The princess regarded their retreating figures with dreamy eyes. Then, yielding to an unconquerable desire to be alone, to give herself up to undisturbed thought, she was about to withdraw; but the Princess Ulrica, who thought it necessary that the Swedish ambassador should have another opportunity of observing the proud and sullen temper of her sister, called her back.
"Remain a moment longer, Amelia," said the princess. "You shall decide between Count Tessin and myself. Will you accept my sister as umpire, count?"
"Without doubt," said the count. "I should be greatly honored if the princess will be so gracious. Perhaps I may be more fortunate on this occasion."
"It appears to me," said Amelia, rudely interrupting him, "that 'fortunate' and 'unfortunate' are not terms which can be properly used in any connection between a princess of Prussia and yourself." Amelia then turned toward her sister and gave her a glance which plainly said: Well, do I not play my role in masterly style? Have I not hastened to follow your counsels? "Speak, sister; name the point which Count Tessin dares to contest with you."
"Oh, the count is a man and a scholar, and has full right to differ," said Ulrica, graciously. "The question was a comparison of Queen Elizabeth of England and Queen Christina of Sweden. I maintain that Christina had a stronger and more powerful intellect; that she knew better how to conquer her spirit, to master her womanly weaknesses; that she was more thoroughly cultivated, and studied philosophy and science, not as Elizabeth, for glitter and show, but because she had an inward thirst for knowledge. The count asserts that Elizabeth was better versed in statecraft, and a more amiable woman. Now, Amelia, to which of these two queens do you give the preference?"
"Oh, without doubt, to Queen Christina of Sweden. This great woman was wise enough not to regard the crown of Sweden as a rare and precious gem; she chose a simple life of obscurity and poverty in beautiful Italy, rather than a throne in cold and unfruitful Sweden. This act alone establishes her superiority. Yes, sister, you are right. Christina was the greater woman, even because she scorned to be Queen of Sweden."
So saying, Amelia bowed slightingly, and, turning aside, she summoned Madame von Kleist, and commenced a merry chat with her. Count Tessin regarded her with a dark and scornful glance, and pressed his lips tightly together, as if to restrain his anger.
"I beseech you, count," said Ulrica, in a low, soft voice, "not to be offended at the thoughtless words of my dear little sister. It is true, she is a little rude and resentful to-day; but you will see— to-morrow, perhaps, will be one of her glorious sunny days, and you will find her irresistibly charming. Her moods are changeable, and for that reason we call her our little 'April fee.'"
"Ah, the princess is, then, as uncertain as April?" said the count, with a frosty smile.
"More uncertain than April," said Ulrica, sweetly. "But what would you, sir? we all, brothers and sisters, are responsible for that. You must know that she is our favorite, and is always indulged. I counsel you not to find fault with our little sister, Count Tessin; that would be to bring an accusation against us all. You have suffered to-day from a shower of her April moods; to-morrow you may rejoice in the sunshine of her favor."
"I shall, however, be doubtful and anxious," said the ambassador, coolly; "the April sun is sometimes accompanied by rain and storm, and these sudden changes bring sickness and death."
"Allow me to make one request," said Ulrica. "Let not the king guess that you have suffered from these April changes."
"Certainly not; and if your royal highness will graciously allow me to bask in the sunshine of your presence, I shall soon recover from the chilling effect of these April showers."
"Well, I think we have played our parts admirably," said Ulrica to herself, as she found time, during the course of the evening, to meditate upon the events of the day. "Amelia will accomplish her purpose, and will not be Queen of Sweden. She would have it so, and I shall not reproach myself."
Princess Ulrica leaned comfortably back in her arm-chair, and gave her attention to a play of Voltaire, which was now being performed. This representation took place in the small theatre in the royal palace. There was no public theatre in Berlin, and the king justly pronounced the large opera-house unsuited to declamation. Frederick generally gave his undivided attention to the play, but this evening he was restless and impatient, and he accorded less applause to this piquant and witty drama of his favorite author than he was wont to do. The king was impatient, because the king was waiting. He had so far restrained all outward expression of his impatient curiosity; the French play had not commenced one moment earlier than usual. Frederick had, according to custom, gone behind the scenes, to say a few friendly and encouraging words to the performers, to call their attention to his favorite passages, and exhort them to be truly eloquent in their recitations. And now the king waited; he felt feverishly impatient to see and judge for himself this capricious beauty, this world-renowned artiste, this Signora Barbarina, whose rare loveliness and grace enchanted and bewildered all who looked upon her.
At length the curtain fell. In a few moments he would see the Barbarina dance her celebrated solo. A breathless stillness reigned throughout the assembly; every eye was fixed upon the curtain. The bell sounded, the curtain flew up, and a lovely landscape met the eye: in the background a village church, rose-bushes in rich bloom, and shady trees on every side; the declining sun gilded the summit of the mountain, against the base of which the little village nestled. The distant sound of the evening bell was calling the simple cottagers to "Ave Maria." It was an enchanting picture of innocence and peace; in striking contrast to this courtly assemblage, glittering with gems and starry orders—a startling opposite to that sweet, pure idyl. And now this select circle seemed agitated as by an electric shock. There, upon the stage, floated the Signora Barbarina.
The king raised himself involuntarily a little higher in his arm- chair, in order to examine the signora more closely; he leaned back, however, ashamed of his impatience, and a light cloud was on his brow; he felt himself oppressed and overcome by this magical beauty. He who had looked death in the face without emotion, who had seen the deadly cannon-balls falling thickly around him without a trembling of the eyelids, now felt a presentiment of danger, and shrank from it.
Barbarina was indeed lovely, irresistibly lovely, in her ravishing costume of a shepherdess; her dress was of crimson satin, her black velvet bodice was fastened over her voluptuous bosom by rich golden cords, finished off by tassels glittering with diamonds. A wreath of crimson roses adorned her hair, which fell in graceful ringlets about her wondrous brow, and formed a rich frame around her pure, oval face. The dark incarnate of her full, ripe lip contrasted richly with the light, rosy blush of her fair, smooth cheek. Barbarina's smile was a promise of love and bliss; and, when those great fiery eyes looked at you earnestly, there was such an intense glow, such a depth of power and passion in their rays, you could not but feel that there was danger in her love as in her scorn.
