“You brought us these last greetings and injunctions of the great king, and it is therefore but just and proper that you, as the representative of the duke, should make us acquainted with the contents of the will. I authorize you to read it aloud. Seat yourself at that table between my two ministers. And now read.”
Count von Hardenberg spread the document out on the table, and commenced to read in a loud and sonorous voice, as follows:
“Life is but a fleeting transition from birth to death. Man’s destiny is to labor for the welfare of society, of which he is a member, during this brief period. Since the duty of managing the affairs of state first devolved upon me, I have endeavored, with all the powers given me by Nature, to make the state which I had the honor to govern happy and prosperous. I have caused justice to be administered, I have brought order and exactitude into the finances, and I have introduced that discipline into the army, which makes it superior to the other troops of Europe. After having done my duty to the state, in this manner, it would be a subject of unceasing self-reproach, if I neglected that which concerns my family. Therefore, in order to avoid the dissensions which might arise among the members of my family in regard to the inheritance, I herewith declare to them this my last will and testament:
“(1.) I willingly, and without regret, return the breath of life which animates me to beneficent Nature, which honored me with its bestowal, and this body to the elements of which it is composed. I have lived a philosopher, and I desire to be buried as such, without pomp, show, or splendor. I desire neither to be dissected nor embalmed. I desire to be buried in Sans-Souci, on the terrace and in the vault which I have had prepared for the reception of my body. In this manner the Prince of Nassau was laid to rest in a wood near Cleve. Should I die in time of war, or on a journey, my body must be conveyed to the most convenient place, and afterwards to Sans-Souci in the winter, and deposited as above directed.
“(2.) I bequeath to my dear nephew, Frederick William, my successor to the crown, the kingdom of Prussia, provinces, states, castles, fortifications, places, munitions, and arsenals, lands which are mine by right of conquest or inheritance, all the crown jewels which are in the hands of the queen, my wife, the gold and silver plate in Berlin, my villas, libraries, collections of medals, picture galleries, gardens, etc., etc. Moreover, I leave him the state treasure as he may find it at my death, in trust. It belongs to the state, and must only be used in defending or assisting the people.
“(3.) If death compels me to leave unpaid some small debts, my nephew shall pay them. Such is my will.
“(4.) I bequeath to the queen, my wife, the revenue she now draws, with the addition of ten thousand dollars per annum, two tuns of wine each year, free wood, and game for her table. Under this condition, the queen has consented to make my nephew her heir. Moreover, as there is no suitable dwelling that can be set apart as her residence, I content myself with mentioning, for form’s sake, Stettin as an appropriate place. At the same time, I request of my nephew that he hold suitable lodgings in readiness for her in the palace in Berlin, and that he show a proper consideration for the widow of his uncle, and for a princess whose virtue is above all reproach.
“(5.) And now, we come to the Allodial estate. I have never been either miserly or rich, nor have I ever had much to dispose of. I have considered the state revenues as the ark of the covenant, which none but consecrated hands might touch. I have never appropriated the public revenues to my own use. My own expenses have never exceeded the sum of two hundred thousand dollars; and my administration leaves me in perfect quietude of conscience, and I do not fear to give the public a strict account of it.
“(6.) I appoint my nephew Frederick William residuary legatee of my Allodial estate, after having paid out the following legacies.”
After the king, in twenty-four additional clauses, had named a legacy for all of his relatives, either in money, jewels, or something else, and after he had determined the pensions for the invalid officers and soldiers of his army, and for his servants, the testament continued:
“I recommend to my successor that he honor and esteem his blood, in the persons of his uncles, aunts, and all other relatives. Accident, which determines the destiny of man, also regulates the succession. But the one, because he becomes king, is no better than the others. I, therefore, recommend to all my relatives that they live in a good understanding with each other; and that they, if it be necessary, sacrifice their personal interests to the welfare of the fatherland and the advantage of the state.
“My last wishes when I die will be for the happiness of this kingdom. May it ever be governed with justice, wisdom, and strength! May it be the happiest of states, through the mildness of its laws; may its administration in respect to finance ever be good and just; may it ever be most gallantly defended by an army that breathes only for honor and fair renown; and may it last and flourish to the end of all centuries!”
“Amen! amen!” exclaimed the king, folding his hands piously, when Baron von Hardenberg had concluded. “Amen! The intentions of my great and exalted uncle shall be carried out in all things! God bless Prussia, and give me strength to govern it and make it happy! I thank you, baron, and promise myself the pleasure of a confidential interview with you to-morrow morning before you take your departure.”
His ministers having retired with the ambassador, in compliance with an intimation from the king that they might do so, Frederick William now turned with a gracious and genial smile to Princess Amelia and her two brothers, who, like the king, had arisen from their seats.
“My exalted uncle particularly recommended that I should consider the welfare of my uncles and aunts,” said Frederick. “I assure you, however, that this recommendation wasunnecessary; without it, I would have been only too happy to contribute to your happiness and welfare, to the extent of my ability. I beg each of you, therefore, to prefer some request, the gratification of which will serve as a remembrance of this solemn occasion.—Speak, Prince Henry; speak, my dear uncle; name some favor that I can grant.”
The prince started, and a glowing color flitted over the countenance that was an exact copy of the deceased king’s. The word “favor,” which Frederick’s smiling lips had uttered, pierced the prince’s heart like a poisoned arrow.
“Sire,” said he, sharply, “I crave no favor whatever at your hands, unless it might be considered a favor that my rights be protected, and justice be shown me, in the matter of my claims to a certain succession.”
“To exercise justice is no favor, but a duty,” replied the king, mildly; “and my dear uncle Henry will certainly be protected in all his rightful claims.”
“In my claims to the succession in the Margraviate Schwedt?” inquired Prince Henry, hurriedly; and his eyes, which were large, luminous, and keen, like Frederick’s, fastened a piercing glance on his nephew’s countenance.
Frederick William shrugged his shoulders. “That is a political question, which must be decided in a ministerial council, and not in a family conference.”
“That is to say, in other words,” screeched Amelia, with mocking laughter, “Prince Henry will always belong to the dear family, but never to the number of the king’s ministers and councillors.”
The king, actuated perhaps by a desire to turn the conversation, now addressed Prince Ferdinand: “And you, my dear uncle, have you no particular wish to impart?”
The prince smiled. “I am not ambitious, and my finances are fortunately in good order. I recommend myself and family to the king’s good-will. I should be particularly pleased if my oldest son Louis could be honored with the protection of his royal uncle.”
