The editor of theVossian Gazette, Mr. Kretschmer, sat at his desk, busily writing. That he was a learned man was seen by his earnest, care-worn forehead, his large, well-powdered wig, and above all by the disorder and confusion which reigned in the whole room. Besides which, Mr. Kretschmer wore a dressing-gown, thickly sprinkled with ink-spots, the official robe of his literary dignity. And whosoever beheld him in this robe, his long pipe in his mouth, filling the room with a thick blue smoke, seated on his high tripod before his desk, could not but believe that Mr. Kretschmer was a learned man.
But more than this, he was a great politician. Thereto testified the numerous journals which lay scattered about on the floor, but more especially the nineteen quarto volumes, which stood above on the book-shelf, lettered in gold on the back, "VOSSIAN GAZETTE," and under that the number of the year, from 1740 to 1759. TheVossian Gazettewas then a young, blooming rose, of scarcely nineteen summers. It could still pass for a vigorous, handsome, and perhaps even innocent young maiden; and Mr. Kretschmer was the editor of theVossian Gazette. Had he not, then, a right to be regarded as a great politician?
Mr. Kretschmer was at this moment occupied in writing an article for the next morning's paper, and as he had just received news "by special courier" of another battle, subsequent to that of Liegnitz, which had resulted favorably for the Prussians, he was composing, with the courage of a lion, an extra, which fairly glowed with ardent hatred against the oppressors and cannibals, namely, the Russians and the Austrians; and declared that the salvation of all Germany depended on the supreme dominion of Prussia.
The bold editor of theVossian Gazettein this article called upon the people to fly to arms against the "incendiary oppressors of Freedom and the people's rights," as he called the Russians; he exhorted even the women and girls to fight, and called upon them to grasp the sword in their tender hands instead of the needle. Finally, he entreated all Berlin, if ever theincendiary enemyshould approach the gates, rather to let the whole city be destroyed by fire, and bury themselves in the ruins before they submitted to the foe.
Mr. Kretschmer then laid his pen down, and revised with a satisfied look what he had written.
"That will have an effect," said he, rubbing his hands together, delighted. "When his majesty, our heroic king, returns victorious to Berlin, I will send him this sheet of theVossian Gazette, and I know that he will be satisfied with my heroism."
He looked again at the paper. "Beautiful, beautiful!" exclaimed he, with a self-satisfied smile. "My pen has shot nothing less than bomb-shells and grape, and my ink has turned into whole streams of the enemy's blood. And why should I not be bold, it being perfectly safe, since the king must certainly be victorious, and the enemy has no idea of visiting Berlin? Tschernitscheff and Tottleben are quietly encamped on the other side of the Oder; Soltikoff with his army is near Frankfort; and Count Lacy with his Austrians is waiting an opportunity to give battle to our king. Thus, as I said, I can safely exhort the good citizens of Berlin to defend themselves heroically against the infamous spoiler. How beautifully this peroration sounds: 'People of Berlin! rather let yourselves be buried under the ruins of your burning city than submit to an incendiary enemy!'—Incendiary," repeated he thoughtfully, "that is rather a strong expression, and if the Russians do come, they will revenge themselves for it; but, pshaw! the Russians are not coming, and I can safely send this article to the press. And, furthermore, did not the king himself stigmatize the Russians as such? Yes, I remember last year, after the unfortunate invasion of the Russians, he looked down from the steeple in Frankfort upon the devastation of the country, and cried out with angry indignation, 'Incendiaries! incendiaries!' The expression is at least official, and can therefore remain."
Mr. Kretschmer seized the bell-rope, and began to ring violently. Immediately the door opened, and a small boy entered with a portfolio under his arm.
"Devil," said Mr. Kretschmer, majestically, "here is my article; run as fast as you can to the printing-office with it, and impress upon the compositor the necessity of haste, and, above all things, not to make such mistakes as he did lately, when, in speaking of the Russians, he put 'friends' instead of 'fiends,' which was an unpardonable and most treasonable error of expression."
The little boy took the paper and laid it in his portfolio.
"The printer told me to ask you," said he, "if you had written nothing yet for the 'Miscellaneous.'Spener's Journalhad yesterday such a beautiful 'Miscellaneous,' and told about a woman who had four children at a birth, and a stork which had arrived and built its nest, although it was the month of October."
Mr. Kretschmer frowned. "Spener's Journalalways has some wonderful news, and amuses the Berlin people with all kinds of stupid gossip," grumbled he. "The rivalry of such a paper is unbearable."
"Well, how about the miscellaneous intelligence?" asked the printer's boy.
Mr. Kretschmer stamped his foot angrily. "Go to the devil!" said he.
At this moment there was heard a loud crying and shouting; and while the printer's boy pitched out of the door, Mr. Kretschmer hurried to the window to find out the cause of the uproar.
A heaving, noisy crowd filled the street below, and had halted right under the editor's window. In the midst thereof was seen the tall, lank figure of a man, whose extraordinary appearance enchained the attention of the multitude, and excited afresh their shouts and derisive laughter. And, in fact, nothing could be more striking or fantastic than this man. Notwithstanding the cool October weather, his gigantic figure was clothed from head to foot in gray linen, harmonizing strangely with the gray color of his skin and hair, which latter fell in long locks from his uncovered head down on his shoulders, and gave to the apparition the semblance of a pyramidical ash-heap, out of which his eyes shone like two burning coals. Around his shoulders hung a long cloak of gray linen, which, in addressing the multitude, he sometimes threw around him in picturesque folds, sometimes spread out wide, enveloping his long arms in it, so that he looked like an expanded bat.
"Ah! it is Pfannenstiel, our prophetic linen-weaver," said Mr. Kretschmer, smiling, as he opened his window, and exchanged a look of recognition with the man who was gazing up at him.
The linen-weaver and prophet had rapidly acquired some renown in Berlin by his prophecies and predictions. The people believed in his mystic words and soothsayings and mistaken fanaticism. He related to them his visions and apparitions; he told about the angels and the Lord Jesus, who often visited him; about the Virgin Mary, who appeared in his room every night, and inspired him with what he was to say to the people, and gave him pictures whose mystic signification he was to interpret to them. The prophet possessed more than a hundred of these pictures, given him by celestial apparitions. He had them carefully pasted together, and rolled up always with him. These pictorial sheets, roughly painted on coarse paper, served the linen-weaver in lieu of cards or coffee-grounds, for the purpose of prophesying to the people and announcing the future to them; and the good folks of Berlin believed in these prophecies with firm faith, and listened with devout confidence to the words of their prophet.
Pfannenstiel was in the act of unrolling his pictures, and the multitude, which, just before, had been shouting and screaming, became suddenly silent, and gazed up at the weaver with intense expectation. A breathless silence ensued, and, far down the street, sounded the prophet's loud and sonorous voice. He pointed to the last of his pictures, which, in coarse, clumsy drawing, represented a town, from the houses of which flames arose in the most variegated colors.
"Behold! behold!" cried the prophet, "and fall on your knees and pray! Yes, pray! for I tell you the Holy Ghost appeared to me, His wings dripping with blood, and in His burning and flaming beak He held this picture which I now show you."