To-day, she would neither threaten nor inspire; she was only a smiling, joyous, simple peasant-girl, who had returned wild with joy to her native village, and whose rapture found expression in the gay and graceful mazes of the dance. She floated here and there, like a wood-nymph, smiling, happy, careless, wonderful to look upon in her loveliness and beauty, but more wonderful still in her art. Simplicity and grace marked every movement; there seemed no difficulties in her path—to dance was her happiness.
The dance was at an end. Barbarina, breathless, glowing, smiling, bowed low. Then all was still; no hand was moved, no applause greeted her. Her great burning eyes wandered threateningly and questioningly over the saloon; then, raising her lovely head proudly, she stepped back.
The curtain fell, and now all eyes were fixed upon the king, in whose face the courtiers expected to read the impression which the signora had made upon him; but the countenance of the king told nothing; he was quiet and thoughtful, his brow was stern, and his lips compressed. The courtiers concluded that he was disappointed, and began at once to find fault, and make disparaging remarks. Frederick did not regard them. At this moment he was not a king, he was only a man—a man who, in silent rapture, had gazed upon this wondrous combination of grace and beauty. The king was a hero, but he trembled before this woman, and a sort of terror laid hold upon him.
The curtain rose, and the second act of the drama began; no one looked at the stage; after this living, breathing, impersonation of a simple story, a spoken drama seemed oppressive. Every one rejoiced when the second act was at an end. The curtain would soon rise for Barbarina.
But this did not occur; there was a long delay; there was eager expectation; the curtain did not rise; the bell did not ring. At last, Baron Swartz crossed the stage and drew near to the king.
"Sire," said he, "the Signora Barbarina declares she will not dance again; she is exhausted by grief and anxiety, and fatigued by her journey."
"Go and say to her that I command her to dance," said Frederick, who felt himself once more a king, and rejoiced in his power over this enchantress, who almost held him in her toils.
Baron Swartz hastened behind the scenes, but soon returned, somewhat cast down.
"Sire, the signora affirms that she will not dance, and that the king has no power to compel her. She dances to please herself."
"Ah! that is a menace," said the king, threateningly; and without further speech he stepped upon the stage, followed by Baron Swartz. "Where is this person?" said the king.
"She is in her own room, your majesty; shall I call her?"
"No, I will go to her. Show me the way."
The baron stepped forward, and Frederick endeavored to collect himself and assume a cool and grave bearing.
"Sire, this is the chamber of the Signora Barbarina."
"Open the door." But before the baron had time to obey the command, the impatient hand of the king had opened the door, and he had entered the room.
Barbarina was resting, half reclining, and wholly abstracted, upon a small crimson divan; her rounded arms were crossed over her breast. She fixed her blazing, glowing eyes upon the intruders, and seemed petrified, in her stubborn immobility, her determined silence. She had the glance of a panther who has prepared herself for death, or to slay her enemy.
The king stood a moment quiet and waiting, but Barbarina did not move. Baron Swartz, alarmed by her contemptuous and disrespectful bearing, drew near, in order to say that the king had vouchsafed to visit her, but Frederick motioned him to withdraw; and, in order that Barbarina might not understand him, he told him in German to leave the room and await him in the corridor.
"I do not wish the signora to know that I am the king," said he. As the baron withdrew, Frederick said to him, "Leave the door open."
Barbarina was motionless, only her large black eyes wandered questioningly from one to the other; she sought to read the meaning of their words, not one of which she understood; but her features expressed no anxiety, no disquiet; she did not look like a culprit or a rebel; she had rather the air of a stern queen, withholding her royal favor. The king drew near her. Her eyes were fixed upon him with inexpressible, earnest calm; and this cool indifference, so rarely seen by a king, embarrassed Frederick, and at the same time intoxicated him.
"You are, then, determined not to dance again?" said the king.
"Fully determined," said she, in a rich and sonorous voice.
"Beware! beware!" said he; but he could not assume that threatening tone which he wished. "The king may perhaps compel you."
"Compel me! me, the Barbarina!" said she, with a mocking laugh, aim disclosing two row? of pearly teeth. "And how can the king compel me to dance?"
"You must be convinced that he has some power over you, since he brought you here against your will."
"Yes, that is true," said she, raising herself up proudly; "he brought me here by force; he has acted like a barbarian, a cold- blooded tyrant!"
"Signora," said Frederick, menacingly, "one does not speak so of kings."
"And why not?" she said, passionately. "What is your king to me? What claim has he upon my love, upon my consideration, or even my obedience? What has he done for me, that I should regard him otherwise than as a tyrant? What is he to me? I am myself a queen; yes, and believe me, a proud and an obstinate one! Who and what is this king, whom I do not know, whom I have never seen, who has forgotten that I am a woman, yes, forgotten that he is a man, though he bears the empty title of a king? A true king is always and only a gallant cavalier in his conduct to women. If he fails in this, he is contemptible and despised."
"How! you despise the king?" said Frederick, who really enjoyed this unaccustomed scene.
"Yes, I despise him! yes, I hate him!" cried the Barbarina, with a wild and stormy outbreak of her southern nature. "I no longer pray to God for my own happiness; that this cruel king has destroyed. I pray to God for revenge; yes, for vengeance upon this man, who has no heart, and who tramples the hearts of others under his feet. And God will help me. I shall revenge myself on this man. I have sworn it—I will keep my word! Go, sir, and tell this to your king; tell him to beware of Barbarina. Greater, bolder, more magnanimous than he, I warn him! Cunningly; slyly, unwarned, by night I was fallen upon by spies, and dragged like a culprit to Berlin."
The king had no wish to put an end to this piquant scene; he was only accustomed to the voice of praise and of applause; it was a novelty, and therefore agreeable to be so energetically railed at and abused.
"Do you not fear that the king will be angry when I repeat your words?"
"Fear! What more can your king do, that I should fear him? Yes, he is a king; but am not I a queen? This paltry kingdom is but a small portion of the world, which is mine, wholly mine; it belongs to me, as it belongs to the eagle who spreads her proud wings and looks down upon her vast domains; he has millions in his treasury, but they are pressed from the pockets of his poor subjects; he requires many agents to collect his gold, and his people give it grudgingly, but my subjects bring their tribute joyfully and lay it at my feet with loving words. Look you! look at these two little feet: they are my assessors; they collect the taxes from my people, and all the dwellers in Europe are mine. These are my agents, they bring me in millions of gold; they are also my avengers, by their aid I shall revenge myself on your barbaric king."