“He shall stand on the same footing with my son,” said the king. “I desire him to be the friend and companion of my son Frederick William; and I trust that he will infuse some of his spirit and fire into the latter. The young princes are made to complete each other, and I shall be glad to see them become close friends.—And now, my dear aunt and princess,” continued the king, as he turned to Amelia, “will you be kind enough to name your wishes.”
The princess shrugged her shoulders. “I am not ambitious, like brother Henry, and I have no children to care for, like brother Ferdinand. My own wants are few, and I am not fond enough of mankind to desire to collect riches in order that I may fill empty pockets and feast those who are in want. Life has not been a bed of roses for me, why should I make it pleasant for others? There is but one I desire to make happy; he, like myself, has lived through long years of misery, and can sing a mournful song of the hard-heartedness and cruelty of mankind. Sire, I crave nothing for myself, but I crave a ray of sunshine for him who was buried in the darkness of a prison, who was robbed of his sun for so many long years. I crave for an old man the ray of happiness of which his youth and manhood were wickedly deprived. Sire, in my opinion, there is but one shadow on the memory of my exalted brother. This shadow is Frederick Trenck.[29]Let justice prevail. Restore to Von Trenck the estates of which he was unjustly deprived; restore the title and military rank of which he was robbed. Sire, do this, and I, whom misery has made a bad fairy, will hereafter be nothing more than a good-natured and withered old mummy, who will fold her hands and pray with her last breath for the good and generous king who made Frederick von Trenck happy.”
“It shall be as my dear aunt desires,” said the king, with emotion. “Frederick von Trenck shall be put in possession of his estates, and restored to his military and civic honors. Wewill also invite him to our court, and he shall not have to fear being again thrown into the gloomy dungeons of Magdeburg, although Princess Amelia should smile graciously upon him.”
The princess distorted the poor old face, which was so completely disfigured with scars, in an attempt at a smile, which was only a grimace; and she was herself unaware that the veil which had suddenly dimmed her eyes was a tear. For long years she had neither wept nor smiled, and shed tears to-day for the first time again. For the first time in many years she thanked God, on retiring, for having been permitted to see the light of this day. She no longer desired to die, but prayed that she might live until she had seen Frederick von Trenck—until she had received his forgiveness for the misery she had caused him! To-day, for the first time, the embittered mind of the princess was touched with a feeling of thankfulness and joy. And it came from the bottom of her heart, when she said to Frederick William, on taking leave of him after the reading of the will: “I wish I were not a bad, but rather a good fairy, for I could then give you the receipt for making your people and yourself happy!”
The king smiled at this. He had that receipt already! He had received it in the elixir of life which Cagliostro had given him. These drops were the receipt for his personal happiness; and, as for making the people happy, Bischofswerder and Wöllner must know the receipts necessary to effect that object. In their hands the king will confidently place the helm of state. They are the favorites of the Invisible Fathers; the chosen, the powerful. And they shall rule Prussia, they, the Rosicrucians!
This thought filled the king’s heart with joy, but it filled the hearts of the opponents of the pious brotherhood, of the enemies of Bischofswerder and Wöllner, with dismay and anxiety. And the number of their enemies was great, and many of them were men of high rank and standing.
There was also at the court a party which entertained bitter but secret enmity to the Rosicrucians.
LEUCHSENRING.
At the head of the opposition party at court stood Franz Michael Leuchsenring, the prince royal’s instructor, Goethe’s friend, and a member of the former Hain association. He had been called to Berlin by Frederick the Great to assume the position of French tutor to the future King of Prussia, and impart to him a thorough knowledge of French literature.
Baron von Hardenberg sought out the tutor, whom he had known and loved for many years, on the morning after the reading of the will. The meeting of these long-separated friends was hearty and cordial, and yet the keen glance of the ambassador did not fail to detect the cloud which rested on Leuchsenring’s countenance. After they had shaken hands, and exchanged a few questions and remarks relative to each other’s health and circumstances, the baron raised his delicate white hand and pointed to Leuchsenring’s brow.
“I see a shadow there,” said he, smiling; “a shadow which I never before observed on my friend’s forehead. Is the handsome Leuchsenring no longer the favorite of the ladies, and consequently of the muses also? Or have we again some detestable rival, who dares to contend with you for a fair maid’s favor? I know what that is; I saw you in the rôle of Orlando Furioso more than once, when we were together in the Elysian Fields of Naples, where we first met and joined hands in friendship. My friend, why did we not remain in bella Italia! Why has the prose of life sobered us down, and made of you the teacher, and of me the servant of a prince!—But enough of this; and now answer this question: Who is the rival? Am I to be your second here in Berlin, as I was on three occasions in Naples?”
Leuchsenring smiled: “I observe, with pleasure, my dear baron, that your ministerial rank has not changed you. Youare still the same merry, thoughtless cavalier; while I, really, I can no longer deny it, have become a misanthrope. With me gayety and love are things of the past; and, unfortunately, women have nothing to do with the shadow which your keen glance detected.”
“And more unfortunately still, you have become a politician,” exclaimed the baron, smiling. “What I have heard is then true; you no longer write love-letters, but occupy yourself with learned treatises. You have joined a political party?”
“It is true,” said Leuchsenring, emphatically. “I am filled with anger and hatred when I see these advocates of darkness, that is, these Rosicrucians, or, in other words, these Jesuits, attempting to cast their vast tissue of falsehood over mankind. I feel it to be my duty to tear asunder its meshes and lay bare the toils in which they hoped to involve mankind.”
“Bravo, bravo!” cried Hardenberg. “I am delighted to hear you declare your views in this manner. I now perceive that you are in earnest. And I will give you a proof of my confidence by asking your advice in my personal affairs. King Frederick William has honored me with an audience, and I have just left his presence. It seems his majesty has taken a fancy to me; some effeminate feature in my countenance has found the highest appreciation. To be brief, the king has graciously proposed to me to enter his service; he offers me a ministerial position.”
“And what reply did you make to this proposition?” asked Leuchsenring, eagerly.
“I begged some little time for consideration. I was not sufficiently acquainted with the political phase, and I desired to discuss the matter with you, my friend, before coming to a decision. And now, give me your opinion. Shall I accept?”
“First tell me what you are, and then I will reply. Tell me whether you are a Rosicrucian, that is, a Jesuit, or whether you have remained a faithful brother of our society? Give me your hand, let me touch it with the secret sign; and now tell me if you are still a brother.”
“I am,” said Hardenberg, his jovial face assuming an earnest expression, and he touched Leuchsenring’s extended hand in a peculiar manner. “The grasp of this hand proclaims to you that I have remained true to the society; and that I am still a brother of the order and a zealous freemason.”