"Well, then, how is it that the picture is not burnt too, if the HolyGhost held it in His burning beak?" asked an impudent shoemaker's boy.
A low laugh ran through the crowd, but this was soon suppressed by angry, threatening voices, commanding silence and quiet.
The prophet turned with an air of majestic composure toward the questioner: "Why was not this picture burnt? Because God wished to perform a miracle, to manifest Himself to me in His glory, and to prove to me that this vision was from Him, and not from the devil. Yes, indeed, God gave me this picture that we might be warned—not to terrify us. Listen, therefore, to my voice, and learn what God announces to you from my mouth."
"I would like indeed to hear what the stupid rascal is going to announce to these poor foolish devils," muttered Mr. Kretschmer, leaning out of the window and listening attentively.
Pfannenstiel continued: "Behold these columns of fire rising from the houses of this town. This town is Berlin, and the fire will burst out of the roofs of your houses. Woe! woe! will sound in your streets, and weeping and lamentation will fill the air. I say unto you, watch and pray! Strew ashes on your heads, and fall down on your knees and pray to God for mercy, for the enemy is before your gates, and ere the sun sets the Russians will enter your town! I say unto you, verily I say unto you, God spoke to me in a voice of thunder, and said, 'The Russians are coming!' Fall down and pray, for the Russians are coming!"
"The Russians are coming!" cried the terrified multitude and some among them turned pale. The weeping women folded their hands in prayer; the men looked around timidly, and the frightened children clung to their mothers in dread of the Russians, whose name was synonymous with that of savages and cannibals. Even Kretschmer could not help feeling somewhat terrified. He drew back thoughtfully from the window, muttering with a shudder, "The Russians are coming!"
The people crowded around the prophet in still narrower circles, and in more piercing tones wept and cried out: "What shall we do? What shall we do to be saved? Have mercy, O God! Have mercy on Berlin, for the Russians are coming!"
"Yes, they are coming!" cried Pfannenstiel. "God told me so in the roll of His thunder and the lightning of His eyes; and he said to me: 'Go and say to the people of Berlin, "The Russians are coming!" and thou shalt see in the same hour how their hearts will shrink, and how cast down they will be; how their eyes will run tears, and their lips utter prayers, for the Russian is the sworn enemy of the Berlin people; and as often as the cry, "The Russians are coming," sounds through the streets of Berlin, there will be wailing and lamentation in every house and every heart; and they will bow down in timid contrition and abject obedience. Speak, therefore, to them, and say, "The Russians are coming!" that they may become humble and quiet; that the proud word may be silenced on their lips, and that they may submit in peace.'"
"What shall we do?" asked the people. "Help us, advise us, for thou art our prophet."
Pfannenstiel drew himself up to his utmost height, and an expression of triumphant cunning sparkled in his eyes. "Do you not understand the voice of God? God commands you to withdraw in silence and peace to your own dwellings, to weep and pray. Go, then! Let the word of your mouth and the rebelliousness of your hearts be silent. Go home to your huts, shut the doors and windows, and do not venture out, for without, death and the Russians await you!"
Obedient to the voice of their prophet, the crowd separated in different directions, and dispersed quietly.
Pfannenstiel looked after them with a smile of scorn; then silently rolled up his pictures, threw his gray cloak over his shoulders, and, casting a serious and significant look up at Mr. Kretschmer's window, strode down the street slowly and with an air of majestic dignity.
* * * * *
The warning sounded loud and threatening in Mr. Kretschmer's ears—"The Russians are coming!" A cold chill ran through him, and he could not prevent an involuntary shudder. But he tried to rouse himself from this despondency, and laughed at himself for this credulous fear.
"This Pfannenstiel is a fool, and I would he a greater one if I believed his nonsense," said he. "No, no, my information is warranted and authentic. The king has had a sharp skirmish with the Russians near Reitwan, and driven them back, and then proceeded quietly to Meissen. Thus there is no ground for anxiety, and I can safely let off my bomb-shells against the Russians."
Mr. Kretschmer felt his courage return and his heart grow warm.
"Now I see the whole game," cried he, laughing. "Pfannenstiel wishes theVossian Gazetteto take notice of him. He wants to be talked about, and wishes the newspapers to spread his reputation. For that reason he stationed himself right under my window, for that reason he cast such significant looks at me, for that reason he addressed the crowd and poured forth his nonsense right here. Yes, that's it! He wishes to prove to me how great his power is over this people which believes in him, even when he utters the most incredible and unheard-of things. Well, we can help the man," continued he, laughing, as he stepped to his desk. "The desired article for the 'Miscellaneous' is found, and I think that the prophetic linen-weaver, Pfannenstiel, is well worth more than the four children at a birth and the miserable stork's nest of yesterday'sSpener's Journal. Let's write it off quickly."
Kretschmer began to write most industriously, when he was suddenly interrupted by a violent knocking at the door. It opened, and a stately old gentleman entered, with well-powdered wig and long queue.
"Mr. Krause, my worthy colleague!" exclaimed Kretschmer, jumping up and hastening toward the old man. But Mr. Krause had no word of greeting. He sank sighing into a chair.
"Do you know the news?" asked he, in a whining tone, folding his trembling hands, and looking at Kretschmer timidly, as he stood before him.
"Know what?" demanded the latter in reply, feeling his heart sink.
"The Russians are coming!" sighed Mr. Krause.
"That is a silly tale," cried Kretschmer peevishly, with an impatient gesture.
"Would to God it were!" groaned Krause; "but the news is, alas, but too true, and it can no longer be doubted!"
"Man of misfortune," cried Mr. Kretschmer, "who told you so?"
"Pfannenstiel."
"Pfannenstiel?" repeated Kretschmer, laughing heartily; "oh, yes! Pfannenstiel prophesied it just now in the streets, under my window. Now don't distress yourself, dearest friend and colleague. That was only a clumsy trick of the scoundrel to get me to write an article about him in theVossian Gazette. I have already gratified his wish."
"You are mistaken," said Krause, mournfully. "I sent Pfannenstiel into the streets, to quiet the people, and to admonish them to behave peaceably and soberly, even if the Russians should come."
"Oh! you believe in all these dreams of Pfannenstiel?"
"I believe in the truth, and in what I know!" exclaimed Krause emphatically. "Pfannenstiel has for a long time been my agent, and for a considerable stipend, paid every month, informs me of all that happens, is talked and thought of in the town. He is a very useful man, peculiarly suited to this service."
"The approach of the Russians is then town-talk, and nothing more?" asked Kretschmer, who was still anxious to throw doubt on the bad news.
"No, it is a fact," said Krause seriously. "Pfannenstiel is, as you know, not only a prophet, but also a quack doctor, and his herbs and decoctions are certainly often of astonishing efficacy. He always gathers the plants for his mixtures himself, and roams about in search of them in the neighborhood of Berlin for days together. Last evening he was outside the town, on one of these tramps, intending to pass the night sleeping under a tree. He was awoke by the sound of troops marching, and as he looked carefully around, he could plainly distinguish in the bright moonlight the uniforms of the Russian army. It was a long column of many thousand men. They halted not far from the place where Pfannenstiel lay, and he crept carefully nearer. He then ascertained from their conversation that this was only a small division of the army, which had advanced by forced marches from Frankfort, and was commanded by General Tottleben."