She leaned back upon the pillows and breathed audibly, exhausted by her wild passion. The king looked at her with wonder. She was to him a rare and precious work of art, something to be studied and worshipped. Her alluring beauty, her impetuous, uncontrolled passions, her bold sincerity, were all attractions, and he felt himself under the spell of her enchantments. Let her rail and swear to be revenged on the barbarian. The king heard her not; a simple gentleman stood before her; a man who felt that Barbarina was right, and who confessed to himself that the king had forgotten, in her rude seizure, that this Barbarina was a woman—forgotten that he, in all his relations with women, should be only a cavalier.
"Yes, yes," said Barbarina, and an expression of triumph was painted on her lips—"yes, my little feet will be my avengers. The king will never more see them dance—never more; they have cost him thousands of gold; because of them he is at variance with the noble Republic of Venice. Well, he has seen them for the last time. Ah! it is a light thing to subdue a province, but impossible to conquer a woman and an artiste who is resolved not to surrender."
Frederick smiled at these proud words.
"So you will not dance before the king, and yet you have danced for him this evening?"
"Yes," said she, raising her head proudly. "I have proved to him that I am an artiste; only when he feels that, will it pain him never again to see me exercise my art."
"That is, indeed, refined reasoning," said the king. "You danced, then, in order to make the king thirst anew for this intoxicating draught, and then deny him? Truly, one must be an Italian to conceive this plan."
"I am an Italian, and woe to me that I am!" A storm of tears gushed from her eyes, but in a moment, as if scorning her own weakness, she drove them back into her heart. "Poor Italian," she said, in a soft, low tone—"poor child of the South, what are you doing in this cold North, amongst these frosty hearts whose icy smiles petrify art and beauty? Ah! to think that even the Barbarina could not melt the ice- rind from their pitiful souls; to think that she displayed before them all the power and grace of her art, and they looked on with motionless hands and silent lips! Ah! this humiliation would have killed me in Italy, because I love my people, and they understand and appreciate all that is rare and beautiful. My heart burns with scorn and contempt for these torpid Berliners."
"I understand you now," said the king; "you heard no bravos, you were not applauded; therefore you are angry?"
"I laugh at it!" said she, looking fiercely at the king. "Do you not know, sir, that this applause, these bravos, are to the artiste as the sound of a trumpet to the gallant war-horse, they invigorate and inspire, and swell the heart with strength and courage? When the artiste stands upon the stage, the saloon before him is his heaven, and there his judges sit, to bestow eternal happiness or eternal condemnation; to crown him with immortal fame, or cover him with shame and confusion. Now, sir, that I have explained to you that the stage saloon is our heaven, and the spectators are our judges, you will understand that these bravos are to us as the music of the spheres."
"Yes, I comprehend," said the king, smiling; "but you must be indulgent; in this theatre etiquette forbids applause. You have danced to-day before an invited audience, who pay nothing, and therefore have not the right to blame or praise; no one dare applaud—no one but the king."
"Ha! and this rude man did not applaud!" cried she, showing her small teeth, and raising her hand threateningly toward heaven.
"Perhaps he was motionless and drunk from rapture," said the king, bowing gracefully; "when he sees you dance again, he will have more control over himself, and will, perhaps, applaud you heartily."
"Perhaps?" cried she. "I shall not expose myself to this 'perhaps.' I will dance no more. My foot is sore, and your king cannot force me to dance."
"No, he cannot force you, but you will do it willingly; you will dance for him again this evening, of your own free will."
Barbarina answered by one burst of wild, demoniac laughter, expressive of her scorn and her resentment.
"You will dance again this evening," repeated Frederick, and his keen eye gazed steadily into that of Barbarina, who, though weeping bitterly, shook her lovely head, and gave him back bravely glance for glance. "You will dance, Barbarina, because, if you do not, you are lost. I do not mean by this that you are lost because the king will punish you for your obstinacy. The king is no Bluebeard; he neither murders women nor confines them in underground prisons; he has no torture chambers ready for you; for the King of Prussia, whom you hate so fiercely, has abolished the torture throughout his kingdom—the torture, which still flourishes luxuriantly by the side of oranges and myrtles in your beautiful Italy. No, signora, the king will not punish you if you persist in your obstinacy; he will only send you away, that is all."
"And that is my only wish, all that I ask of Fate."
"You do not know yourself. You, who are an artiste, who are a lovely woman, who are ambitious, and look upon fame as worth striving for, you would not lose your power, trample under foot your ambition, see your rare beauty slighted, and your enchanting grace despised?"
"I cannot see why all these terrible things will come to pass if I refuse to dance again before your king?"
"I will explain to you, signora—listen. The king (however contemptuously you may think and speak of him) is still a man, upon whom the eyes of all Europe are turned—that is to say," he added, with a gay smile and a graceful bow, "when his bold eye is not exactly fixed upon them, signora. The voice of this king has some weight in your world, though, as yet, he has only stolen provinces and women. It is well known that the king has so irresistible a desire to see you and to admire you, that he forgot his knightly gallantry, or set it aside, and, relying only upon his right, he exacted the fulfilment of the contract signed by your own lovely hand. That was, perhaps, not worthy of a cavalier, but it was not unjust. You were forced to obey. You came to Berlin unwillingly, that I confess; but you have this evening danced before the king of your own free will. This, from your stand-point, was a great mistake. You can no longer say, 'I will not dance before the king, because I wish to revenge myself.' You have already danced, and no matter with what refinement of reason you may explain this false step, no one will believe you if the king raises his voice against you; and he will do this, believe me. He will say: 'I brought this Barbarina to Berlin. I wished to see if the world had gone mad or become childish, or if Barbarina really deserved the enthusiasm and adoration which followed her steps. Well, I have seen her dance, and I find the world is mad in folly. I give them back their goddess— she does not suit me. She is a wooden image in my eyes. I wished to capture Terpsichore herself, and lo, I found I had stolen her chambermaid! I have seen your goddess dance once, and I am weary of her pirouettes and minauderies. Lo, there, thou hast that is thine.'"
"Sir, sir!" cried Barbarina menacingly, and springing up with flaming eyes and panting breath.
"That is what the king will say," said Frederick quietly. "You know that the voice of the king is full and strong; it will resound throughout Europe. No one will believe that you refused to dance. It will be said that you did not please the king; this will be proved by the fact that he did not applaud, did not utter a single bravo. In a word, it will be said you have made a fiasco."
