Mr. Krause had not yet finished the declamation of the poem which his inspiration had produced in honor of Gotzkowsky, when a loud noise was heard at the door of the hall, and Gotzkowsky's body-servant rushed in. A messenger of the Council was without, he announced; a letter had just arrived from the king, and, as he was to deliver it to the burgomaster in person, the messenger had brought him here. He handed Herr von Kircheisen a letter, and the latter broke the seal with majestic composure.
A pause of anxious expectation ensued. Each one inquired of himself with trembling heart what could be the meaning of this royal letter.
The countenance of the chief magistrate grew more and more cheerful, and suddenly he called aloud: "This is indeed a message of gladness for our poor town. The king, our gracious lord, releases us from our obligation to pay the promised war-tax of a million and a half. He wishes to retaliate for the Wurzburg and Bamberg bonds captured from the Aulic Council. For which reason his majesty's order is that we do not pay."
A single cry of joy sounded from the lips of all present. Gotzkowsky alone was silent, with downcast eyes, and his earnest, pensive expression contrasted strongly with the bright, joyous countenances which were illuminated by the order of the king to keep their money.
Among the happiest and most radiant, however, were the rich mint farmers Ephraim and Itzig, and the chief burgomaster.
"The royal decree relieves our town of a horrible burden," said Herr von Kircheisen, with a happy smile.
"The whole mercantile community must be grateful to the king," criedEphraim. "Berlin saves a million and a half, and the Russian is sold."
Suddenly Gotzkowsky drew himself up erect, and his eagle eye ran over the whole assembly with a bold, beaming glance. "The Russian is not sold," cried he, "for Berlin will pay him the balance of a million and a half. Berlin has pledged her word, and she will redeem it."
The countenances of those around grew dark again, and here and there were heard words of anger and wild resentment.
"How!" cried Itzig, "do you require of the merchants to pay what they can keep for themselves? The king has said, 'You shall not pay!'"
"And I say, we will pay," cried Gotzkowsky. "What is written is written, and what is promised must be performed, for this our honor requires. The king possesses not the power of annulling a promise or revoking an oath! He who does not fulfil his word of honor is not a man of honor, were he even a king."
"But," said Herr von Kircheisen, pathetically, "there are nevertheless circumstances which render impossible the fulfilment of an obligation."
Gotzkowsky answered ardently: "If such do occur, the man of honor dies when he cannot fulfil his word. But you—you do not wish to die. Oh no! You wish to break your word in order to live pleasantly. You wish to profit by your breach of promise. You wish to declare yourselves insolvent and cheat your creditors of their money, and thereby amass wealth."
A general storm of indignation interrupted Gotzkowsky, and the very men who had come for the purpose of making a formal demonstration of their gratitude now approached him with angry gestures and threatening words.
"A million and a half is no child's play," screamed Ephraim. "Money is more precious than honor."
"I say money is honor," cried Itzig. "As long as we keep our millions, we keep our honor."
"You are very generous," sneered Kretschmer. "Like a gentleman, you pay your debts out of other people's pockets, and the citizens will have to pay millions to enable you to keep your word."
Gotzkowsky cast one look of contemptuous pity on him, and replied: "You forget, sir, that I did not act in my own name, but in that of the magistracy and merchants of Berlin. Not I alone would be faithless to my word, but the whole town of Berlin."
"But I repeat," said the chief burgomaster, "that the king has released us from the obligation of keeping our word."
"No king can do that," interrupted Gotzkowsky. "A man of honor must keep his word, and no one, not even a king, can absolve him from it."
"Let us not quarrel about matters of opinion," said Kircheisen, shrugging his shoulders. "My opinion is, that we do not pay this sum."
"No, we will not pay it!" cried all in tumultuous excitement, as they surrounded the burgomaster, discussing in cheerful conversation the advantages of non-payment.
Gotzkowsky stood listening to them alone, unobserved, and forgotten. His heart was heavy with sadness, and painfully did he reflect: "This is the unholy influence of money, hardening the heart and silencing the voice of honor. For a few millions of dollars do they sell their good name. One final attempt let me make. I will see what their cowardice will do."
Again did he enter their midst, and with convincing words and ardent eloquence portray the danger which would ensue from the non-payment of the bonds.
The Russian was not very far from Berlin: if he had retired in forced marches he could return thither with equal rapidity in order, in the wantonness of his wrath, to take vengeance on the faithless town.