"By Tottleben!" cried Kretschmer in dismay.
"Yes, by Tottleben," whimpered Krause, and they both looked in silence on the ground. "Yes, his vengeance will be terrible," said Krause, after a long and anxious pause. "Have you not heard," continued he in whisper—"have you not heard the sad story of what occurred last year in Erlangen? The editor of theErlangen Gazetteadmitted into his columns an article abusive of our great king. A Prussian officer came in person to Erlangen to call the editor to account. And what do you think he did? He caused the unfortunate and pitiable journalist to be beaten with cudgels, and then gave him a receipt for the bastinado he had gotten."
"Horrible!" cried Mr. Kretschmer, wringing his hands.
Mr. Krause continued: "When a refined Prussian, officer can behave in this way, what have we to expect from these rough, uncivilized enemies, the Russians? Oh! they will murder us, for we, too, have ventured to write boldly and energetically against them."
"Yes, you particularly," said Mr. Kretschmer quickly. "Do you recollect the famous article in your paper, in which you called General Tottleben a notorious adventurer, who had deserted to the enemy after having enjoyed the unmerited favor of our king? This was, certainly, rather strong; it might even be called indiscreet."
"Not as indiscreet as your 'Earnest and Confidential Country Talk,'" cried Krause sharply.
"I never avowed myself the author of that pamphlet," said Kretschmer quickly.
"But every one knows that you are, and you never denied it," replied Krause maliciously. "This 'Country Talk' is more than indiscreet, it is foolhardy. In it you nicknamed Maria Theresa, Aunt Tilla; the Elector of Saxony, Brother Osten; the Empress of Russia, Cousin Lizzy; and our king, Neighbor Flink. And don't you remember what words you put into Cousin Lizzie's mouth, and how you made neighbor Flink ridicule her? Ah, I am afraid you will pay dearly for this" piece of boldness."
"It is not quite so bad as your calling Tottleben a notorious adventurer; for the princes are not here, but Tottleben is before the gates of Berlin, and will revenge himself."
"I am afraid our prospects are equally bad, and for that reason I have come to you, that we might consult together as to what we had best do, to avert this threatening blow from our heads."
"You are right," said Kretschmer, drawing nearer to his brother editor. "Let us consider. Above all things, no exciting calls, no appeals to the people to perform deeds of heroic valor. Berlin is too weak for defence; why, then, should we irritate the enemy by useless opposition?"
"You, too, are right," said Krause thoughtfully; "let us rather advise the citizens of Berlin to be quiet; let us wheel boldly round, and speak in our journals with respect and deference of our worthy enemy."
"Besides which, it would be well to consult with some of the principal men who have an influence on the people. For example, let us go to Gotzkowsky," said Kretschmer.
"Gotzkowsky gives a great holiday to his workmen to-day."
"So much the better, for then he can immediately use his influence on his workmen. Come, let us go at once to Gotzkowsky, this Croesus of Berlin, who bought for our king three hundred thousand dollars' worth of pictures in Italy, without having been paid for them up to this day, and yet is able to take a contract for commissary stores to the amount of eight millions. Let us go to him; and, hark ye! it would be as well to take Pfannenstiel with us to back us."
"Yes," said Krause, raising himself quickly by the arm of his younger friend, "let us go to Gotzkowsky with Pfannenstiel, and preach mildness and submission to him and his workmen."
They both prepared to go. Suddenly Kretschmer stopped as if struck by lightning, and sank down on a chair stunned. "My article, my article!" moaned he. "I am a lost man!"
"What article do you mean, my dearest friend?"
"The leading article in tomorrow's paper," whimpered Kretschmer. "Oh, it was a beautiful article, full of inspiration, but it is not suitable to the times or the circumstances. I wrote it under the erroneous impression that our armies had gained a victory, and in it I spoke with great contempt of the incendiary enemy."
"My God, what rashness!" exclaimed Krause, clasping his hands in despair.
Kretschmer flew from his stool, and grasped his hat. "My article! I must have my article back. The printer must give it up to me. Wait for me in the street. I come either with my article or not at all."
Bidding Krause a hasty farewell, he hurried out.
* * * * *
Gotzkowsky had as yet received no intelligence of the danger which threatened the town, and was enjoying the festival in his garden in the midst of his people.
They were all collected on a grass-plat for target-shooting. In the midst of the plat rose a pole with a target. The women and girls were standing around, attentively and curiously watching the men, who, collected under a tent, were shooting with crossbows at the target. Every lucky shot was greeted with a cheer, every unlucky one with derisive laughter; and the prizes which were assigned to the fortunate marksmen only served to increase the joy and merriment of the happy crowd.
Suddenly loud cries of weeping and lamentation were heard from a distance. The people looked at each other with anxiety and alarm. The dismal noise came nearer and still nearer, and then appeared at the entrance gate near by the strange and wild figure of the linen-weaver, accompanied by the two editors, Krause and Kretschmer.
"Pfannenstiel! it is Pfannenstiel, our prophet!" shouted the crowd, while they hastened with joyous laughter and words of greeting toward their beloved seer.
The linen-weaver strode forward with a serious and majestic air, answering the greetings of the workmen with patronizing nods, and from time to time stretching out his hand as if to bless them. The multitude crowded around him, and seemed to look upon the advent of the prophet as part of the programme of the entertainment. But Gotzkowsky hastened toward the two editors with a cheerful smile, bidding them a courteous welcome. They responded to his friendly greeting with a solemn earnestness, and requested a conference with a mysterious and important air. Gotzkowsky looked at them with astonishment; but as he read in their countenances an expression of deep and anxious concern, he motioned to them and preceded them to a summer-house on the other side of the lawn.
"Here we can talk without being observed," said he, casting a look across at his workmen. "You see my guests are still busy with the scarecrow which you brought here; and what business has this man, indeed, among merry people?"
"He maintains that God ordered him to come to you, to warn you in His name, and call upon you to protect Berlin," said Krause.
"Yes," continued Kretschmer, "and he entreated us to accompany him, trusting to our influence with our dear friend."
Gotzkowsky looked at both of the men with astonishment. "Tell me, my worthy friends, which of us is crazy?" asked he, smiling, partly in derision, partly in pity. "I am called on to protect Berlin, and from what?"
"Because the Russians are coming," said Mr. Krause, solemnly.
Gotzkowsky shrugged his shoulders. "That is an idle rumor," said he; "two days ago they were still in Frankfort. You see, therefore, that some wag has amused himself by teasing you and frightening you a little for the thunderbolts which you two, and particularly theVossian Gazette, have launched against the Russians."
Mr. Kretschmer shuddered and turned pale. "I beg you," cried he, "do not speak of it! Good Heavens! theVossian Gazetteis the organ of the popular mind, and it is its duty to take each day the exact tone of public opinion. I abused the Russians, therefore, because—"
"Because they were still a hundred miles from Berlin. Oh, yes! we know you, gentlemen of the press. You are full of courage as long as no enemy is in the field, but as soon as you scent him and see the points of his lances, you become quite humble and mild; and when he comes threateningly down upon you, assure him of your respect and swear to him that you love him," interrupted Gotzkowsky.