Barbarina sprang from her seat and laid her hand upon the arm of the king with indescribable, inimitable grace and passion.
"Lead me upon the stage—I will dance now. Ah, this king shall not conquer me, shall not cast me down. No, no! I will compel him to applaud; he shall confess that I am indeed an artiste. Tell the director to prepare—I will come immediately upon the stage."
Barbarina was right when she compared the artiste to a war-horse. At this moment she did indeed resemble one: she seemed to hear the sound of the trumpet calling to battle and to fame. Her cheeks glowed, her nostrils dilated, a quick and violent breathing agitated her breast, and a nervous and convulsive trembling for action was seen in every movement. The king observed and comprehended her. He understood her tremor and her haste; he appreciated this soul- thirsting for fame, this fervor of ambition, excited by the possibility of failure; her boldness enraptured him. The sincerity and power with which she expressed her emotions, commanded his respect; and while the king paid this tribute to her intellectual qualities, the man at the same time confessed to himself that her personal attractions merited the worship she received. She was beautiful, endowed with the alluring, gentle, soft, luxurious, and at the same time modest beauty of the Venus Anadyomene, the goddess rising from the sea.
"Come," said Frederick, "give me your hand. I will conduct you, andI promise you that this time the king will applaud."
Barbarina did not reply. In the fire of her impatience, she pressed the king onward toward the door. Suddenly she paused, and giving him an enchanting smile, she said, "I am, without doubt, much indebted to you; you have warned me of a danger, and in fact guarded me from an abyss. Truly I think this was not done for my sake, but because your king had commanded that I should dance. Your reasons were well grounded, and I thank you sincerely. I pray you, sir, give me your name, that I may guard it in my memory as the only pleasant association with Berlin."
"From this day, signora, you will confess that you owe me a small service. You have told ine it was a light task to win provinces, but to capture and subdue a woman was impossible, I hope now I shall be a hero in your eyes: I have not only conquered provinces, I have captured a woman and subdued her."
Barbarina was neither astonished nor alarmed at these words. She had seen so many kings and princes at her feet to be blinded by the glitter of royalty. She let go the arm of the king, and said calmly and coolly: "Sire, I do not ask for pardon or grace. The possessor of a crown must wear it, if he demands that it should be acknowledged and respected, and the pomp and glare of royalty is, it seems, easily veiled. Besides, I would not have acted otherwise, had I known who it was that dared intrude upon me."
"I am convinced of that," said Frederick, smiling. "You are a queen who has but small consideration for the little King of Prussia, because he requires so many agents to impress the gold from the pockets of his unwilling subjects. You are right—my agents cost me much money, and bring small tribute, while yours cost nothing and yield a rich harvest. Come, signora, your assessors must enter upon their duties."
He nodded to Baron Swartz, who stood in the corridor, and said in German, "The signora will dance; she must be received with respect and treated with consideration." He gave a light greeting to Barbarina and returned to the saloon, where he found the last act of the drama just concluded.
Every eye was fixed upon the king as he entered. He had left the room in anger, and the courtiers almost trembled at the thought of his fierce displeasure; but Frederick's brow was clear, and an expression of peace and quiet was written on his features. He took his place between the two queens, muttered a few words of explanation to his mother, and bowed smilingly to his wife. Poor queen! poor Elizabeth Christine! she had the sharp eye of a loving and jealous woman, and she saw in the king's face what no one, not even Frederick himself, knew. While every eye was turned upon the stage; while all with breathless rapture gazed upon the marvellous beauty and grace of Barbarina, the queen alone fixed a stolen and trembling glance upon the countenance of her husband. She saw not that Barbarina, inspired by ambition and passion, was more lovely, more enchanting than before. Her eyes were fixed upon the face of her husband, now luminous with admiration and delight; she saw his soft smile, and the iron entered her soul.
The dance was at an end. Barbarina came forward and bowed low; and now something happened so unheard of, so contrary to court etiquette, that the master of ceremonies was filled with surprise and disapprobation. The king applauded, not as gracious kings applaud generally, by laying his hands lightly together, but like a wild enthusiast who wishes to confess to the world that he is bewildered, enraptured. He then rose from his chair, and turning to the princesses and generals behind him, he said, "Gentlemen, why do you not applaud?" and as if these magical words had released the hands from bondage and given life to the wild rapture of applause which had before but trembled on the lip, the wide hall rang with the plaudits and enthusiastic bravos of the spectators. Barbarina bowed low and still lower, an expression of happy triumph playing upon her glowing face.
"I have never seen a more beautiful woman," said the king, as he sank back, seemingly exhausted, in his chair.
Queen Elizabeth pressed her lips together, to suppress a cry of pain. She had heard the king's words; for her they had a deeper meaning. "He will love her, I know it, I feel it!" she said to herself as she returned after this eventful evening to Schonhausen. "Oh, why has God laid upon me this new trial, this new humiliation? Until now, no one thought the less of me because I was not loved by the king. The world said, 'The king loves no woman, he has no heart for love.' From this day I shall be despised and pitied. The king has found a heart. He knows now that he has not outlived his youth; he feels that he is young—that he is young in heart, young in love! Oh, my God! and I too am young, and love; and I must shroud my heart in resignation and gloom."
While the queen was pouring out her complaints and prayers to God, the Swedish ambassador was confiding his wrath to his king. He wrote to his sovereign, and repeated to him the angry and abusive words of the little Princess Amelia, who was known at the court as the little April Fee. She was more changeable than April, and more stormy and imperious than Frederick himself. He painted skilfully the gentle and attractive bearing of the Princess Ulrica, and asked for permission to demand the hand of this gracious and noble princess for Adolph Frederick. After the ambassador had written his dispatches, and sent them by a courier to the Swedish ship lying in the sound, he said to himself, with a triumphant smile: "Ah, my little Princess Amelia, this is a royal punishment for royal impertinence. You were pleased to treat me with contempt, but you did not know that I could avenge myself by depriving you of a kingdom. Ah, if you had guessed my mission, how smilingly you would have greeted the Count Tessin!"
The gentlemen diplomatists are sometimes outwitted.