“Thanks be to God that you are my friend!” cried Leuchsenring. “Then you are with me, with those who are preparing for the future, and erecting a barrier in the minds of mankind to the present tide of evil. And now I will answer your question. Do not accept the offer which has been made you, but save yourself for the future, for the coming generation. Gloomy days are in store for Prussia, and the good genius of the German fatherland must veil its head and weep over the impending horrors. The demons of darkness are at work in the land. Superstition, hypocrisy, Jesuitism, and lasciviousness, have combined to fetter the understanding and the hearts of men. A period of darkness such as usually precedes the great convulsions and epochs of history will soon come for Prussia. Believe me, we are standing on a crater. The royal favorites are covering it with flowers and garlands; the royal Rosicrucians are administering elixirs and wonder-working potions, to obscure the eye and shut out the fearful vision. They are, however, not arresting the progress of the chariot of fate, but are urging it on in its destructive career. As good springs from evil, so will freedom spring from slavery. The oppression which rulers have been exercising on their subjects for centuries, will now bear its avenging fruits. The slaves will break their fetters, and make freemen of themselves.”
“Ah, my friend,” exclaimed Hardenberg, shrugging his shoulders; “you see the realization of unattainable ideals; unfortunately, I cannot believe in it. Tell me, by what means are these poor, enslaved nations to break their fetters and make freemen of themselves?”
“I will tell you, and make your soul shudder. The slaves, the down-trodden nations, will free themselves by the fearfulmeans of revolution. It already agitates every soul, and throbs in every heart. The time of peace and tranquillity is at end; the storm no longer rages in the heads and hearts of poets only, but in every human heart. The thoughts and songs of the poets have pierced the heart of nations, and fermented a storm that will soon burst forth; as it sweeps along it will destroy the old and build up the new. With his ‘Robbers,’ Schiller hurled the firebrand into the mind of youth, and princes and rulers are feeding and nourishing the enkindled flame with the trumpery of their gold-glittering rags, and their vices. This flame will blaze up until it becomes a mighty conflagration. The vices of princes are the scourges chosen by God, to chastise the nations, in order that they may rise up from the dust, and that slaves may become men! Louis the Fifteenth of France, with all his crimes and vices, was an instrument in the hands of the Almighty. And Marie Antoinette, with her love of pleasure, her frivolity, and her extravagance, is such an instrument, as is also Frederick William of Prussia, with all his thoughtlessness, his good-nature, and his indolence. Even this hypocritical generation of vipers, this lying, deceiving brotherhood, these Rosicrucians and Jesuits, must serve God’s purposes. Falsehood exists only to make truth manifest; and bondage, only to promote liberty. Therefore I will not complain, although vice should be triumphant for a while. The greater the success of evil now, the greater the triumph of good hereafter. The greater the number of Jesuits who execute their dark deeds now, the greater the number who will be destroyed.”
“They exist only in your imagination, my exalted friend,” said Hardenberg, smiling. “There are not any Jesuits in Prussia.”
“They are everywhere,” said Leuchsenring, interrupting him, and grasping his friend’s arm in his earnestness. “Yes, there are Jesuits. They go about with us, they sit with us at table, they grasp our hands as friends, they flatter us as our admirers, they smile on us in the persons of the women welove, they leave no means untried to fetter our hearts and understanding. The Rosicrucians, what are they, one and all, but disguised Jesuits! They wish to impose Catholicism on us, and drive out Protestantism. They wish to mystify the mind, and make the soul grovel in sin and vice, from which condition the victims around whom they have woven their toils will only be permitted to escape by flying to the bosom of the Catholic Church. To the bosom of that Church which offers an asylum to all restless consciences, and dispenses blessings and forgiveness for all vices and crimes. For this reason, these Rosicrucians tempt the good-natured, thoughtless king to luxury and debauchery; for this reason they terrify his mind with apparitions and ghosts! In his terror he is to seek and find safety in the Catholic Church! I see through their disguise; and they know it. For this reason, they hate me; and they cry out against me because I have exposed their wiles and stratagems, and proclaimed that these vile Rosicrucians are Jesuits in disguise, whose object is the expansion of Catholicism over the earth. This I proclaimed in a treatise, which aroused the sleeping, and convinced the doubting, and excited the wrath of the Rosicrucians against me.”
“I have heard of it,” said Hardenberg, thoughtfully. “I heard of your having hurled a defiant article at the secret societies, through the medium of the ‘Berlin Monthly Magazine;’[30]but, unfortunately, I could never obtain a copy.”
“That I can readily believe,” said Leuchsenring, laughing; “the dear Rosicrucians bought up the whole edition of the monthly magazine. When the new one is published, they will buy that up, too, in order to suppress the truth. But they will not succeed. Truth is mighty, and will prevail; and we freemasons and brothers of the order of the Illuminati, will help to make truth victorious. We freemasons are the champions of freedom and enlightenment. Many of the most influentialand distinguished men of Berlin have joined our order, and are battling with us against the advocates of darkness and ignorance—against the Jesuits and Rosicrucians. We call ourselves Illuminati, because we intend to illumine the darkness of the Rosicrucians, and manifest truth, in annihilating falsehood! My friend, the struggle for which we are preparing will be a hard one, for the number of Rosicrucians and Jesuits is vast, and a king is their protector. The number of the Illuminati is comparatively small; and only the kings of intellect and science, not, however, of power and wealth, belong to our brotherhood. But we shall overthrow the Jesuits, nevertheless. We stand on the watch-tower of Prussia, and our Protestant watchword is Luther’s word, ‘The Word they shall not touch.’”
“Well said, my gallant friend,” cried Hardenberg. “Your ardor inspires me, your enthusiasm is contagious. I will take part in this great and noble struggle. Admit me into your order!”
“You shall become one of us! A meeting of our brotherhood takes place this evening at the house of our chieftain Nicolai. You must accompany me, and I will see that you are admitted.”
“And then, when I have become a member of your order, and am enrolled among the number of the enemies of the Jesuits and Rosicrucians, you will no doubt consider it advisable for me to accept the king’s proposition?”
“No, my friend, I cannot approve of it; I cannot advise you to do so.”
“How? You do not desire me to remain and fight at your side? You despise my assistance?”
“I do not despise your assistance; I only wish to spare you for better times. I have a high opinion of your capacities, and it would be a pity if your usefulness should be prematurely destroyed. But this would be the case if you remained here at present. The Rosicrucians are not only mighty, but are also cunning. They would soon recognize an enemy in theMinister of State, and would not be slow in relieving him of his office and power. They would pursue the same course with you that they have pursued with me.”