"You are pleased to jest," said Mr. Krause, casting a rapid glance of hatred at Gotzkowsky; "it is well, indeed, that the rich and powerful Gotzkowsky is so cheerful. I will notice it in my journal. It is news for 'Change, and the funds will rise when people hear that Gotzkowsky has laughed."
Gotzkowsky's countenance became sad and serious. "You may tell the world," said he, "that my lips laugh; but how my heart feels, that you gossips and newspapers know nothing about."
"God be praised," said Kretschmer, ironically, "you are now talking earnestly, and I can request you to listen to our serious representations. It is no idle rumor that I have told you. The Russians are already at the gates of Berlin. They have hurried thither by forced marches. This news is no longer a secret. All Berlin knows it, and it is only accidentally that you have not learned it earlier."
"Oh, Heavens!" sobbed Krause, wringing his hands, "what a terrible fate awaits our unfortunate town!"
Gotzkowsky looked at him with a gloomy frown. "You are, it is true, an old man," said he, "but even old men should, at such a time, possess some manhood. But you, Mr. Kretschmer, are young and hearty; what do you say to this approach of the Russians?"
"I say," replied Kretschmer, sharply, "I say that it would be madness to excite the wrath of the enemy by resistance. I say, that those citizens who call on the people to fight are rash fools."
"Oh!" cried Gotzkowsky, joyfully, "if there be any suchrash fools, then all is not lost!"
"Can you comprehend such madness?" whispered Krause, "to wish to oppose an overwhelming force while all our capable men and youths are with the army in Silesia, and we have no troops but the sick and maimed; no artillery save two old rusty cannon?"
"A people willing to fight for liberty," cried Gotzkowsky, "such a people have the strength of a giant even without cannon and bayonets. God has given them hands and paving-stones. If we cannot shoot down the enemy who threatens our liberty, we can beat him down."
"What do you say?" stammered Krause, looking with amazement atGotzkowsky's glowing countenance.
"I say," said Gotzkowsky, "that you have mistaken your man. I will not advise the brave Berlin people to yield without having at least fought for their freedom."
"But only reflect!" exclaimed Kretschmer, while Krause paced up and down, wringing his hands and moaning in a low tone; "have you forgotten that the Russian generals have proclaimed that the empress has commanded them to leave nothing but air and earth to the inhabitants of every conquered town and province of Prussia?"
"Oh, pshaw!" cried Gotzkowsky, laughing, "they will have to conclude to leave us something more."
"And did you hear London's terrible threat? He has said his soldiers should massacre every one, and not spare even the child in its mother's womb."
"And did you not hear the brave Schwerin's answer to this Austrian bravado?" asked Gotzkowsky. "He said, 'My soldiers are not with child, neither am I.' Well, our men of Berlin are not with child, and therefore they need not be afraid."
"But you must be afraid!" whined Krause. "It is disgraceful madness not to be afraid. How! You can be so unreasonable as to advise war? But war is the most bitter enemy of prosperity, and threatens property above all things."
"Then shame on the proprietors," cried Gotzkowsky, "if their property is to make cowardly poltroons of them! Liberty is our greatest possession, and all else must yield to it."
At this moment loud cries and sounds of wailing were heard in the garden from the collected workmen, who surrounded the prophet in a dense group, and listened to his prophecies with anxious wonder as he uttered them from a high bench.
Gotzkowsky frowned. "Ah, I understand!" said he, "this good linen-weaver is your accomplice, my brave gentlemen, and as you wish to convert me, so does he wish to convert my honest workmen into old women. Let us see first in what sort of gibberish he preaches his wisdom to these good people."
Without taking any further notice of the two editors, Gotzkowsky left the summer-house rapidly and approached the listening multitude.
* * * * *
The inspired prophet stood on a bench, and, as he unrolled his pictures, he endeavored to explain these mystical paintings to his devout gazers and listeners in equally mystical language. Gotzkowsky hastened toward this group, and pressed in silent observation close up to Pfannenstiel's side.
The linen-weaver, wholly possessed by his prophetic god, had in the mean while unrolled another picture, and holding it up high with solemn countenance, exclaimed with a screaming voice: "The day of judgment is at hand, and destiny is at your door! In my dream I saw a face like unto no other face, and I heard a voice, and the voice was like unto no other voice!"
"And yet you heard it! What ears you must have!" said Gotzkowsky, laughing.
The prophet answered calmly, "Yes! for then were seen invisible things, and then were heard inaudible sounds!" And showing a fresh picture to the crowd, he continued: "Look at this picture, which I found this morning on my sheet. It contains the history of your future, and God announced it to me as I sat at my loom weaving. I heard a voice crying, 'Pfannenstiel, my beloved son, dost thou hear me?' And I fell on my knees and answered, 'Yes, I hear.' 'Dost thou know what thou art weaving?' asked the voice. 'Yes,' said I, 'it is linen shirting for the almshouse.' 'No,' said the voice, 'it is a cloth of weeping for the town of Berlin, for the daughters of your fathers will shed tears, and there will be moaning and weeping.'"
These last words he accompanied with a sobbing and plaintive howl, in which his trembling hearers joined. They assured each other in uncomfortable whispers that Pfannenstiel's prophecies usually came true, and that, even before the war, he had predicted the coming of this day of terror.
But soon Pfannenstiel raised his voice, and its hoarse croaking sounded above the loud conversation and anxious cries of the multitude. "Woe unto Berlin!" cried he, with shrieking pathos. "Blood will flow within her walls! The voice said unto me, 'I will look upon red, but it will not be a scarlet cloak, and when the red banner waves thrones will tremble, and there will be no end to the lamentation. And the cock will crow, and the heavens will shine blood-red, and everywhere and in all places men will cry, "Blood! blood is the drink of new life; blood makes young what is old; blood wipes out sworn debts; blood makes the proud humble. Let us drink blood!"'"
Here the prophet was interrupted by the loud cries and wailing of the multitude. The women broke out in tears, sank on their knees and prayed, or clung trembling and weeping to their moody-looking husbands.
Pfannenstiel looked with an air of proud triumph on this evident effect of his speech, and then continued in a more subdued tone: "But the voice said to me, 'Hope, and every thing will turn out well, and the blood which flows will transform itself into a purple robe, and men will call it freedom. Out of death will arise life.' Therefore fall down on your knees, for the hour of judgment has come, and prayer alone, but not the sword, can save you."
The multitude, carried away by the deception, were in the act of obeying this order, when Gotzkowsky, who could no longer restrain himself, stepped rapidly forward, his countenance radiant, and his eyes sparkling with anger.
"Listen not to this hypocritical set, this lying prophet, my people!" cried he, with a voice of thunder. "He will make cowards of you all, cowards who will submit to the yoke, howling and whining. You would not have this ignominy put upon you. You will be men, who will defend their liberty with noble courage to the last drop of their blood, against the invading hordes of barbarians. For the barbarians are coming, and their fierce wrath threatens your wives and children. Will you submit to the Russians with a humble whine?"
"No, no!" cried the men, and many a clinched fist was raised, and many a wild but muttered oath was heard.
At this moment there arose in the street a confused sound of screams and yells, then the hollow roll of the drum, and the deep clang of the alarm-bell, which summoned the citizens to the town-hall.