"In an unlucky moment," said he, "the Russians might gain a victory over our king. He would then return and rend us like a tiger. I would then no longer have the power of protecting you, for General Tottleben's anger would be turned principally against me, who guaranteed the payment of the contribution. God himself does not protect him who breaks his word. He is an outlaw."
A deep silence followed Gotzkowsky's speech. All the faces were again overcast, and in the contracted brow and anxious countenances could be read the fact that his words had painfully convinced them that it was necessary to pay.
Even Herr von Kircheisen in his fear of the return of the Russians, forgot the enormous amount of the sums to be paid, and said, with a melancholy sigh: "Gotzkowsky is, I am afraid, right. It is very hard to pay the money, but it is very dangerous not to do it."
"It might cost us our heads," confirmed the first councilman.
Ephraim stood with his head cast down, and muttered to himself, "Money is very dear, but life is still dearer."
Itzig cried out in despair: "Let us keep our money. Without money theJew is nobody."
But the chief burgomaster, who had consulted the councilmen, now approached Gotzkowsky, and, with a smile, offered him his hand. "We thank you," said he, "for you have spoken wisely, and your advice shall be followed. We will pay, for we cannot help ourselves. But we must beg you to do us another important service. Go to the king and beg him not to be angry with us if we do not obey his order."
"Yes, do so, do so, Gotzkowsky!" cried all the others. "Go to the king, he is friendly toward you—beg for us."
Gotzkowsky's countenance beamed with generous satisfaction. "Very well," said he; "I will go to the king and beg him to allow the town of Berlin to preserve its honor immaculate, and pay the promised sum."
"Use all your eloquence, that the king may remain favorably inclined toward us, and not become angry with us for acting this once against his orders," admonished the chief burgomaster.
"The king is a high-minded and noble man," said Gotzkowsky, enthusiastically. "He looks upon a man's word as sacred, and will understand us and honor us for not wishing to break ours."
An hour later the chief citizens and merchants of Berlin repaired to the spacious town-hall, where an elegant banquet had been prepared, and merriment prevailed, and glasses sounded; and Berlin, rescued, celebrated the first day of joy and happiness.
But John Gotzkowsky, to whom this feast was given, whom Berlin called her deliverer and benefactor, was not present at this banquet. Deeply buried in furs he had just entered his carriage, and braving danger and toil, in the cold and darkness he drove away toward Meissen, where the king had established his headquarters.
* * * * *
The great battle of Torgau had been fought, and the Prussian army, after so many combats and such a bloody victory, was contemplating with lively satisfaction the going into winter quarters, which, it hoped, this time would be in Saxony. The Prussian headquarters were, for the time being, in Meissen, and in the palace there, for a short resting-spell, dwelt the king, who for many years had only experienced the troubles and dangers of his position; the king who had often struggled with hunger and care, daily privation and mortal danger, and who one day, wearied out by sleeping night after night on the cold ground, commissioned his adjutant to provide a bundle of straw for the comfort of his royal person. The king had for a long time spared Saxony. He was sorry for this beautiful, afflicted land. But Saxony was finally to be treated as an enemy's country, as she would not appreciate Frederick's noble forbearance and clemency, and had allied herself to his enemies with fanatical zeal. And now her devastated fields, her paralyzed factories, her impoverished towns and deserted villages, testified to her distress and the calamities of war. But at this time quiet and tranquillity reigned in the hostile camps. On both sides they were too tired to be able to carry on a fresh conflict, and the strength of both parties being exhausted, they were obliged to allow each other time for rest. Besides, the winter had set in early with unusual severity, and, to all appearances, put an end to the campaign of 1760.
The only contest now was for winter quarters; and it had been, therefore, after the victory of Torgau, the king's first endeavor to cut off the retreat of the Austrians to Dresden, or at least to drive them out of this town. But, as the king wrote to Countess Camas, "They laughed at us from the top of the hills—I withdrew immediately, and, like a little boy, have stuck myself down in pure disgust in one of the accursed Saxon villages. I assure you I lead a perfect dog's life, such as no one else, except Don Quixote, has ever led."
In the mean while Frederick had left this "accursed Saxon village" (Neustadt) and had gone to Meissen, and his "dog's life" had given place to ease and comfort. He had, therefore, for some quiet weeks laid aside the sword, and the gentleman had become again the royal poet andsavant, who divided his time between music and poetry, between serious studies and writing to his friends, to whom he sent letters, in which his great and elevated manner of thinking, his soul above prejudice, were displayed in all their beauty and power.