“What course have they pursued with you? In what can the instructor of the prince royal have offended—the instructor appointed by Frederick the Great? What harm can the Rosicrucians do him?”
Leuchsenring took up an open letter which lay on the writing-desk, and smiled as he handed it to Hardenberg. “Read this,” said he, “it will answer your question.”
Hardenberg glanced quickly over the few lines which the letter contained, and then let it fall on the table again with an air of dejection.
“Dismissed!” he murmured. “The body of the late king is hardly under ground, and they already dare to disregard his will, and send you your dismissal.”
“They go further,” said Leuchsenring, angrily. “They not only dismiss me, but what is still worse, they have appointed a Rosicrucian to fill my position. General Count Brühl has been selected to give the finishing touch to the education of the young prince.”
“And you will now leave Berlin, I suppose?” said Hardenberg. “Well, then, my friend, I make you a proposition. You do not desire me to remain here; I now propose to you to accompany me to Brunswick. Save yourself and your ability for better times, save yourself for the future!”
“No, I will remain,” cried Leuchsenring, with determination. “I will not afford the Rosicrucians the pleasure of seeing me desert my post; I will defend it to the last drop of my blood. I will remain, and the Jesuits and Rosicrucians shall ever find in me a watchful and relentless enemy. All those brave men to whom God has given the sword of intellect, will battle at my side. The Rosicrucians will bring gloom and darkness over Prussia, but we, the Illuminati, will dissipate this darkness. The vicious and the weak belong to the former, but the virtuous and strong, and the youth of thenation, will join the ranks of the Illuminati. Oh, my friend, this will be a spirit-warfare, protracted beyond death, like the struggles of the grim Huns. The spirits of falsehood must, however, eventually succumb to the heavenly might of truth; and darkness must, at last, yield to light! This is my hope, this is my banner of faith; and therefore do I remain here in defiance of my enemies, the Rosicrucians. This struggle, this spirit-warfare, is my delight—it excites, elevates, and refreshes me. But when the victory is ours, when the new era begins, when the old has been torn down, and the new Prussia is to be built up, then your time will come, my friend; you shall be the architect selected to erect this stately edifice. For the dark days of the Rosicrucians and King Frederick William, your services are not available. But after these will come the bright days of the young king, and at his side you shall stand as friend and councillor! For, believe me, King Frederick William the Second will only pass over the horizon of Prussia, and darken the existence of the people, like a storm-cloud, with its thunder and lightning. But cloud and darkness will be dissipated, and after this, day will dawn again, and the sun will once more shine. You have come to Berlin to see Prussia’s unhappiness, but you shall now see something else. I will show you Prussia’s hope, and Prussia’s future!—Come!”
He took his friend’s arm and led him to the window, which commanded a fine view of the adjoining garden. It was only a plain garden, with walks of yellow sand, and beds of ordinary flowers. A bench stood under an apple-tree, covered with fruit, on the main walk, and between two flower-beds. On this bench, two boys, or rather two youths, were sitting, attired in plain, civil dress. The one was very handsome, and well-made; his large, bright eyes were turned upward, the loud tones of his voice could be heard at the window, and his animated gestures seemed to indicate that he was reciting some poem, and was carried away with enthusiasm. The other, a tall youth of sixteen, with the soft, blue eyes, themild countenance, and good-natured expression, was listening attentively to his companion’s declamation.
It was the latter whom Leuchsenring pointed out to his friend. “See,” said he, “that is the future King of Prussia, King Frederick William the Third, that is to be. At his side you are to stand as councillor; and he will need your advice and assistance. He will reap the bitter harvest which will spring from the seed the Jesuits and Rosicrucians are now sowing. Save yourself for Frederick William the Third, Baron Hardenberg, and do not waste your talents and energies in the unfruitful service of Frederick William the Second.”
“The one you point out, the one with the fair hair, and the mild, diffident expression, is then the Prince Royal of Prussia. I wish you had shown me the other, that handsome lad, that youthful Apollo, with the proud smile and piercing eye. I wish he were the future King of Prussia.”
“That is Prince Louis, the present king’s nephew. You are right, he looks like a youthful Apollo. If he were the future king, he would either lift Prussia up to the skies, or else hurl it into an abyss, for he is a genius, and he will not tread the beaten track of life. No, it is better that his gentle young friend should some day wear the crown of Prussia. They have increased his natural timidity by severe treatment. He has no confidence in himself, but he has good, strong sense and an honest heart, and these qualities are of more importance for a king than genius and enthusiasm. I do not know why it is, my friend, but I love this poor, reserved boy, who has suffered and endured so much in his youth. I love this prince, who has so warm a heart, but can never find words to express his feelings. I pity him, for I know that his youthful heart is burdened with a secret sorrow. I have divined the cause, in an occasional word which escapes his lips unawares, and in his manner at times. It is the sorrow of an affectionate and tender-hearted son, who wishes to love and esteem his father, but dares not look at him, for fear of seeingthe spots and shadows which darken that father’s countenance.”
“Poor, poor lad!” said Hardenberg, moved with sympathy. “So young, and yet such bitter experience! But, perhaps, it is well that such should be the case; if he has received the baptism of tears, and has been anointed with affliction, he may become a king by the grace of God! I will do as you say, Leuchsenring; I will save myself for the future, and, if such be the will of God, I will one day serve your young king of the future.”
“And something tells me that God will permit you to do so,” cried Leuchsenring, joyously. “It may be that I will not live to see the day. My enemies, the Rosicrucians, may have destroyed, or the storm-wind of the revolution have swept me away by that time; but you will remain, and at some future day you will remember the hour in which I showed you the young prince royal, Frederick William the Third. He is the future of Prussia, and, in the dark day which is now dawning, we are in sore need of a guiding light. Fix your eye on the Prince Royal of Prussia, and on his genial friend, Prince Louis Ferdinand!”
SCHILLER IN DRESDEN.
“That is false, I say; false!” cried Schiller, with glowing cheeks and sparkling eyes, as he walked to and fro in his little room. “It is all slander, vile slander!”
The two friends, the young councillor of the consistory, Körner, and the bookseller, Göschen, stood together in the window recess, gazing sadly and sympathetically at the poet, who rushed to and fro, almost breathless with rage, hurling an angry glance at his friends, whenever he approached them.
Suddenly he stopped, and fastened his gaze on them, intently. “Why do you not reply?” asked he, in loud and wrathful tones. “Why do you allow me to accuse you both of a falsehood, without even attempting to justify yourselves?”