The garden gates were now violently thrown open, and a band of stout workmen was seen hastening in wild disorder toward Gotzkowsky.
These were the workmen from Gotzkowsky's factories, industrious men, who had preferred working in the factory, and not losing their time, to the enjoyment of the day's festival, and to whom Gotzkowsky had ordered double wages to be paid, that they might not lose their share in the celebration of his daughter's birthday.
"The Russians are at the gates!" cried they. "All the citizens are arming themselves. We have no arms. Give us arms, master!"
The cry was taken up by those who had just been listening to Pfannenstiel's words. "Yes, give us arms, give us arms. We are no cowards, we will fight!" Gotzkowsky's flashing eye flew across the multitude, and he saw in the earnest countenances of the men that they were serious in their demand, and in their desire to fight. "Well, then, if you will fight, you shall not want for weapons," cried he, joyfully. "I have, as you know, in my house, a collection of costly arms. Follow me, my children; we will go to the armory, and each one shall take what he likes best. On such a day as this, arms do not belong to any one in particular, but are the property of him who can find and make use of them. That is the sacred right of manhood. The country is in danger! Come to my armory and arm yourselves!"
The men shouted for joy at Gotzkowsky's words, and pushed after him with wild impetuosity into the house, and the large hall, in which the costly weapons were tastefully grouped and ornamentally arranged against the walls. With eager haste the men possessed themselves of these arms, and Gotzkowsky saw with glad pride his rare Damascus blades, his delicately carved silver-mounted pistols, his daggers inlaid with gold, his costly ornamented sabres and guns in the hands of his warlike workmen. He then armed himself, and his men, always accustomed to look upon him cheerfully and willingly as their leader, fell into line behind him in a long military procession.
"Now, then, my children," cried he, "let us go to the town-hall and offer our services to the magistrates."
And at the head of his workmen he left the house. Soon deep silence reigned in these rooms, so lately filled with noise and tumult. The garden, too, had become deserted and empty. Pfannenstiel alone remained in his elevated position, gazing pensively, as in a dream, on his collection of pictures.
After this silence had lasted some time, Krause and Kretschmer crept, cautiously looking around them, out of the summer-house in which they had secreted themselves up to this moment. Their countenances were pale and angry.
"Gotzkowsky is a puffed-up fool," exclaimed Krause, with a dark frown."With his swaggering phrases he has seduced these workmen away fromus, to rush into the fight like wounded wild boars, and to bring theRussians down upon us."
"We must not give up all hope," said Kretschmer; "the people are timid and fickle, and whoever will give them the sweetest words wins them over to his side. Come, let us try our luck elsewhere. Every thing depends upon our being beforehand with this braggart Gotzkowsky, and getting first the ear of the people. You, Pfannenstiel, come with us, and get up your words strong and spirited, so that the stupid people may believe you."
Pfannenstiel clapped up his picture-book, and threw his cloak with majestic dignity over his lean shoulders. "The people are like a flock of sheep," said he; "they want a leader, never mind who. Only the leader must be there at the right hour; and if God has bestowed upon him the gift of eloquence, he can lead them either into the church to contrite prayer, or to the slaughterfield to bloody combat. The people are a flock of sheep, nothing more!"
"Come, then," cried Kretschmer pathetically; "come and be their bellwether, and lead the people into the church."
* * * * *
In a few minutes quiet, peaceful, industrious Berlin was transformed into an open encampment. From all the streets there poured throngs of armed men toward the town-hall, where the wise magistrates were consulting on the possibility of resistance, or toward the commander of Berlin, General Rochow, who had the streets patrolled, and called upon the citizens, by beat of drum, to assemble with arms, and assist in the defence of the town.
"The Russian is at the gates!" This cry of terror seemed to cure the sick and feeble, and give courage and strength to the wavering. The old national hatred of the German toward the Russian broke out in its entire vigor; and vehemence made even the faint-hearted fly to arms, and caused words of imprecation to rise to the lips of those who were in the habit of uttering prayers and timid complaints.
The council of war was assembled at the commander's office, and, strange to say, it consisted of only old men and invalids. There were present the infirm veteran general and commander, Rochow, and the eighty-year-old Field-Marshal Lehwald, the severely-wounded General Seidlitz, and General Knoblauch, also wounded. These four composed the whole council, and fully aware of the danger and of the smallness of their forces, were debating whether they should yield to the demand of the Russian troops, and give up the town without any defence, or, with twelve hundred garrison troops, two rusty cannon, a few thousand wounded soldiers, and an inefficient body of citizens, give battle to the twelve thousand irregular troops of General Tottleben, who would soon he reënforced by the army of General Tschernitscheff, twenty thousand strong, and fourteen thousand Austrians under Count Lacy, who, as they well knew, were coming on by forced marches. But so great was the heroic exasperation and eagerness for the fight of these noble and war-worn veterans, that not one of them advised submission; but, on the contrary, they unanimously determined to defend Berlin as long as a drop of blood flowed in their veins. As these brave generals had no army to lead into the fight, they would defend the town, not as commanders of high rank, but as fighting soldiers, and waiving their military rank and dignity to their noble love of country, like other soldiers, they would each one defend his intrenchment or redoubt.
But while the military commanders were adopting these heroic resolutions, the Town Council was engaged in secret session at the town-hall. The wise fathers were staring at each other with terror in their countenances, and considering, in pusillanimous faint-heartedness, whether they would really assume the heavy responsibility of engaging the peaceful citizens in a fight, which, after all, would be, in all probability, useless and without result.
"I vote for submission," stammered out the chief burgomaster, Herr von Kircheisen, with heavy tongue, as he wiped off the big drops of sweat which stood upon his brow with his silk handkerchief. "I vote for submission. The honorable citizens of this town are not called on to spill their blood in useless fighting, nor to irritate the wrath of the enemy by resistance. And besides, the enemy will doubtless lay a war tax on us, and this will certainly be lighter if we submit at once than if we resist. Further, it is the sacred duty of a prudent magistrate to protect and preserve, to the best of his ability, the property of the citizens. It is therefore my opinion that, in order to save the hard-earned possessions of the poor citizens of Berlin, already sufficiently oppressed, we submit at once to an overwhelming force."
By the brightening countenances of the worthy councilmen it could be plainly perceived that the eloquence of the chief burgomaster had told powerfully upon them, and that the question of money which he had raised would prove a powerful and decisive argument in favor of submission at this momentous period.
The assistant burgomaster had already expressed his entire concurrence in the views of Herr von Kircheisen, and the first alderman was in the act of opening his mouth to do the same, when the patriotic deliberations of the worthy gentlemen were interrupted by shouts and cries from the street below, which drove them in terror from their seats. They hastened to the windows, and, carefully concealed behind the curtains, ventured to peep down into the street.
Down there they beheld a much more lively sight—men and youths, old men and boys streamed toward the town-hall, and, raising their eyes and arms to the windows, demanded from the city fathers, with genuine enthusiasm, weapons and ammunition. Perhaps, indeed, it was only fear which had suddenly made these peaceful citizens of Berlin so bold and lion-hearted: one thing is certain, that is, that at this moment they were all animated by one sentiment, one impulse, and that their deadly hatred against Russian and Austrian tendered peaceable submission impossible. The tailor threw away his needle and grasped the sword, the shoemaker exchanged his awl for a dagger, and all these quiet, humble citizens had been transformed by hatred and fear, anger and terror, into most belligerent heroes.
