop. There the road bends. And when we have passed the bend you will be able to see the tower of Kessin, or to be more exact, the two." "Has it two?" "Yes, Kessin is picking up. It now has a Catholic church also." A half hour later the carriage stopped at the district councillor's residence, which stood clear at the opposite end of the city. It was a simple, rather old-fashioned, frame-house with plaster between the timbers, and stood facing the main street, which led to the sea-baths, while its gable looked down upon a grove, between the city limits and the dunes, which was called the "Plantation." Furthermore this old-fashioned frame-house was only Innstetten's private residence, not the real district councillor's office. The latter stood diagonally across the street. It was not necessary for Kruse to announce their arrival with three cracks of his whip. The servants had long been watching at the doors and windows for their master and mistress, and even before the carriage stopped all the inmates of the house were grouped upon the stone doorstep, which took up the whole width of the sidewalk. In front of them was Rollo, who, the moment the carriage stopped, began to circle around it. Innstetten first of all helped his young wife to alight. Then, offering her his arm, he walked with a friendly bow past the servants, who promptly turned and followed him into the entrance-hall, which was furnished with splendid old wardrobes and cases standing around the walls. The housemaid, a pretty girl, no longer very young, whose stately plumpness was almost as becoming to her as the neat little cap on her blonde head, helped her mistress take off her muff and cloak, and was just stooping down to take off her fur-lined rubber shoes. But before she had time to make a beginning, Innstetten said: "I suppose the best thing will be for me to introduce to you right here all the occupants of our house, with the exception of Mrs. Kruse, who does not like to be seen, and who, I presume, is holding her inevitable black chicken again." Everybody smiled. "But never mind Mrs. Kruse. Here is my old Frederick, who was with me when I was at the university. Good times then, weren't they, Frederick?--This is Johanna, a fellow countrywoman of yours, if you count those who come from the region of Pasewalk as full-fledged Brandenburgians; and this is Christel, to whom we trust our bodily welfare every noon and evening, and who knows how to cook, I can assure you.--And this is Rollo. Well, Rollo, how goes it?" Rollo seemed only to have waited for this special greeting, for the moment he heard his name he gave a bark for joy, stood up on his hind legs and laid his forepaws on his master's shoulders. "That will do, Rollo, that will do. But look here; this is my wife. I have told her about you and said that you were a beautiful animal and would protect her." Hereupon Rollo ceased fawning and sat down in front of Innstetten, looking up curiously at the young wife. And when she held out her hand to him he frisked around her. During this introduction scene Effi had found time to look about. She was enchanted, so to speak, by everything she saw, and at the same time dazzled by the abundant light. In the forepart of the hall were burning four or five wall lights, the reflectors themselves very primitive, simply of tin-plate, which, however, only improved the light and heightened the splendor. Two astral lamps with red shades, a wedding present from Niemeyer, stood on a folding table between two oak cupboards. On the front of the table was the tea service, with the little lamp under the kettle already lighted. There were, beside these, many, many other things, some of them very queer. From one side of the hall to the other ran three beams, dividing the ceiling into sections. From the front one was suspended a ship under full sail, high quarter-deck, and cannon ports, while farther toward the front door a gigantic fish seemed to be swimming in the air. Effi took her umbrella, which she still held in her hand, and pushed gently against the monster, so that it set up a slow rocking motion. "What is that, Geert?" she asked. "That is a shark." "And that thing, clear at the end of the hall, that looks like a huge cigar in front of a tobacco store?" "That is a young crocodile. But you can look at all these things better and more in detail tomorrow. Come now and let us take a cup of tea. For in spite of shawls and rugs you must have been chilled. Toward the last it was bitter cold." He offered Effi his arm and the two maids retired. Only Frederick and Rollo followed the master of the house as he took his wife into his sitting room and study. Effi was as much surprised here as she had been in the hall, but before she had time to say anything, Innstetten drew back a portiere, which disclosed a second, larger room looking out on the court and garden. "Now this, Effi, is your room. Frederick and Johanna have tried to arrange it the best they could in accordance with my orders. I find it quite tolerable and should be happy if you liked it, too." She withdrew her arm from his and stood up on her tip-toes to give him a hearty kiss. "Poor little thing that I am, how you do spoil me! This grand piano! and this rug! Why, I believe it is Turkish. And the bowl with the little fishes, and the flower table besides! Luxuries, everywhere I look." "Ah, my dear Effi, you will have to put up with that. It is to be expected when one is young and pretty and amiable. And I presume the inhabitants of Kessin have already found out about you, heaven knows from what source. For of the flower table, at least, I am innocent. Frederick, where did the flower table come from?" "Apothecary Gieshübler. There is a card on it." "Ah, Gieshübler, Alonzo Gieshübler," said Innstetten, laughingly and almost boisterously handing the card with the foreign-sounding first name to Effi. "Gieshübler. I forgot to tell you about him. Let me say in passing that he bears the doctor's title, but does not like to be addressed by it. He says it only vexes the