“Because we wish to give your just anger time to expend itself,” said Körner, in his soft, mild voice. “To our own great sorrow we have been compelled to wound our friend’s feelings, and it is quite natural that this wound should smart.”
“And we do not justify ourselves against these reproaches, because they do not apply to us,” added Göschen, “and because they are only the utterance of your just indignation. Believe me, my friend, we would gladly have spared you this hour, but our friendship was greater than our pity.”
“Yes, yes, the old story,” cried Schiller, with mocking laughter. “Out of friendship, you are pitiless; out of friendship you give the death-blow to my heart! And what the most cruel enemy would hardly have the courage to whisper in my ear, merciful friendship boldly declares!”
SchillerSCHILLER.
SCHILLER.
“Schiller, you are deceived! Schiller, the girl you love is a cold-hearted coquette, who does not love you, who only keeps you in leading-strings, in order to extort presents from you, and to be able to say that a poet adores her!”
“But I will give no credit to such unworthy insinuations! My love shall not be regarded as a mere mockery. You shall not have the pitiful triumph of tearing me from the girl I love. I declare to you and the whole world, I love her, I love the beautiful, the admired, the courted Marie von Arnim. To her belong my thoughts, my wishes, and my hopes. She is my ideal of beauty, of youth, and of female loveliness. I exult in this love; it will raise me from the dust of earth to the sphere of the eternal and immortal gods!”
“My poor friend!” sighed Körner, “like your love, the gods only exist in your poetical fancy. Listen to reason, Schiller!”
“Reason!” cried he, stamping the floor, wrathfully. “That means the dry insipidity of every-day life, instead of life’s festival, wreathed with flowers. No, I will not listen to reason; for you call it reason to consider it possible that the most divine creature on earth could be a base coquette!”
“Now you go too far, Schiller,” said Göschen, eagerly, “no one made such grave accusations against the daughter. We only said of the mother that she misused your love for her daughter, and that she would never consent to your union. We said that the beautiful young lady was aware of this, and continued to receive your attentions, although she knew the gentleman selected by her mother as her future husband, and would finally consent to marry him. As friends, we conceived it to be our duty to tell you this, in order that you might no longer be deceived in your noblest impulses, and continue to throw away your love, your confidence, and your money, on unworthy objects.”
“That is the word,” cried Schiller, with mocking laughter, “now you have uttered the right word! My money, or ratheryourmoney, you would say! You tremble for your viledross! You made me advances, and Don Carlos is not yet completed. You now fear that my love might distract my attention, and draw me from my work, and that the two hundred dollars which—”
“Frederick Schiller!” cried Körner, interrupting him, while Göschen turned away, his lips trembling, and his eyes filled with tears; “Frederick Schiller, now you are unjust; and that, a friend must not be, even in his deepest grief. Vile dross has nothing to do with this sacrifice of friendship, and it was not for its sake that we undertook the thankless office of making the blind see. You well know that Göschen is a noble and disinterested friend, who rejoiced in being permitted to help the poet of Don Carlos out of his difficulties, but it is, of course, painful to him to see the loving, confiding man, squander what the poet earns.”
“It is true, it is true!” cried Schiller, “I am unjust! I reproach you instead of reproaching myself, and myself only. Oh, my friends, forgive these utterances of my anguish, consider what I endure! You are both so happy; you have all that can lend a charm to life, and adorn it. You are wealthy, you do not know what it is to have to contend with want, and to struggle for existence, nor have you any knowledge of that more painful struggle, the warfare of life without love, without some being who loves you, and is wholly yours. You, my friends, have loved and loving wives, who are yours with every fibre of their being. You have also well-appointed households, and are provided with all that is requisite to enable you to exercise a generous hospitality. But, look at me, the solitary, homeless beggar, who calls nothing on earth his own but that spark of enthusiasm which burns in his heart, who must flee to the ideal, in order to escape the too rude grasp of reality. Why must I alone rise from the richly-laden table of life with unsatisfied hunger? Why are the stars, for me, merely candles of the night, that give me light in my labors, and the sun only an economical heating apparatus, to which I am only in so far indebted as it saves me expensive fuel formy stove in winter. Grant me my portion of the repast which the gods have prepared for all mortals, let me also partake of the golden Hesperian fruit. My friends, have pity on the poor wanderer, who has been journeying through the desert of life, and would now recline on the green oasis and rest his weary limbs!” He sank down into a chair, and covered his quivering face with his trembling hands.
His two friends stood at his side regarding him sorrowfully. Neither of them had the cruel courage to break in upon this paroxysm of anguish with a word of encouragement or consolation.
A pause ensued, in which the silence was interrupted only by Schiller’s deep-drawn sighs, and the few indistinct words, which he from time to time murmured to himself. But suddenly he arose, and when he withdrew his hands from his face its expression was completely changed. His countenance was no longer quivering with pain and flushed with anger, but was pale, and his glance defiant. And when he now shook back the long yellow hair which shaded his brow, with a quick movement of the head, he looked like a lion shaking his mane, and preparing to do battle with an approaching enemy.
“Enough of these lamentations and womanish complaints,” said he, in a resolute, hoarse voice. “I will be a man who has the courage to listen to the worst and defy the greatest agony. Repeat all that you have said. I will not interrupt you again, either with complaints or reproaches. I know that you are actuated by the kindest intentions, and that, like the good surgeon, you only desire to apply the knife and fire to my wounded heart in order to heal it. And now, speak, my friends! Repeat what you have said!”
He walked hastily across the room to the little window, stood there with his back turned to the room, and beat the window-panes impatiently with his cold hands.
“Frederick, why repeat what is already burning in your head and heart?” said Körner, gently. “Why turn the knifeonce more in the wound, and tell you that your noble, generous love is not appreciated, not honored? The best and fairest princess of the world would have reason to consider herself happy and blessed, if the poet by the grace of God loved her; and yet his noble, generous love is misused by a cold, calculating woman, and made the means of adorning its object for richer suitors.”
“Proofs!” cried Schiller, imperiously, and he drummed away at the window-panes till they fairly rang.
“It is difficult for others to give proofs in such cases,” replied Körner, in a low voice. “You cannot prove to the man who is walking onward with closed eyes, that he is on the verge of a precipice; you can only warn him and entreat him to open his eyes, that he may see the danger which menaces. We have only considered it our duty to repeat to you what is known by all Dresden, and what all your acquaintances and friends say: that this Madame von Arnim has come to Dresden to seek a husband of rank and fortune for her daughter, and that she only encourages Frederick Schiller’s attentions, because the poet’s homage makes the beautiful young lady appear all the more desirable in the eyes of her other suitors.”