"Give us arms!" was the reiterated cry.
An heroic tailor climbed up on the shoulders of a hunchback shoemaker, and sawing the air violently with his arms, cried out: "The people of Berlin demand their rights; they will fight for their liberty. Give the people of Berlin their due. Give them arms—arms!"
"Arms!" roared the crowd. "We will have arms!"
"And what do you want with arms?" cried suddenly a shrill, piercing voice. All eyes were turned toward the spot whence the voice proceeded, and there was seen the meagre figure of the linen-weaver, who had leaped upon a bench, and from his elevated position was looking down upon the people with the confident air of a conqueror. But Pfannenstiel observed, to his dismay, that this time his appearance did not produce the desired effect; on the contrary, angry looks were cast upon him, and occasionally a threatening fist was raised against the divinely-inspired prophet.
"What do you want with arms?" cried he once more. "Prayer is the only weapon becoming peaceful citizens."
A burst of scornful laughter was the answer. "Down with the linen-weaver! Tear him to pieces!" roared the crowd, becoming infuriated.
"We mean to fight, and not to pray," cried the valorous tailor.
"We want none of your poltroonery, you blackguard of a linen-weaver!"
"The tailor is right! Pfannenstiel is a false prophet!" cried another voice.
"Hang him!"
"He wants to make cowards of us!"
The crowd raged still more furiously, and pressed toward the spot where Pfannenstiel stood. Threatening hands were raised against him, and the situation of the prophet of peace began to be uncomfortable enough, when suddenly two new figures rose near him, and, by their unexpected appearance, restrained for a moment the wrath of the people.
* * * * *
These two men, who so unexpectedly appeared at the side of the prophetic weaver, were none else than the two editors, Kretschmer and Krause, who came to support him in his exhortations in favor of peace, and to use their eloquence on the multitude assembled in front of the town-hall.
Mr. Krause opened: "Listen to me, good citizens of Berlin; look at my gray hairs. Age has the advantage, if not of wisdom, at least of experience. Listen to my advice. You who wish to fight for liberty, be at least prudent and moderate."
"None of your moderation!" cried the tailor. "We won't be moderate!"
"But you will be reasonable and prudent, won't you?" cried Mr. Kretschmer, with his clear, penetrating voice, raising himself on tiptoe, and casting his large, light-blue eyes over the crowd. "You will be reasonable, certainly, and in reason you can tell me what you wish, and we can deliberate, and decide whether that which you wish, is reasonable."
"We want arms."
"But why do you want arms?"
"To fight the enemy," cried the shoemaker, whom the crowd seemed tacitly to recognize as their mouthpiece.
"You really wish, then, to fight?" asked Mr. Kretschmer. "You wish to precipitate yourselves into a fight, with the certainty of being defeated. You wish to put yourselves in opposition to an enemy who out-numbers you ten times; who, with sneering pride, will drive your little band of warriors, with his cannon, to destruction! Consider what you are about to do! Twelve thousand Russians are now before your gates; their cannon pointed against your walls, your houses, your churches, and they are awaiting only an opportunity of springing upon you like a tiger on his prey. And what have we to oppose them? Our little garrison consists of invalids and wounded men; for our young men, able to fight, are all with the king on the bloody fields of Silesia, and only a small band of worthy citizens remains here. Can they fight against an overwhelming enemy, ten times their number? Can they wish to do it?"
No one answered this question. The countenances became thoughtful, and the redness of anger grew paler on their cheeks.
"Yes," cried one of the people, "we are very weak."
"We cannot think of gaining a victory," grumbled out another.
Mr. Kretschmer perceived, by the darkening faces and downcast look of his audience, that the prudence he was preaching had already commenced to press the courage of the poor people into the background, and raising his voice still higher he continued:
"Your fighting will be a species of suicide. Your wives and children will curse you for having killed their husbands and fathers. Worthy citizens! be prudent, and remember that work and not war is your calling. Go home, then, and mind your business; take care of your wives and children, and bow your heads in humbleness, for necessity will teach you prudence."
Mr. Kretschmer stopped, and the silent assembly seemed to be considering whether they should listen to his prudent advice. Even the heroic tailor had climbed down from the hump of the shoemaker, and remained thoughtful and silent.
"The man is right," cried the shoemaker, in his grumbling, bass voice.
"Yes, indeed," said his gossip, the glover; "why should we sacrifice our legs and arms? We can't beat them anyhow."
"Now, my friends," whispered Kretschmer to his associates, "now is your turn to speak. My breath is exhausted. You speak now and finish the good work I commenced. Admonish the people to be moderate."
"I will make them perfectly enthusiastic in the cause of peace and quiet," said Mr. Krause, in a low voice. "You shall see how irresistible the stream of my eloquence will be," and striding forward with pathetic mien, and raising both arms as if to implore the people, he exclaimed in a loud voice: "You say so, and it is so! We cannot be victorious. Now, my opinion is, that as we cannot beat the enemy, we ought not to fight him, and in that way we can cheat him out of his victory. For where there is no fight, there can be no victory. Resist the armed bands with the quiet obstacle of mental fortitude. Do not act, but submit. Submit with a defiant air. Do not use your weapons, but do not yield them up to the enemy. Keep your hands on the hilts of your swords, and be quiet. When they mock and abuse you, be silent; but let them read your defiance in your countenances; when they press upon you with sword and cannon, retire with a proud smile, and do not defend yourselves, and we will see whether they are brutal enough to attack peaceful non-combatants. Act in this way, and the moral victory is yours, and you then will have conquered the enemy by your moral greatness, even if you are physically subdued. Against cannon and bayonets a people cannot defend themselves except by passive resistance, by submission, with secret and silent hatred in their hearts. Use no other weapons than this passive resistance, and posterity will praise you, and say of you, with admiration, that you were no heroes of fight, but heroes of passive resistance. Your country will be proud of you!"
Mr. Krause paused, and leaned, worn out, on the shoulder of the prophetic linen-weaver.
"You may be in the right," said the tailor, still rebellious at heart; "all that sounds right and reasonable, but still it don't suit me, and I don't see how the country can be proud of us, if we behave like cowards, and let ourselves be bamboozled this way."
"Do you hush, tailor!" cried the hunchbacked shoemaker. "The chap thinks because he can manage a sharp needle, he must be able to yield a broadsword; but let me tell you, my brave boy, that a stick with a sword hurts worse than a prick with a needle. It is not only written, 'Shoemaker, stick to your last,' but also, 'Tailor, stick to your needle.' Are we soldiers, that we must fight? No, we are respectable citizens, tailors and shoemakers, and the whole concern is no business of ours. And who is going to pay us for our legs and arms when they have been cut off?"
"Nobody, nobody is going to do it!" cried a voice from the crowd.
"And who is going to take care of our wives and children when we are crippled, and can't earn bread for them? Perhaps they are going to put us in the new almshouse, which has just been built outside of the King's Gate, and which they call the Oxen-head."