The reader has learned, from the foregoing chapters, what a splendid role the French theatre and ballet were now playing at the court of Berlin. A superb house had been built for the Italian opera and the ballet, a stage had been prepared in the king's palace for the French comedies, and every representation was honored by the presence of the king, the royal family, and the court circle. The most celebrated singers of Italy, the most graceful Parisian dancers were now to be heard and seen in Berlin. These things assumed such vast importance, that the king himself appeared as a critic in the daily journals, and his articles were published in the foreign papers. While the king favored the strange actors with his presence and his grace, the German theatre, like a despised step-child, was given over to misery and contempt. Compelled to seek an asylum in low dark saloons, its actors had to be thankful for even the permission to exist, and to plead with Apollo and the Muses for aid and applause. The king and the so-called good society despised them altogether. But this step-child carried under her ashes and ragged garments the golden robes of her future greatness; her cunning step- sisters had cast her down into obscurity and want, but she was not extinguished; she could not be robbed of her future! Only a few propitious circumstances were necessary to enable her to shake the dust from her head, and bring her kingly crown to light.
The king had given Schonemein permission to bring his company to Berlin; and by a happy chance, Schonemein had engaged the young and talented actor Eckhof for the season. Eckhof was destined to give renown to the German theatre; he was justly called the first and greatest actor in Germany. Alas, how much of misery, how much of humiliation, how many choking tears, how much suffering and care, how much hunger and thirst were then comprised in that one word, a "German actor!" None but a lost or despairing man, or an enthusiast, would enroll himself as a German actor; only when he had nothing more to lose, and was willing to burn his ships behind him, could he enter upon that thorny path. Religion and art have always had their martyrs, and truly the German actors were martyrs in the time of Frederick the Great. Blessings upon those who did not despair, and took up their cross patiently!
The French comedy and the Italian opera flourished like the green bay-tree. The German actors took refuge in the saloon of the Council-house. The lighting up of the Royal Opera-house cost two hundred and seventy-seven florins every night. The misty light of sweltering oil lamps illuminated the poor saloon of the Council- house.
The audience of the German theatre was composed of burghers, philosophers, poets, bankers, and clerks—the people of the middle classes, who wore no white plumes in their hats; they were indeed allowed to enter the opera-house, but through a side passage, and their boxes were entirely separated from those of the court circle. These people of the middle classes seemed obscure and unimportant, but they were educated and intelligent; even then they were a power; proud and independent, they could not be bribed by flattery, nor blinded by glitter and pomp. They judged the king as they judged the beggar, the philosopher as they did the artist, and they judged boldly and well.
This public voice had declared that Eckhof was a great tragedian, who rivalled successfully the great French actor, Monsieur Dennis. This public voice, though but the voice of the people, found entrance everywhere, even in the saloons of the nobles and cabinets of princes. Berlin resounded with the name of Eckhof, who dared to rival the French actor, and with the name of Schonemein, who dared, every time a drama of Corneille or Racine, of Moliere or Voltaire, was given in the palace theatre, to represent the same in the Council-house on the following evening. This was a good idea. Those who had been so fortunate as to witness the performance at the palace, wished to compare the glittering spectacle with the poor caricature, as they were pleased to call it, in the Council-house. Those whose obscure position prevented them from entering the French theatre, wished at least to see the play which had enraptured the king and court; they must be content with a copy, somewhat like the hungry beggar who stands before the kitchen door, and refreshes himself by smelling the roast beef he cannot hope to taste. But there was still a third class who visited the German theatre, not in derision, not from curiosity, not from a desire to imitate the nobles in their amusements, but with the seemingly Utopian hope of building up the German drama. Amongst these were the scholars, who pronounced the dramas of Gottsched far superior to those of Corneille and Racine; there were the German patriots, who would not grant a smile to the best representation of "Le Malade Imaginaire," but declared "The Hypochondriac," by Guistorp, the wittiest drama in the world. In short, this large class of men ranged themselves in bold opposition to the favoritism shown to Frenchmen by Frederick the Great. These were the elements which composed the audience in the Council-house.
One afternoon, just before the opening of the theatre, two young men were walking arm-in-arm in the castle court; with one of them we are already acquainted, Joseph Fredersdorf, the merry student of Halle, the brother of the private secretary—he who had been commissioned to seek the black ram, for the propitiation of the devil. In obedience to the command of the secretary, he, with ten other members of this unholy alliance, had been searching in every quarter for this sacrifice. Joseph Fredersdorf, indebted to fortune or his own adroitness, was the first to return from his wanderings, and he brought with him a black ram, on whose glossy coat the sharpest eye could not detect one white hair.
Fredersdorf, and Baron Kleist, the husband of the lovely Louise von Schwerin, were truly happy, and paid willingly some hundred thalers for this coveted object. Indeed, they considered this a very small interest to pay for the large capital which they would soon realize. They were the principal leaders in the secret conspiracy for gold- making, and many other most distinguished nobles, generals, and officers belonged to the society. Fredersdorf was resolved to fathom this mystery; he wished to buy himself free from his service to the king, and wed the woman he had long so passionately loved. Kleist was riotous and a spendthrift; he felt that gold alone would enable him to buy smiles and rapture from this worn-out and wearisome world. Kleist and his beautiful wife required money in large measure; she had been a faithful companion and aid—had stood by honestly and assisted in the waste of her own property; and now they were compelled to confine themselves to the small income of captain of the king's guard.
Joseph laughed, chatted, and jested with his young companion, who walked by his side with modest and downcast eyes. Joseph sometimes put his hand merrily under the dimpled chins of the rosy servant- girls who passed them from time to time, or peeped rather impertinently under the silk hoods of the burgher maidens; his companion blushed and took no part in these bold pastimes.
"Truly," said Joseph, "if I did not have in my pocket a letter from my former room-mate at Halle, introducing you as a manly, brave boy, and a future light in the world of science, I should suspect you were a disguised maiden; you blush like a girl, and are as timid as a lamb which has never left its mother's side."
"I am a villager, a poor provincial," said the youth, in a somewhat maidenly voice. "The manners of your great city embarrass me. I admire but cannot imitate them. I have been always a recluse, a dusty book-worm."
"A learned monster!" cried Joseph, mockingly, "who knows and understands every thing except the art of enjoying life. I acknowledge that you are greatly my superior, but I can instruct you in that science. You have been so strongly commended to me that I will at once commence to unfold to you the real, satisfying duties and pleasures of life."
"I fear," said the youth. "your science is beyond my ability. I have no organ for it. My father is a celebrated physician in Quedlinburg; he would be greatly distressed if I should occupy myself with any thing else than philosophy and the arts. I myself have so little inclination and so little ability for the enjoyment of mirth and pleasure, that I dare not exchange the world of books for the world of men. I do not understand their speech, and their manners are strange to me."