“An infernal speculation, truly!” said Schiller, with derisive laughter. “But where are the proofs? Until they are furnished, I must be permitted to doubt. I attach no importance whatever to the tattle of the good city of Dresden; to the malicious suppositions and remarks of persons with whom I am but slightly acquainted, I am also quite indifferent. But who are thefriendswho believe in this fable, and who have commissioned you to relate it to me? At least, give me the name of one of them.”
“I will at least give you the name of a lady friend,” said Göschen, sadly; “her name is Sophie Albrecht, my wife’s sister.”
Schiller turned hastily to his friends, and his countenance now wore an alarmed expression.
“Sophie Albrecht!” said he, “the sensitive artist — she inwhose house I first saw Marie. Is it possible that she can have uttered so unworthy a suspicion?”
“She it was who charged me to warn you,” replied Göschen, with a sigh. “For this very reason, that you first met Madame von Arnim and her daughter in her house, does she consider it her duty to warn you and show you the abyss at your feet. At this first interview, she noticed with alarm how deep an impression the rare beauty of Miss von Arnim made on you, and how you afterwards ran blindly into the net which the old spider, the speculative mother, had set for you. This Madame von Arnim is the widow of a Saxon officer, who left her nothing but his name and his debts. She lives on a small pension given her by the king, and has, it seems, obtained a few thousand dollars from some rich relative; with this sum she has come to Dresden, where she proposes to carry out her speculation—that is, to keep house here for some little time, and to entertain society, and, above all, rich young cavaliers, among whom she hopes to find an eligible suitor for her daughter. This at least is no calumny, but Madame von Arnim very naively admitted as much to my sister-in-law, Sophie Albrecht, calling her attention to the droll circumstance, that the first candidate who presented himself was no other than a poor poet, who could offer her daughter neither rank, title, nor fortune. When Sophie reminded her that Frederick Schiller could give her daughter the high rank and title of a poet, and adorn her brow with the diamond crown of immortal renown, the sagacious lady shrugged her shoulders, and remarked that a crown of real diamonds would be far more acceptable, and that she had far rather see her daughter crowned with the coronet of a countess than with the most radiant poet’s crown conceivable. And she already had the prospect of obtaining such a one for her daughter; the poet’s admiration for her beautiful daughter had already made her quite a celebrity.”
“You are still speaking of the mother, and of the mother only,” murmured Schiller. “I know that this woman issordid, and that she would, at any time, sell her daughter for wealth and rank, although purchased with her child’s happiness. But what do I care for the mother! Speak to me of the daughter, for she it is whom I love—she is my hope, my future.”
“My poor friend,” sighed Körner, as he stepped forward and laid his hand on Schiller’s shoulder. This touch and these words of sympathy startled Schiller.
“Do not lament over me, but make your accusations,” cried Schiller, and he shook his golden lion’s mane angrily. “Speak, what charges can you prefer against Marie von Arnim? But I already know what your reply would be. You would say that she has been infected by the pitiful worldly wisdom of her scheming mother, and that I am nothing more to her than the ornament with which she adorns herself for another suitor.”
“You have said so, Frederick Schiller, and it is so,” replied Körner, in a low voice. “Yes, the worldly-wise and scheming mother has achieved the victory over her nobler daughter, and, although her heart may suffer, she will nevertheless follow the teachings of her mother, and make a speculation of your love.”
“That is not true, that is calumny!” cried Schiller, violently. “No, no, I do not believe you! Say what you please of the mother, but do not defile her innocent daughter with such vile, unsubstantiated calumny!”
“What proofs do you demand?” asked Göschen, shrugging his shoulders. “I repeated to you what Madam von Arnim told Sophie Albrecht, namely, that a rich suitor had already been found for her daughter.”
“Yes, that the mother had found one. But who told you that the daughter would accept him; that Marie was a party to this disgraceful intrigue?”
“Of that you can certainly best assure yourself,” said Körner, slowly.
“How can I do that?” asked Schiller, shuddering slightly.
“Does not Miss Marie permit you to visit her in the evening?”
“Yes, she does.”
“Only when you see a light at the window of her chamber—the signal agreed upon between you—only then you are not permitted to come. Is it not so?”
“Yes, it is so, and that you may well know, as I told you of it myself. When Marie places a light at that window it is a sign that begs me not to come, because then only the intimate family circle is assembled, to which I certainly do not as yet belong.”
“You can, perhaps, assure yourself whether the young lady was strictly accurate in her statement. You intend paying her a visit this evening, do you not?”
“Yes, I do,” cried Schiller, joyfully, “and I will fall down on my knees before her, and mentally beg her pardon for the unjust suspicions which have been uttered concerning her.”
“I do not believe that she will receive you to-day,” said Körner, in a low voice. “This so-called family circle will have assembled again; in all probability you will see a light in the designated window!”
“Why do you believe that?”
“Well, because I happened to converse with several young officers to-day, who are invited to Madam von Arnim’s for this evening. They asked if they might not, at last, hope to meet you there, regretting, as Madam von Arnim had told them, that your bashfulness and misanthropy made it impossible for you to appear in strange society. I denied this, of course, and assured them that Madam von Arnim had only been jesting; but they said her daughter had also often told them that Frederick Schiller was very diffident, and always avoided the larger social gatherings. ‘If that were not the case,’ said these young gentlemen, ‘Schiller would certainly appear at Madam von Arnim’s the dansante this evening, that is, unless the feelings awakened in his bosom by the presence of Count Kunheim might be of too disagreeable a nature.’”
Schiller shuddered, and a dark cloud gathered on his brow. “Who is this Count Kunheim?”
“I asked them this question also, and the young officers replied that Count Kunheim was the wealthy owner of a large landed estate in Prussia, who had intended remaining a few days in Dresden in passing through the city on his way to the baths of Teplitz. He had, however, made the acquaintance of Miss von Arnim at a party, and had been so captivated by her grace and beauty that he had now sojourned here for weeks, and was a daily visitor at Madam von Arnim’s house.”
“And she never even mentioned his name,” murmured Schiller, with trembling lips, the cold perspiration standing on his forehead in great drops.
“No, she told you nothing about him,” repeated Körner. “And this evening Count Kunheim will be with her again, while the little taper will burn for you at the window, announcing that the impenetrable family circle has once more closed around the fair maid and her mother.”