The king was alone in his study. He had just finished a letter to the Marquis d'Argens, calling upon him to give some news of his gallery at Sans-Souci, and to inform him of its progress. The king laid down his pen, and leaned back in his chair for a moment. His usually sharp, bright eye had now a soft, gentle expression, and a light smile played around his thin, nobly-formed lips. He has forgotten for the time the care and bustle of war, and fancied himself in his beloved paradise, his Sans-Souci, where it was allowed the hero to be a poet, and where he could for some genial hours put aside his dignity, and, instead of the enthroned ruler, be the cheerful sage, the smiling son of the Muses.
The king, pleased by these memories of happy days, rose and seized his flute, which, by his express orders, always lay on his writing-table. He put it to his lips, and began anadagio, in the execution of which he was acknowledged to be one of the firstvirtuososof his day, and the sounds, as they poured forth, rose plaintively, and floated around him in bewitching melody. No one could listen to this beautifully-executed, deeply-felt music of the royal performer, without being impressed in his inmost soul, and feeling his heart swell with powerful emotions. Outside, in the antechamber, were standing the stern generals, the heroic warriors, Zeithen, and the brave Schwerin, and General von Saldern, and their scarred, austere features assumed a soft, touching expression, as they leaned against the wall and listened in breathless silence to the performance of the king. But suddenly the playing ceased.
To these brave warriors, unaccustomed to music, the execution had seemed superb; but the king was not satisfied with it. He, who had in his memory the royalartisteof Sans-Souci, exacted of the king, driven about by the hardships and necessities of war, that he should have lost nothing of the fulness of tone or the power and energy of execution. It worried him that the notes no longer flowed so clearly; it vexed him to hear a sharp, whistling sound, that seemed to accompany the melody as with a painful sigh. He threw the flute aside, and stepped to a looking-glass, which he took up with evident unwillingness.
It was very seldom that the king held it worth his while to consult the mirror about his personal appearance, and when he did so, it was usually to inquire for some failing or evidence of frailty which restricted him in the freedom of his being. And while he thus looked at himself, his features assumed a sad expression, and his eyebrows became contracted.
What was it, which thus put out of humor the brave hero, the victory-crowned king?
He became aware that his second front tooth had broken off. The gap thus caused was the natural explanation of the want of clearness in his playing. He threw the mirror angrily aside, and with a frown on his brow paced rapidly up and down the room two or three times.
But gradually another expression succeeded, and a sarcastic smile played around his mouth. Again he stepped to the writing-table, on which lay several unfinished letters. Looking for the one he had commenced to the Countess Camas, he said to himself: "The good countess inquires after my personal appearance. Well, now that I am in the humor, I will draw my portrait for her."
Again he took up the hand-glass and regarded himself long and attentively; but this time not with vexation or ill-humor, but with the cheerful smile and dignified calm of a philosopher. He then applied himself to his writing: "You ask how I look, dear mother. The disorder of war has made me so old, that you would hardly recognize me. My hair is quite gray on the right side of my head; my teeth break off and fall out; my face is as full of wrinkles as the furbelow of a woman's frock; my back as bent as that of a monk of La Trappe. Only my heart is unchanged; and, as long as I have breath, will preserve feelings of esteem and the most tender friendship toward you, good mamma."[1]
As the king read over this description of his appearance once more, he broke into a loud, merry laugh. He then pushed the letter aside, and took up another piece of paper, and a drawing-pencil.
Silence prevailed now in the cabinet of the king. Outside was heard the monotonous tread of the sentinel, sometimes the sound of a trumpet, the neighing of a horse, or the order of some officer. The king paid no attention to all this. His ear was so accustomed to these noises, that it seemed like perfect silence to him. He was so buried in his work, that even the unwonted tumult which now arose was unperceived by him; nor did he notice that a carriage drove into the palace-yard, its post-horn sounding loud and merrily. The generals and courtiers, who were in the antechamber, noticed it all the more, because any thing was welcome to them which broke in upon the prevailing quiet; for so accustomed were they to the varied business of war, that any thing which departed from it was insupportably tedious. They drew to the window and looked with pleasure on the dusty, dirty travelling carriage, which, with its four panting post-horses, had drawn up at the entrance to the palace, and out of which descended a tall, manly figure, who went in at the palace door.
The gentlemen in the antechamber amused themselves guessing who the stranger who had just arrived could be; and they had all arrived at the unanimous conclusion that it must be the Marquis d'Argens, as the door opened, and the stranger entered. He asked for the adjutant on duty, and, as the latter was pointed out to him, he stepped toward him with an air of quiet dignity.