"But, without doubt, you have come to Berlin to learn something of these things?"
"No, I have come to visit the medical college, and to speak with the learned and renowned Euler."
"Folly and nonsense!" said Fredersdorf, laughing; "keep your dry pursuits for Halle, and give your time and attention to that which you cannot find there, gayety and amusement. I promise to be your counsellor and comrade. Let us begin our studies at once. Do you see that little theatre-bill fastened to the wall? Eckhof appears as Cato to-night."
"Go to the theatre!" said Lupinus, shrinkingly. "How! I go to the theatre?"
"And why not, friend?" said Joseph. "Perhaps you belong to the pietists, who look upon the stage as the mother of blasphemy and sin, and who rail at our noble king because he will not close these houses?"
"No, I do not belong to the pietists," said the youth, with a sad smile, "and I try to serve God, by understanding and admiring His works: that is my religion."
"Well, it seems to me that this faith does not forbid you to enter the theatre. If it pleases you to study God's master-work, I promise to show you this night on the stage the noblest exemplar. Eckhof plays this evening."
"Who, then, is Eckhof?"
Joseph looked at the young man with surprise, and shrugged his shoulders contemptuously.
"You have, indeed, been greatly neglected, and it was high time you should come to me. You do not know, then, that Eckhof is the first tragedian who has dared to set aside the old and absurd dress and manners of the stage, and introduce real, living, feeling men, of like passions with ourselves, and who move and speak even as we do. Now we must certainly enter the theatre; look there, at that great crowd entering the dark and lowly entrance. Let us remove our hats reverentially; we stand before the temple of art." So saying, he drew the young man, who had no longer courage to resist, into the house. "This is Eckhof's benefit. You see the great tragedian has many admirers; it seems to me that half of Berlin has come to bring him tribute this evening."
Lupinus sat silent and confused in the parterre, near Joseph. There was a row of seats slightly elevated and made of common plank, called loges; one of these nearest the stage was adorned by a golden eagle, from which some pitiful drapery was suspended; this was called the king's loge, but, I am constrained to say, it had never been visited by the king or any member of the royal family. The royal loge was indeed empty, but the great body of the house was fearfully crowded, and many an expression of pain was heard from those who were closely pressed and almost trampled upon.
"It is fortunate for you that Eckhof appears as Cato tonight: it is his best role. Perhaps your learned soul may be somewhat reconciled to such vanities when you see a drama of Gottsched, and a hero of the old and classic time."
"Yes, but will not your Eckhof make a vile caricature of the nobleRoman?" sighed Lupinus.
"You are a pedant, and I trust the Muses will revenge themselves upon you this night," said Joseph, angrily. "I prophesy that you will become this evening a wild enthusiast for Eckhof: that is always the punishment for those who come as despisers and doubters. If you were a girl, I should know that you would be passionately in love with Eckhof before you slept; you have taken the first step, by hating him."
Joseph said this thoughtlessly, and did not remark the deep impression his words made upon the stranger. His face flushed, and his head sank upon his breast. Joseph saw nothing of this. At this moment the curtain rose and the piece began.
A breathless silence reigned throughout the vast crowd; every eye was fixed upon the stage; and now, with a stately step and a Roman toga falling in artistic folds from his shoulders, Eckhof as Cato stood before them. Every thing about him was antique; his noble and proud bearing, his firm and measured step, his slow but easy movements, even the form of his head and the expression of his finely-cut features, were eminently classic. He was the complete and perfect picture of an old Roman; nothing was forgotten. The sandals, laced with red over the powerful and well-formed leg; the white under-garment and leathern girdle, the blue toga, the cut of his hair, every thing brought before you the noble Roman, the son of Liberty, imposing in his majesty and power.
Eckhof was the first who had the courage to clothe his characters in the costume of the time they represented, to make them move and speak simply as men. Eckhof did that for the German stage which some years later Talma introduced on the French boards. Talma was only a copyist of Eckhof, but this fact was not acknowledged, because at that time the German stage had not won for itself the sympathy and consideration of other nations.
As I have said, silence reigned, and from time to time the rapture of applause, which could not be altogether suppressed, was evidenced by thundering bravos. Then again all was still; every eye and every ear were open to the great actor, true to himself and true to nature; who, glowing with enthusiasm, had cast his whole soul into his part; who had forgotten the line separating imagination from reality; who had, indeed, ceased to be Eckhof, and felt and thought and spoke as Cato. At the close of an act, Eckhof was forced to come forward and show himself by the wild the stormy applause and loud cries of the audience.
"Do you not find him beyond all praise?" said Fredersdorf.
Lupinus gazed steadily at the stage; he had only soul, breath, hearing, for Eckhof. His old world had passed away like a misty dream—a new world surrounded him. The olden time, the olden time to which he had consecrated years of study and of thought, to which he had offered up his sleep and all the pleasures of youth, had now become a reality for him. He who stood upon the stage was Cato; that was the Roman forum; there were the proud temples, and the dwelling- houses consecrated by their household gods. There was, then, outside of the world of books and letters, another world of light and gladness! What was it, which made his heart beat and tremble so powerfully? why did his blood rush so madly through his veins? A dark veil had fallen from his face; all around him were life, light, gladness, and rapture. With trembling lips and silent tears he said to himself: "I will live; I will be young; I will turn to Eckhof; he shall counsel me, and I will follow his advice as I would a holy gospel.—Did you not say that you knew Cato?" said he, suddenly awaking from his dream and turning to his companion.
"Cato?" said Fredersdorf. "Do you mean the drama, or that wearisome old fellow himself? or Eckhof, who plays the part of Cato?"
"So it is Eckhof," said Lupinus, to himself; "he is called Eckhof?"
The play was at an end; the curtain fell for the last time, and now the long-suppressed enthusiasm burst forth in wild and deafening applause. The young stranger was silent, his eyes were full of tears; and yet he was perhaps the happiest of them all, and these rapturous tears were a loftier tribute to the great actor than the loudest bravos. The people had passed a happy evening, and common cares and sorrows had been forgotten; but Lupinus felt as if his heart had risen from the dead: he was changed from old age to sunny youth; he had suddenly discovered in himself something new, something never suspected—a glowing, loving heart.
"Well, now I am resolved, wholly resolved," said Joseph, as they forced their way through the crowd. "I no longer hesitate; I give up to you your dry learning and philosophy; you are welcome to your dusty books and your imposing cues. I will be an actor."