"No, no, we won't go into the Oxen-head!" screamed the people. "We won't fight! let us go home."
"Yes, go home, go home!" cried Krause and Kretschmer, delighted, andPfannenstiel repeated after them—
"Let us go home!"
And indeed the groups began to separate and thin out; and the two editors, who had descended from their bench, mixed with the crowd, and enforced their peaceful arguments with zealous eloquence.
But it seemed as if Fortune did not favor them, for now down the neighboring street came Gotzkowsky with his band of armed workmen. He drew them up in front of the town-hall. The sight of this bold company of daring men, with determined countenances and flashing eyes, exercised a magical influence on the people; and when Gotzkowsky addressed them, and with overpowering eloquence and burning words implored them to resist, when with noble enthusiasm he summoned them to do their duty, and to remember their honors as men, the versatile crowd began again to cry out—"Arms, arms! give us arms!"
But the humpbacked shoemaker still remained cowed and timid, and the threatenings of the preachers of peace still sounded in his ears. He threw up his arms and cried out: "Children, remember what the gentlemen told us. Have nothing to do with fighting. Be wise and prudent!"
"The devil take your prudence!" cried Gotzkowsky. In an hour like this we have no need of prudence; we want courage! Won't you fight?"
"No, we won't!" cried the shoemaker, resolutely. "We want to keep our arms and legs."
"We don't want to go to the Oxen-head!" exclaimed another.
Gotzkowsky broke out impetuously: "Are you men, who dare to talk in this way? You are afraid of losing your limbs, and you are not afraid of losing, by your cowardice, your most valuable possessions, your liberty and your honor. Even if you do crawl through our streets as cripples, your wives and children will point to you with pride, and men will whisper to each other, 'He too was one of the heroes who fought for liberty, one of the brave men who, when Berlin was besieged, met the enemy, and fought bravely for our rights.'"
"That's fine," cried the tailor, carried away by Gotzkowsky's fiery words. "Yes, let us be heroes, let us fight!"
At the windows of the town-hall above, hid behind the curtains, the wise members of the city Council still stood and listened with anxious hearts to what was going on below. The countenance of the chief burgomaster became ashy pale, and drops of cold sweat stood on his brow. "This Gotzkowsky will ruin us all," sighed he heavily. "He does not think what he is doing. His foolhardiness will compel us all to be brave. But we will have to pay for our liberty, not only with our blood, but with our fortunes. And this man, who calculates so badly, pretends to be a merchant! But we must yield to this rash mob, for to oppose an excited people might bring even the honorable Council into danger. Good Heavens!" cried he, interrupting himself, "what is this again?"
To the sound of martial music, there was seen coming down the street a band of scar-covered veterans, the invalids of the first years of the war. Some limped, others carried their arms in slings, others again had their heads bound up; but one could perceive, by their serious, determined faces, that they were animated by a high and cheerful courage, which placed them above physical suffering. In their midst, on a litter, was borne the brave General von Seidlitz, whose wounds, received in the battle of Kunersdorf, had not yet healed; but the danger which threatened Berlin had roused him from a bed of suffering, and, as he could not walk, he had himself carried to the battery at the Kottbuss Gate, the defence of which he had undertaken.
As the hero turned to the people with a friendly greeting, and exhorted them to courage, with short and appropriate words, there sounded from a thousand voices an enthusiastic "Hurrah!" The people waved their hats, and cried loudly and tumultuously up at the windows of the Council, "Give us arms—arms!"
At the window above stood the chief burgomaster, with trembling limbs and livid face. "It is decided," said he, softly; "the people of Berlin are determined to die as heroes, or purchase their liberty with all the wealth of the town," and, with a weak cry of grief, he sank fainting into the arms of the head alderman.
The assistant burgomaster opened the window and cried out: "You shall have arms. We will defend Berlin with our last breath, and to the last drop of our blood!"
* * * * *
Thus, once more, had the impetuous boldness of the patriots carried the day against braggart cowardice. The Council, yielding to necessity, had resolved to be brave. The chief burgomaster, who had revived, donned his robe of office, adorned himself with his golden chain, and followed by the councillors, proceeded to Commander Rochow, to ask for arms for the citizens of Berlin. This petition was readily granted; the armory was thrown open, and there were seen, not only men and youths, old men and boys, but even women and girls, arming themselves for the sacred fight for fatherland and freedom. As if on a pilgrimage, the people proceeded to the armory in a long, solemn procession, silent and devout, a noble determination, a brave and cheerful but subdued expression observable in every face. No loud cries, not a rude word, nor boisterous laughter was heard from this crowd. Each one spoke in low and earnest tones to his neighbor; every one was conscious of the deep significance of the hour, and feared to interrupt the religious service of the country by a word spoken too loud. In silent devotion they crossed the threshold of the armory, with light and measured steps the crowd circulated through the rooms, and with solemn calmness and a silent prayer in their hearts, the people received from the hands of the veteran soldiers the weapons for the defence of their country. And the flags which hung around on the walls as shining mementoes of former victories, seemed to greet the people as patriots who were arming themselves for the holy fight against the enemy of their country, the destroyer of liberty.
For it was no longer a fight for Silesia, a strip of territory, which was to be fought, but a struggle between intellect and brute power, between civilization and barbarism, the inevitable companion of the Russian hordes. Prussia represented Germany, and on her waving banner she bore the civilization, refinement, science, and poetry of Germany. Her opponent was no longer the German brother, sprung from the same stock; it was the Austrian, who had called in the assistance of foreign barbarians, and who was fighting the Germans, the Prussians, with the help of the Russians. For that reason, the hatred against the Austrian was among the Prussian troops much more bitter and bloody than the hatred and abhorrence of the Russians, the sworn enemy of the German; and when, therefore, the Berlin citizens learned that the Austrians, too, were approaching under Count Lacy, this news was considered by these soldier-citizens as a consecration of their arms.
"Better be buried under the walls of Berlin than yield to the Austrian!" was the war-cry of the people, who flocked in constantly renewed streams to the armory for weapons, the watchword of the brave militia who hastened to all the gates to defend them against the enemy.
But all the streets did not offer so lively or proud an appearance. Whilst the citizens and the warriors scarcely recovered from their wounds, whilst the people were arming themselves to defend wife and child, and the sacred liberty of fatherland; whilst these brave troops were hurrying toward the Dresden and Kottbuss Gates to meet the Russians, others were seen hastening down the Linden and Frederick Streets. But these crowds were unarmed, though not empty-handed; their faces were pale, and their eyes were gloomy and dull. These were the faint-hearted and irresolute, who, in fear and trembling, were turning their backs on a town in which was to be fought the fight for the noblest possessions of mankind. This was the crowd of boasting, versatile flatterers and parasites, who worshipped no other God but fortune, and possessed no other faith than that of property and personal safety. Berlin might be reduced to ashes, barbarism and slavery might conquer, a foreign ruler might erect his throne in the midst of the down-fallen city, what did they care, provided their own lives and money were safe?