"I pray you announce me immediately to his majesty. Have the kindness to say to him, that I have not come hither on my private affairs, but as a delegate from the city of Berlin, with full powers from the Council and citizens, to request the honor of an audience with the king, and that I am obliged to return as speedily as possible to the capital."
"Your name, sir?"
"I am the merchant, John Gotzkowsky."
The serious and proud features of the aristocratic adjutant immediately relaxed, and assumed a more polite and obliging expression.
"Ah! Gotzkowsky, the rich and magnanimous merchant of Berlin—the specialprotégéof the king. I will announce you immediately to his majesty." And the adjutant hurried through the halls and entered the boudoir of the king.
In the mean while, the generals drew near Gotzkowsky, who related to them all about the siege of Berlin, and the cruel and relentless conduct of the enemy; pressing him with questions, whether on his journey thither he had encountered or come into the vicinity of any portion of the enemy.
"You will find the king very much out of humor," said General von Saldern; "he has not left his study to-day, and doubtless he is occupied with very serious plans."
"Perhaps even with the plan of a battle," said another of the gentlemen, "for it is said that Lacy has advanced his army, and even that Landon has left Dresden. A battle is therefore imminent, and the king is evidently drawing up his plan."
At this moment the door of the study was opened, and the adjutant motioned to Gotzkowsky to enter. As the latter was traversing the hall, the generals cast an eager glance through the open door, anxious to see the countenance of the king, and find out from its expression whether this intolerable armistice was to be interrupted by the violent clash of arms.
In the mean time, Gotzkowsky entered the chamber of the king, and the door closed after him. He was now alone in the presence of the monarch, who was still sitting at his writing-table, making rapid strokes with his drawing-pencil on the paper before him.
"He is writing," said Gotzkowsky to himself, "and is perhaps in the act of drawing out the plan of the battle which the generals out there are awaiting with such joyous impatience. Yes, he is writing, and perhaps each stroke of the pen may cost the lives of hundreds of human beings." And he did not venture by a single word or a loud breath to draw attention to his presence. On his entrance, the king had cast on him one of his sharp, penetrating glances, before whose commanding power many a general and many a brave man had quailed, and had then bent his head again over the paper.
Absolute silence prevailed for a while. Suddenly the king interrupted it, and motioned to Gotzkowsky with his hand to draw near. "Just look and see whether that pleases you," said he, in a friendly tone. "You are known as a connoisseur in art, and you have proved to me that you understand painting. Look at that, and tell me whether you like it."
What was it that the king had drawn on the paper? Was it really, as his brave generals wished, the plan of a battle soon to be fought, was it a philosophical treatise, or one of those witty and piquant epistles to which the king treated his friends? None of all these.
"A nosegay!" cried Gotzkowsky, as with unconcealed astonishment he looked now on the paper, now on the king. "Your majesty is drawing a bouquet of flowers, and out there the gentlemen have just told me in confidence that you were busied with a plan of battle, and that the Austrians were approaching."
"Nonsense!" said the king, shrugging his shoulders, "that rough set out there are always anxious for war, and to be cutting and slashing at each other. Don't you listen to them, but rather tell me how you like this drawing. Don't you think these roses mixed with lilies look well? But I see you wish to know what it is intended for. Well, it is for a set of porcelain which I wish to have painted for the Marquis d'Argens." And, as he met Gotzkowsky's looks, he continued with a friendly smile: "Yes, you see, you are rich; you can make others presents. But the king of Prussia is a poor man; he has only his coat, his sword, and his porcelain. And this last even," continued he, with a slight frown, "I am obliged to get from Meissen."
"That your majesty need not do in future. Please God, your majesty shall make your porcelain in your own dominions!"
"Will you guarantee that? Will you undertake it?" asked the king, kindly.
"I will."
"And look ye, you are just the man to carry out what you wish. I am well satisfied with you. You have justified the confidence I placed in you when I was crown prince. You have redeemed the vow you made me then."
"I swore to your majesty that I would be faithful to the fatherland with life and property," cried Gotzkowsky, with noble ardor.
"And you have kept your word. It is not difficult in easy and prosperous times to find people to serve the state. Those are good citizens who serve her when she is in difficulty and danger.[2] You are a good citizen." And handing Gotzkowsky an open letter which lay on the writing-table, he said: "Read, it is a letter from the Marquis d'Argens. Read it aloud, I would like to hear it again."