“If that were true—oh, my God, if that were true!” cried Schiller, looking wildly around him, his breast heaving with agitation. “If this beautiful, this divine being could really have the cruel courage to—”
He had not the courage to pronounce the bitter word which made his soul shudder, but covered his face with his hands, and stood immovable for a long time, wrestling with his grief and anguish. His two friends did not disturb him with any attempts at consolation. They understood the poet well; they knew that his heart was firm, although easily moved. They knew that after Frederick Schiller had wept and lamented like a child, he would once more be the strong, courageous man, ready to look sorrow boldly in the face. And now but a short time elapsed before the manly breast had regained sufficient strength to bear the burden of its grief. Schiller withdrew his hands from his face, threw his head back proudly, and shook his golden mane.
“You are right, all doubt must be removed,” said he; “I will see if the light has been placed at the window!”
He looked at his large silver watch—a present from his father. Its old-fashioned form, and the plain hair-guard with which it was provided, instead of a gold chain, made it any thing but an appropriate ornament for a suitor of Marie von Arnim. “It is eight o’clock,” said he—“that is, the hour of reprieve or of execution has come. Go, my friends, I will dress myself, and then—”
“But will you not permit us to accompany you to the house?” asked Körner. “Will you not permit your friends to remain at your side, to console you when the sad conviction dawns on your mind, or to witness your triumph, if it appears (what I sincerely hope may be the case) that we have been misinformed?”
Schiller shook his head. “No,” said he, solemnly, “there are great moments in which man can only subdue the demons when he is entirely alone, and battles against them with his own strength of soul. For me, such a moment is at hand; pray leave me, my friends!”
GILDED POVERTY.
The chandelier in the large reception-room had been already lighted; and in the adjoining room, the door of which was thrown open, the servant hired for the occasion was occupied in lighting the candles in the plated candlesticks, while at a side table a second servant was busily engaged in arranging the cups and saucers, and providing each with a spoon; but he now discontinued his work, and turned to the elderly lady, who stood at his side, and was endeavoring to cut a moderately-sized cake into the thinnest possible slices.
“My lady,” said the servant, humbly, “ten spoons are still wanting. Will you be kind enough to give them to me?”
“Ah, it is true,” replied the lady, “I have only given you the dozen we have in daily use, and must fetch the others from the closet. You shall have them directly.”
“My lady,” remarked the first servant, “there are not candles enough. Each of the branched candlesticks requires six candles, and I have only six in all.”
“Then you will have to double the number by cutting them in two,” rejoined her ladyship, who was counting the slices of cake, to see if she had not already cut a sufficient number.
“Thirty-three,” she murmured, letting her finger rest on the last slice. “That ought to be enough. There will be twenty persons, and many of them will not take cake a second time. A good piece will be left for to-morrow, and we can invite Schiller to breakfast with us on the remainder.”
At this moment, a red-faced maid, whose attire was far from being tidy, appeared at a side door.
“My lady,” said she, “I have just been to the grocer’s to get the butter and sugar, but he would not let me have any.”
“He wouldn’t let you have any?” repeated Madame von Arnim. “What do you mean?”
“My lady,” continued the cook, in a whispering voice, and with downcast eyes, “the grocer said he would furnish nothing more until you paid his bill.”
“He is an insolent fellow, from whom you must buy nothing more, Lisette,” cried Madame von Arnim, very angrily. “I will pay this impertinent fellow to-morrow morning, when I have had my money changed, but my custom I withdraw from him forever. I wish you to understand, Lisette, in the future you are to buy nothing whatever from this man. Go to the new grocer on the corner of Market Square, give him my compliments, and tell him that I have heard his wares so highly praised that I intend to give him my patronage. He is to keep an account of all I purchase, and I will settle with him at the end of each month.”
“My lady,” said the cook, “as I have to go out again, anyhow, wouldn’t it be better for me to run over to the gamedealers, in Wilsdruffer Street, and buy another turkey? One will certainly not be enough, my lady.”
“But, Lisette,” rejoined her ladyship, angrily, “what nonsense is this? When we talked over the supper together you said yourself that one turkey would be quite sufficient.”
“Yes, my lady, but you then said that only twelve persons were to be invited, and now there are twenty!”
“That makes no difference, whatever, Lisette! What will well satisfy twelve, will satisfy twenty; moreover, it is not necessary that they should be exactly satisfied. I was invited to a supper, a few evenings since, where they had nothing but a roast turkey, and a pie afterwards. There were twenty-two persons, and although each plate was provided with a respectable piece of the roast, I distinctly observed that half of the turkey was left over. Go, therefore, and get the butter and sugar, but one turkey is entirely sufficient.—Every thing depends, however, on the carving,” continued her ladyship, when the cook had taken her departure, “and I charge you, Leonhard, to make the carving-knife very sharp, and to cut the slices as thin and delicate as possible. Nothing is more vulgar than to serve up great thick pieces of meat. It makes it look as if one was not in good society, but in some restaurant where people go to eat all they desire.”
“My lady knows what my performances are in that line,” said the elder servant, simpering; “my lady has tried me before. Without boasting, I can make the impossible, possible. For instance, I carved yesterday, at Countess von Versen’s, for a company of twenty-four people, and as a roast, a single hare, but I cut it into pieces that gladdened the heart. I divided the back into as many pieces as there were joints. Eighteen joints made eighteen pieces, I divided the quarters into twenty pieces, making in all thirty-eight, and so much still remained that my lady, the countess, afterward remarked that she would perhaps have another little party this evening, and gave me two groschens extra for my services.”
“Carve the turkey so that half of it shall remain,” said herladyship, with dignity, “and I will also give you two groschens extra.”
The servant smiled faintly and bowed in acknowledgment of this magnanimous offer. He then turned to the table at which the young servant was occupied in folding up the napkins into graceful figures. “Here are three bottles of white wine, my lady,” said Leonhard, thoughtfully. “I very much fear that it will not go round twice, even if I fill the glasses only half full.”
“Unfortunately I have no further supply of this variety,” said her ladyship, with dignity, “it will therefore be better to take a lighter wine, of which I have several varieties in my pantry. I will take these three bottles back and bring you others.” With a bold grasp she seized them and vanished through the side door.
“Do you know what her ladyship is now doing?” asked the experienced servant, Leonhard, his mouth expanded into a broad grin, as he danced through the room in his pumps, and placed the chairs in position.
“She has gone after a lighter wine,” replied the younger and inexperienced, who, with commendable zeal, was at this moment transforming the peak of a napkin into a swan’s neck.