At this time they were hurrying along, pale with fright, death and terror in their distracted countenances. Women of the highest nobility, whose silken-shod feet had never before trod the rough pavement, fled with hasty steps down the street; shoulders which had never borne the least burden of life or sorrow, were now laden with treasures, and gold was the parent whom these modern Aeneases sought to save from the ruins of the threatened town. All ranks and conditions were confounded; no longer servant and master, fear had made brothers of them all. Countesses were seen smiling on their valets, in order to obtain the assistance of their arm to a more rapid flight; high-born gentlemen were seen laden down, like the meanest of their servants, with gold and silver ware, which they were seeking to save from the beleaguered city.
What did these people care whether Berlin fell, and was taken or not? What did they care if the throne of the house of Hohenzollern was overthrown? They had but one thought, one object—safety in flight. So they hurried down the street, moaning and wailing, breathless and trembling in every limb, toward the town gates. They reached the goal; they stood before the gates beyond which were escape and safety. But these gates were closed, and the soldiers who guarded them declared that none should pass them, that the men must stay to defend the town, the women to nurse the wounded and dying. All begging and pleading were in vain; in vain did the Jew Ephraim, who had become a millionnaire by the farming of the mint, offer the sentinel thousands to open the gates; in vain did the gentlemen, once so proud, entreat; in vain did the beautiful countesses wring their white hands before the poor despised workman who now stood as sentinel at the gates. In this moment this poor man was richer than the Hebrew mint-farmer Ephriam, for he was rich in courage; mightier than the proudest countess, for to his hands were intrusted the keys of a town; and the town gates were not opened to these bands of cowards. They were condemned to remain, condemned to the torture of trembling fear, cowardly, inactive supplication.
Howling and whining, they fled back again into the town, in order at least to bury their treasures, and hold themselves in readiness to meet the victor, whoever he might be, with flags of peace and hymns of welcome.
But before they had reached their houses, bombs had commenced to fly into the town, and here and there mortar-shells were heard whizzing through the air; with the cries of the flying and the wounded, and the screams of the dying, was now heard the moaning toll of the alarm-bell, telling that to the terrors of the siege were added those of the elements. Like gigantic torches of a funeral procession shone the flames of the burning houses, and covered the heavens with crimson as deep as the blood of those wounded unto death. At last night set in, but brought no rest for the sick, no refreshment for the weary. The fire-balls and bomb-shells still flew into the town, the alarm-bells still continued their mournful toll, the burning houses still flamed up to the sky; but yet the courage of the besieged did not sink. They still held their ground intrepidly, and they still bade an heroic defiance to the attacks of the enemy. In vain did the Russians attempt to storm the gates, the brave defenders drove them back again and again. Suddenly the cannon ceased firing, and the enemy drew back.
"What is the meaning of this?" asked the combatants at the gates.
"The meaning is," said Gotzkowsky, who had just arrived from another part of the town with a squad of his workmen—"the meaning is that help is approaching. It means that God is on our side, and succors our noble and righteous cause. The Prince of Wurtemberg has just arrived from Pasewalk with his division, and General Huelsen is hastening hither as rapidly as possible from Koswig."
The brave warriors received this news with a loud hurrah, and embraced each other with tears in their eyes and thanksgiving in their hearts.
"We are saved!" cried they to each other; "Berlin will not be surrendered, Berlin will be victorious, for help has arrived." And then they sank down on the pavement, to rest for an hour on this hard bed, after the fatigue of the fierce combat.
But Gotzkowsky could not rest. For him there was no leisure, no sleep; neither was there any fear or danger for him. As he had left his house, his daughter, and his riches unguarded, with the same unconcern did he move among the rain of balls and the bursting of shells. He did not think of death nor of danger! He only thought of his country, and one great, lofty idea—the idea of liberty—burned in his heart and animated his whole being. The Council, knowing his influence over the citizens, had, therefore, as soon as the Prince of Wurtemberg had arrived with his regiment in Berlin, communicated this intelligence to the brave patriot, and commissioned him to acquaint his men with the fact. With glistening eye and beaming countenance did he announce this significant intelligence to his brave warriors, reviving their courage, and redoubling their strength as they drove the enemy back from the gates and silenced his cannon.
But yet in his soul Gotzkowsky was sad and full of care. He had seen the regiments of the Prince of Wurtemberg as they marched in, and he had read in the dull countenances of the soldiers, staggering and sinking from fatigue, that they were not able, nor even in a condition, to hold a sword. But yet his heart did not fail him. The elasticity of his courage seemed only to increase with the danger. Perhaps a short rest, strengthening food, refreshing wine, might restore to these men their lost strength.
And now for the first time since the attack of the enemy did Gotzkowsky turn toward his home; but not to visit his daughter, not to inquire after his property, but to open his wine-cellars, and to let his cashier fill his pockets with gold.
He then returned rapidly down the street directly to the town-hall, where the Council were in session, and had invited the most venerable citizens to consult with them.
Appearing before this august body, Gotzkowsky painted, with glowing eloquence and impressive words, the destitute condition of the regiments which had entered the town. He demanded for them nourishment and support; he entreated the Council to give these weary troops shelter and rest.
"First let them eat and sleep," said he, "and then they will fight for us and conquer. We cannot expect courage from a tired and starved man."
From the Council he hastened to the rich merchants and factory lords. The rich man went begging for his hungry brethren, and his pride did not feel itself lowered by the petition. No one could resist his impetuous eagerness; every one was carried away by his unselfish and impulsive magnanimity. For the moment, even earthly treasures lost their value, for more valuable possessions were at stake, namely, liberty and honor. Every one gave cheerfully and most liberally.
And now it was a glorious sight to see how, in a few hours, the whole city changed its appearance. As the night before had been full of horrors and dread events, the next morning and day were like a festival, the preparation to a great and solemn feast. Forty of the largest and fattest oxen were slaughtered, to afford a strengthening meal to those so much in need of nourishment. About mid-day, a strange procession moved down the König's Street and across the Palace Square. And what was the meaning of it? It was not a funeral, for there were no mourning-wreaths and no hearse; it was not a bridal procession, for the bridal paraphernalia and joyous music were wanting. Nor did it wend its way toward the church nor the churchyard, but toward the new and handsome opera-house, recently erected by the king, whose gates were opened wide to receive it. It looked like a feast of Bacchus at one time, from the enormous tuns driven along; at another time like a festival of Ceres, as in solemn ranks came the bakers bringing thousands of loaves in large wagons. Then followed the white-capped cooks, bringing the smoking beef in large caldrons. The rear was finally brought up by the butlers, with large baskets of wine.
And the beautiful and resplendent temple of art was thrown open to the reception of all these things, although they only served for material nourishment, and in the magnificent hall in which formerly Frederick the Great, with his generals and chosen friends, listened to the magic strains of Gluck, there sounded now a wild confusion of discordant cries. The butlers stood by the wine-casks, filling the bottles which were carried out by the nimble and activevivandières, and on the same stage on which once Galiari and Barbarini, Ostroa and Sambeni enchanted the public with their marvellous singing, were seen now large caldrons of beef; and, instead of the singers, the performance was conducted by cooks, who drew the meat out of the pots, and arranged it neatly on enormous dishes. Gotzkowsky had attained his object, and Berlin fed this day the exhausted and hungry troops of the Prince of Wurtemberg. The merchant of Berlin had given his choicest and best wines to the banquet of patriotism.