real doctors, and I presume he is right about that. Well, I think you will become acquainted with him and that soon. He is our best number here, a bel-esprit and an original, but especially a man of soul, which is after all the chief thing. But enough of these things; let us sit down and drink our tea. Where shall it be? Here in your room or over there in mine! There is no other choice. Snug and tiny is my cabin." Without hesitating she sat down on a little corner sofa. "Let us stay here today; you will be my guest today. Or let us say, rather: Tea regularly in my room, breakfast in yours. Then each will secure his rights, and I am curious to know where I shall like it best." "That will be a morning and evening question." "Certainly. But the way it is put, or better, our attitude toward it, is the important thing." With that she laughed and cuddled up to him and was about to kiss his hand. "No, Effi, for heaven's sake, don't do that. It is not my desire to be a person looked up to with awe and respect. I am, for the inhabitants of Kessin, but for you I am--" "What, pray?" "Ah, let that pass. Far be it from me to say what." CHAPTER VII The sun was shining brightly when Effi awoke the next morning. It was hard for her to get her bearings. Where was she? Correct, in Kessin, in the house of District Councillor von Innstetten, and she was his wife, Baroness Innstetten. Sitting up she looked around with curiosity. During the evening before she had been too tired to examine very carefully all the half-foreign, half-old-fashioned things that surrounded her. Two pillars supported the ceiling beam, and green curtains shut off from the rest of the room the alcove-like sleeping apartment in which the beds stood. But in the middle a curtain was either lacking or pulled back, and this afforded her a comfortable orientation from her bed. There between the two windows stood the narrow, but very high, pier-glass, while a little to the right, along the hall wall, towered the tile stove, the door of which, as she had discovered the evening before, opened into the hall in the old-fashioned way. She now felt its warmth radiating toward her. How fine it was to be in her own home! At no time during the whole tour had she enjoyed so much comfort, not even in Sorrento. But where was Innstetten? All was still round about her, nobody was there. She heard only the tick-tock of a small clock and now and then a low sound in the stove, from which she inferred that a few new sticks of wood were being shoved in from the hall. Gradually she recalled that Geert had spoken the evening before of an electric bell, for which she did not have to search long. Close by her pillows was the little white ivory button, and she now pressed softly upon it. Johanna appeared at once. "At your Ladyship's service." "Oh, Johanna, I believe I have overslept myself. It must be late." "Just nine." "And my--" She couldn't make herself speak straightway of her "husband." "His Lordship, he must have kept very quiet. I didn't hear anything." "I'm sure he did. And your Ladyship has slept soundly. After the long journey--" "Yes, I have. And his Lordship, is he always up so early?" "Always, your Ladyship. On that point he is strict; he cannot endure late sleeping, and when he enters his room across the hall the stove must be warm, and the coffee must not be late." "So he has already had his breakfast?" "Oh, no, your Ladyship--His Lordship--" Effi felt that she ought not to have asked the question and would better have kept to herself the suspicion that Innstetten might not have waited for her. So she was very eager to correct her mistake the best she could, and when she had got up and taken a seat before the pier-glass she resumed the conversation, saying: "Moreover, his Lordship is quite right. Always to be up early was likewise the rule in my parents' home. When people sleep away the morning, everything is out of gear the rest of the day. But his Lordship will not be so strict with me. For a long time last night I couldn't sleep, and was even frightened a little bit." "What must I hear, your Ladyship? What was it, pray?" "There was a very strange noise overhead, not loud, but very penetrating. At first it sounded as though gowns with long trains were dragging over the floor, and in my excitement it seemed a few times as though I heard little white satin slippers. It seemed as though they were dancing overhead, but quite softly." As the conversation ran on thus Johanna glanced over the shoulder of the young wife at the tall narrow mirror in order the better to observe Effi's facial expressions. In reply she said: "Oh, yes, that is up in the social room. We used to hear it in the kitchen, too. But now we don't hear it any more; we have become accustomed to it." "Is there anything unusual about it?" "God forbid, not in the least. For a while no one knew for sure what it came from, and even the preacher looked embarrassed, in spite of the fact that Dr. Gieshübler always simply laughed at it. But now we know that it comes from the curtains. The room is inclined to be musty and damp, and for that reason the windows are always left open, except when there is a storm. And so, as there is nearly always a strong draft upstairs, the wind sweeps the old white curtains, which I think are much too long, back and forth over the floor. That makes a sound like silk dresses, or even satin slippers, as your Ladyship just said." "That is it, of course. But what I cannot understand is why the curtains are not taken down. Or they might be made shorter. It is such a queer noise that it gets on one's nerves. And now, Johanna, give me the little cape and put just a little dab of powder on my forehead. Or, better still, take the 'refresher' from my traveling bag--Ah, that is fine and refreshes me. Now I am ready to go over. He is still there, isn't he, or has he been out?" "His Lordship went out earlier; I believe he was over at the office. But he has been back for a quarter of an hour. I will tell Frederick to bring the breakfast." With that