“After a lighter wine,” repeated Leonhard, derisively. “That is, she is on her way to the pantry with her three bottles of wine, a pitcher of water, a funnel, and an empty bottle. When she enters the pantry she will lock the door, and when she opens the door and marches forth, she will have four full bottles instead of three, and only the pitcher will be empty.”
The other servant looked up in dismay, heedless of the fact that his swan’s neck was collapsing into an ordinary napkin again. “Mr. Leonhard, do you mean to say that her ladyship is diluting the wine with water?”
“Young man, that is not called diluting, but simply ‘baptizing,’ and, indeed, it is very appropriate that, in Christiansociety, where every body has been baptized, the wine should also receive baptism. Bear this in mind, my successor.”
“Your successor? How so, your successor?” asked the other, eagerly, as he pushed a piece of bread under a napkin, which he had just converted into a melon. “Do you propose to retire to private life, and resign your custom to me, Mr. Leonhard?”
“Such custom as this, willingly,” growled Leonhard, “that is, when I have received my money—when her ladyship pays the last penny she owes me!”
“Then she has not paid you for your services?” said the younger, in a faint voice.
“She has been in my debt since I first served her; she owes me for four dinners and eight soirées. She promised to pay each time, and has never kept her word; and I would certainly have discontinued coming, long ago, if I had not known that my money would then certainly be lost. As it is, I now and then receive a paltry instalment of a few groschens. To-day,” he continued, “she went so far as to promise me two groschens extra. Promised! yes, but will she keep her word? And it is very evident to me what the end of all this is to be. Her ladyship wishes to be rid of me; and I am to be set aside, little by little, and by you, my friend. To-day, we are to wait on the table together; but the next time she drums a company of matrimonial candidates together, you alone will be summoned. Therefore, I call you my successor. I hope you will profit by my example. It is a fearful thing to say, but nevertheless true, I stand before you as a living example of how her ladyship cheats a noble servant out of his well-earned wages. But patience, patience! I will not leave this field of my renown without having at least avenged myself! I intend to beg her ladyship to pay me; and if she refuses to do so, I will exercise vengeance, twofold, fearful vengeance. Before the company assembles, I will be so awkward as to fall down and break the four bottles of baptized wine—before the company is assembled, because if I did it afterwards, theguests would hear the crash, and know that she had had wine; but if I do it beforehand, nobody will believe that I broke the bottles.”
“That is a splendid idea,” observed the younger servant, grinning. “I will bear this in mind, and follow your example.”
“I told you I was a living example, my successor,” said Leonhard, impressively. “You can learn of me how to suffer, and how to avenge your wrongs.”
“But you spoke of twofold vengeance. In what will your second act of vengeance consist?”
“The second act of vengeance will be this: in spite of the promised—mark the words of your unfortunate living example—in spite of the promised two groschens, I will not cut the unhappy turkey (which, to judge by the length of her spurs, must have been torn from her family as an aged grandmother) into little, transparent slices, leaving half of it for the next day; but I will cut the whole turkey into pieces, and such great thick pieces, that it will not go round once, and nothing but the neck and drumsticks will be left when her ladyship’s turn comes. Bear this in mind for the future, my successor! I am now going to her ladyship with a flag of truce before the battle. If she rejects the conditions on which I consent to make peace, the result will be made known to you by its crashing consequences. I am now going, my successor; and I repeat it, for the last time, I am your living example!”
Gravely nodding his well-dressed and powdered head, the servant glided through the room on his inaudible dancing-shoes, and vanished through the side door, which opened into a small room, connected with the kitchen by a passage. Her ladyship was neither in this room nor in the kitchen, but, as Leonhard had prophesied, had repaired to the pantry and locked herself in. The living example smiled triumphantly, and knocked gently at the door.
“What is it?” asked her ladyship from within. “Who knocks?”
“Only Leonhard, my lady, who has come after the four bottles of wine.”
“You shall have them directly,” replied his mistress; and Leonhard, whose ear was applied to the keyhole, heard for a moment a sound as of water gurgling through a funnel. Then all was still, and he hurriedly withdrew from the keyhole.
The door was now opened, and Madame von Arnim looked out. “Come in and take the wine; there it stands.”
Leonhard danced up the two steps and into the pantry, and laid hold of the bottles, two in each hand.
“And now, my lady,” said he, bowing profoundly, and waving his arms slowly to and fro with the bottles, like a juggler who first throws himself into the proper position before beginning his performances; “and now, my lady, I beg that you will graciously accord your humble servant a few moments’ conversation.”
Her ladyship inclined her head haughtily. “Speak, Leonhard, but be brief; my company will soon arrive.”
The younger servant was still at work preparing for the supper; and, while so engaged, was at the same time reflecting on the dangers and uncertainties of life, and particularly on those attending a career so open to the caprices of fortune as that of a valet de place. Suddenly the silence was broken by a loud crash; and the servant rushed to the side door to listen. He could now distinctly hear the angry, scolding voice of her ladyship, and the humble, apologetic murmurs of the cunning Leonhard.
“Yes,” said the younger servant, grinning with delight, “he has broken the four bottles of wine! Consequently,” he quickly added, his voice subdued to a low murmur, “her ladyship has not paid him, and will probably not pay me either! That is sad, for I bought a pair of new cotton gloves especially for this occasion,” said he, surveying his hands.
No, her ladyship had not paid Leonhard; as usual, she had endeavored to console him with promises for the future,and the servant had taken his revenge. With unspeakable satisfaction, he was now engaged in picking up the fragments of glass which covered the floor, perfectly indifferent to the volleys of wrath which her ladyship thundered down upon him from the threshold of the pantry.
“What am I to do now? what can I do?” asked his mistress, finally. “To give a supper without wine is impossible!”
Having cleared the wreck away, Leonhard now arose.
“My lady,” said he, with an air of profound deference, “I deeply regret this unfortunate occurrence, and I humbly beg you to deduct the value of these four bottles of wine when you pay me my wages for the four dinners and eight soirées, not including to-day’s!”
“That I will do, as a matter of course,” rejoined her ladyship; “but what am I to do now!”
“I take the liberty of making a suggestion,” murmured the living example, submissively. “In the first instance, your ladyship took from me the three bottles of strong wine, giving me four bottles of a lighter variety instead. Now, as I have had the misfortune to break these four bottles, how would it do to fall back on the original three bottles of strong wine? As I pour out the wine in the pantry, I could baptize it a little, and add some water to each glass. What does your ladyship think of this plan?”
Her only reply was an annihilating glance, which Leonhard received with an air of perfect composure, as her ladyship rustled past him and descended into the kitchen.