"Ha! an actor?" said Lupinus, awaking from his dream and trembling violently.
"Why are you shocked at my words? I suppose you despise me because of this decision; but what do I care? I will be an artiste; I shall not be disturbed by the turned-up noses and derisive shrugs of you wise ones. I will be a scholar of Eckhof; so despise me, my learned Lupinus—I give you permission."
"I am not laughing," said Lupinus. "Each one must walk in that path at the end of which he hopes to find his ideal."
"Yes, truly, and so I will go to Eckhof," said Fredersdorf, waving his hat triumphantly in the air.
"Do you know where he dwells?" said the youth.
"Certainly. We are standing now just before his door. See there in the third story, those two lighted windows? That is Eckhof's home."
"What is the name of this street?"
"What is that to you? Has my prophecy really come true, and are you in love with the great actor? Do not let go my arm; do not turn away from me angrily. The Post Strasse is a long way off from where you dwell; you will lose yourself. Let us go together. I will risk no more unseemly jests with you. Come!"
"He lives in the Post Strasse; he is called Eckhof," said Lupinus to himself, as he took Joseph's arm and walked through the dark streets. "I must see Eckhof; he shall decide my fate."
It was the morning after Eckhof's benefit. The usually quiet dwelling of the actor resounded with the ringing of glasses and merry songs after the toils and fatigues of the evening. He wished to afford to himself and his comrades a little distraction; to give to the hungry sons of the Muses and Graces a few hours of simple enjoyment. Eckhof's purse was full and he wished to divide its contents with his friends.
"Drink and be merry," said he to his gay companions. "Let us forget for a few hours that we are poor, despised German actors. We will drink, and picture to ourselves that we belong to the cherished and celebrated artistes of the French stage, on whom the Germans so willingly shower gold, honor, and even love. Raise your glasses, and drink with me to the success of German art!"
"We will drink also to Eckhof," cried one of the youthful company, raising his glass. "Yes, to the father of the now school of German acting."
"You are that, Eckhof, and you are also our benefactor," said another. "We thank you, that for some months we have not suffered from hunger and thirst; that the good people of Berlin take an interest in the German stage, and treat us with some consideration. Let us, then, drink to our preserver, to the great Eckhof!"
Every glass was raised, and their shouts rang out merrily. Eckhof alone was sad and troubled, and his great dreamy eyes gazed thoughtfully in the distance. His friends observed this, and questioned him as to the cause of his melancholy.
"I am not melancholy, though a German actor has always good reason to be so; but I have some new plans which I wish to disclose to you. You greet me as your benefactor. Alas! how suffering, how pitiful must your condition be, if such a man as I am can have been useful to you! You are all artistes, and I say this to you from honest conviction, and not from contemptible flattery. You are greater in your art than I am, only you had not the courage to break through the old and absurd customs of your predecessors. That I have done this, that I have dared to leave the beaten paths, is the only service I have rendered. I have tried to banish from the stage the crazy fools who strutted from side to side, and waved their arms from right to left; who tried to play the orator by uttering their pathetic phrases in weird, solemn sounds from the throat, or trumpeted them through the nose. I have placed living men upon the boards, who by natural speech and action lend truth and reality to the scenes they wish to portray. You, comrades, have assisted me faithfully in this effort. We are in the right path, but we are far from the goal. Let us go forward, then, bravely and hopefully. You think yourselves happy now in Berlin; but I say to you that we dare not remain in Berlin. This vegetation, this bare permission to live, does not suffice, will not satisfy our honor. I think, with Caesar, it is better to be the first in a village than the second or third in a great city. We will leave Berlin; this cold, proud, imperious Berlin, which cherishes the stranger, but has no kind, cheering word for her own countrymen. Let us turn our backs upon these French worshippers, and go as missionaries for the German drama throughout our fatherland."
A long pause followed this speech of Eckhof; every eye was thoughtful, every face was troubled.
"You do not answer? I have not, then, convinced you?"
"Shall we leave Berlin now," said the hero and lover of the little company, "even now, when they begin to show a little interest, a little enthusiasm for us?"
"Alas, friend! the enthusiasm of the Berliners for us is like a fire of straw—it flashes and is extinguished; to-day, perhaps, they may applaud us, to-morrow we will be forgotten, because a learned sparrow or hound, a French dancer, or an Italian singer, occupies their attention. There is neither endurance nor constancy in the Berliners. Let us go hence."
"It seems to me that we should make use of the good time while it lasts," said another. "At present, our daily bread is secured for ourselves and our families."
"If you are not willing to endure suffering and want," said Eckhof, sadly, "you will never be true artistes. Poverty and necessity will be for a long time to come the only faithful companions of the German actor; and he who has not courage to take them to his arms, would do better to become an honest tailor or a shoemaker. If the prosperity of your family is your first consideration, why have you not contented yourselves with honest daily labor, with being virtuous fathers of families? The pursuit of art does not accord with these things; if you choose the one, you must, for a while at least, be separated from the other."
"That will we do," cried Fredersdorf, who had just entered the room; "I, for my part, have already set you all a good example. I have separated from my family, in order to become the husband of Art, whose sighing and ardent lover I have long been; and now, if the noble Eckhof does not reject me as a scholar, I am wholly yours."
Eckhof seized his hand, and said, with a soft smile, "I receive you joyfully; you have the true fire of inspiration. From my heart I say you are welcome."
"I thank you for the word—and now let us be off. The German actor is in Germany no better than the Jew was to the Romans. Let us do as the Jews: we have also found our Moses, who will lead us to the promised land, where we shall find liberty, honor, and gold."
"Yes," they cried, with one voice, "we will follow Eckhof, we will obey our master, we will leave Berlin and seek a city where we shall be truly honored."
"I have found the city," said Eckhof; "we will go to Halle. The wise men who have consecrated their lives to knowledge are best fitted to appreciate and treasure the true artiste; we will unite with them, and our efforts will transform Halle into an Athens, where knowledge and art shall walk hand-in-hand in noble emulation."
"Off, then, for Halle!" said Fredersdorf, waving his hat in the air, but his voice was less firm, and his eye was troubled. "Will the director, Schonemein, consent?"
"Schonemein has resolved to go with us, provided we make no claim for salaries, but will share with him both gains and losses."
"If the undertaking fails in Halle, we must starve, then," said a trembling voice.
Eckhof said nothing; he crossed the room to his writing-table, and took out a well-filled purse. "I do not say that we shall succeed in Halle, that is, succeed as the merchants and Jews do; we go as missionaries, resolved to bear hunger and thirst, if need be, for the cause we love and believe in. Look, this purse contains what remains of my profits from the last two months and from my benefit last night. It is all I have; take it and divide it amongst you. It will, at least, suffice to support you all for one month."
"Will you accept this?" said Joseph, with glowing cheeks.
"No, we will not accept it; what we do we will do freely, and no man shall fetter us by his generosity or magnanimity, not even Eckhof."
Eckhof was radiant with joy. "Hear, now—I have another proposition to make. You have refused my offer for yourselves, but you dare not refuse it for your children; take this money and divide it equally amongst your wives and children. With this gold you shall buy yourselves free for a while from your families."
After a long and eloquent persuasion, Eckhof's offer was accepted, and divided fairly. He looked on with a kindly smile.
"I now stand exactly as I did when I resolved two years ago to be an actor. Before that I was an honest clerk; from day to day I vegetated, and thanked God, when, after eight hours' hard work, I could enjoy a little fresh air and the evening sunshine, and declaim to the fields and groves my favorite lines from the great authors. It is probable I should still have been a poor clerk and a dreamer, if my good genius had not stood by me and given me a powerful blow, which awakened me from dreaming to active life. The justice of the peace, whose clerk I was, commanded me to serve behind his carriage as a footman; this aroused my anger and my self-respect, and I left him, determined rather to die of hunger than to submit to such humiliation. My good genius was again at hand, and gave me courage to follow the promptings of my heart, and become an actor. He who will be great has the strength to achieve greatness. Let us go onward, then, with bold hearts." He gave his hand to his friends and dismissed them, warning them to prepare for their journey.
"You are determined to go to Halle?" said Frederedorf, who had remained behind for the last greeting.
"We will go to Halle; it is the seat of the Muses, and belongs, therefore, to us."
Joseph shook his head sadly. "I know Halle," said he. "You call it the seat of the Muses. I know it only as the seat of pedantry. You will soon know and confess this. There is nothing more narrow- minded, jealous, arrogant, and conceited than a Halle professor. He sees no merit in any thing but himself and a few old dusty Greeks and Romans, and even these are only great because the professor of Halle has shown them the honor to explain and descant upon them. But, you are resolved—I would go with you to prison and to death; in short, I will follow you to Halle."
"And now I am at last alone," said Eckhof; "now I must study my new role; now stand by me, ye gods, and inspire me with your strength; give me the right tone, the right emphasis to personate this rare and wonderful Hippolytus, with which I hope to win the stern professors of Halle!"
Walking backward and forward, he began to declaim the proud and eloquent verses of Corneille; he was so thoroughly absorbed that he did not hear the oft-repeated knock upon the door; he did not even see that the door was softly opened, and the young Lupinus stood blushing upon the threshold. He stood still and listened with rapture to the pathetic words of the great actor; and as Eckhof recited the glowing and innocent confession of love made by Hippolytus, a burning blush suffused the cheek of the young student, and his eyes were filled with tears. He overcame his emotion, and advanced to Eckhof, who was now standing before the glass, studying the attitude which would best accord with this passionate declaration.
"Sir," said he, with a low and trembling voice, "pardon me for disturbing you. I was told that I should find Eckhof in this room, and it is most important to me to see and consult with this great man. I know this is his dwelling; be kind enough to tell me if he is within."
"This is his home, truly, but he is neither a great nor a wise man; only and simply Eckhof the actor."
"I did not ask your opinion of the distinguished man whom I honor, but only where I can find him."
"Tell me first what you want of Eckhof."
"What I want of him, sir?" said the youth, thoughtfully; "I scarcely know myself. There is a mystery in my soul which I cannot fathom. Eckhof has age, wisdom, and experience—perhaps he can enlighten me. I have faith in his eyes and in his silver beard, and I can say freely to him what I dare not say to any other."
Eckhof laughed merrily. "As to his white beard, you will find that in his wardrobe; his wisdom you will find in the books of the authors, to whose great thoughts he has only given voice; he is neither old, wise, nor experienced. In short—I, myself, am Eckhof."
"You are Eckhof!" said Lupinus, turning deadly pale, and, stepping back a few paces, he stared with distended eyes at the actor, whose noble and intellectual face, glowing with youthful fire, was turned toward him.
"I am Eckhof, and I hope you will forgive me for being a little younger, a little browner, and somewhat less wise than the great Cato, in which character you no doubt saw me last night. I dare hope that my confession will not shake your confidence in me; with my whole heart I beg you will tell me how I can be useful to you and what mystery you wish to have explained."
"No, no! I cannot explain," cried the youth; "forgive me for having disturbed you. I have nothing more to say." Confused and ashamed, Lupinus left the room. The actor gazed after him wonderingly, convinced that he had been closeted with a madman.
With trembling heart, scarcely knowing what he thought or did, the student reached his room and closed the door, and throwing himself upon his knees, he cried out in tones of anguish: "Oh, my God! I have seen Eckhof: he is young, he is glorious in beauty, unhappy that I am!" With his hands folded and still upon his knees, he gazed dreamily in the distance; then springing up suddenly, his eyes glowing with energy and passion, he cried: "I must go, I must go! I will return to Halle, to my books and my quiet room; it is lonely, but there I am at peace; there the world and the voice of Eckhof cannot enter. I must forget this wild awakening of my youth; my heart must sleep again and dream, and be buried at last under the dust of books. Unhappy that I am, I feel that the past is gone forever. I stand trembling on the borders of a new existence. I will go at once—perhaps there is yet time; perhaps I may yet escape the wretchedness which threatens me. Oh! in my books and studies I may forget all. I may no longer hear this voice, which is forever sounding in my enraptured ears, no longer see those fearful but wondrous eyes."
With feverish haste and trembling hands he made up his little parcel. A few hours later the post-wagon rolled by Eckhof's dwelling. A young man with pale, haggard face and tearful eyes gazed up at his windows.
"Farewell, Eckhof," murmured he; "I flee from you, but may God bless you! I go to Halle; there I shall never see you, my heart shall never thrill at the sound of your eloquent voice."
Lupinus leaned sadly back in the carriage, comforting himself with the conviction that he was safe; but fate was too strong for him, and the danger from which he so bravely fled, followed him speedily.