And Gotzkowsky read with a trembling voice, and cheeks reddened with noble modesty, the following passage from a letter of the marquis, which the king pointed out to him with his finger: "Gotzkowsky is, indeed, an excellent man and a worthy citizen. I wish you had many such as he. The greatest gift which fortune can make a state is a citizen full of zeal for the welfare of his country and his prince. And in this respect I must say, to the credit of Berlin, that in these trying times I have met many of her citizens, Gotzkowsky the foremost among them, whose virtues, the old historians of Rome, had they lived at the present day, would have immortalized!"[3]
"Are you satisfied?" asked the king, as Gotzkowsky, having finished, handed him the paper. "Oh, I see you are a modest man, and blush like a young girl. But tell me, now, what brings you here? What does the city of Berlin wish?"
"Her rights, your majesty," said Gotzkowsky, seriously.
"And who is troubling her rights?"
"Your majesty."
The king frowned, and cast an angry glance on the bold jester.
Gotzkowsky continued, calmly: "Your majesty is depriving us of our good rights, in so far as you wish to prevent us from being honest people, and keeping our word sacred."
"Oh, now I understand you," said the king, laughing. "You are speaking of the Russian war-tax. Berlin shall not pay it."
"Berlin will pay it, in order that your majesty may retain her in your gracious favor; in order that the great Frederick may not have to blush for his faithless and dishonest town, which would not then deserve to be the residence of a king. How! would your majesty trust the men who refused to redeem their openly-pledged word? who look upon sworn contracts as a mouse-trap, to be escaped from as soon as the opportunity offers, and when the dangerous cat is no longer sitting at the door? Berlin will pay—that our sons may not have to blush for their fathers; that posterity may not say that Berlin had stamped herself with the brand of dishonor. We have pledged our word, and we must keep it."
"You must not, for I do not wish you to do so," cried Frederick, with anger-flashing eyes. "I will institute reprisals. The imperial court has refused the payment of the Bamberg and Wurzburg bonds."
"And your majesty considers that proceeding highly dishonest and unjust," interrupted Gotzkowsky; "and while you wish to punish the empire for its breach of faith, you punish doubly the town of Berlin by depriving her of the last thing that remained to her in her day of need and misfortune—her honorable name. You cannot be in earnest, sire? Punish, if you choose, the imperial judge, but do not make Berlin the dishonored Jack Ketch to carry out your sentence."
"But are you so anxious to get rid of your money? What is the amount that you still owe?"
"A million and a half, sire."
The king stepped back and looked at Gotzkowsky with astonishment. "And the people of Berlin insist upon paying it?"
"Yes, because their word is pledged."
The king shook his head thoughtfully. "Hark ye," said he, "you seem to me to be a dangerous agitator, who wishes to turn my peaceful citizens of Berlin into true children of Haman. Some weeks ago, after the unfortunate fight of Kunnersdorf, when I sent an express courier to Berlin and ordered the Town Council to advise the rich and well-to-do to retire from the city with their portable property, my recommendation was not followed: you yourself excited the Council to disobedience. In your self-willed obstinacy you had the impudent assurance to make your way through a country infested by the enemy; and if my colonel, Von Prittwitz, had not found you in those woods, and brought you to me in the village, your obstinate head would have adorned the lance of some Cossack or other. And what did you come for but to assure me that the well-to-do citizens of Berlin would prefer staying at home, and did not wish to run away? Yes, truly you are a queer diplomatist, and rush headlong into danger and trouble only to assure your king that his citizens will not obey him!"
The king had spoken with apparent displeasure, but around his lips there played a slight smile, and his large blue eyes were directed toward Gotzkowsky with an expression of indescribable kindness.
"In this case they do not wish to obey your majesty, because they wish to remain worthy of the name of your majesty's citizens and subjects."
The king paced up and down several times, with folded arms, and then stopped before Gotzkowsky, looking steadily in his eyes. "Now tell me, how did you manage to make the Berliners so obstinate and so lavish of their means?"
Gotzkowsky smiled. "Please your majesty, the Berliners prize their honor above their life."
The king shook his head impatiently. "You may tell that to some one else. Tellme, how did you bring my Berliners up to that? But the truth—mind, you tell me the truth."
"Well, then, your majesty shall know the truth," said Gotzkowsky, after a pause.
"Yes, yes, the truth," cried the king, nodding his head violently. "I wish to know how you inspired the citizens of Berlin with such bold assurance."
"The truth is, sire, that this was only the courage of cowardice, and that the prudent magistracy and merchants were perfectly delighted with your majesty's orders not to pay these bonds, and that I gave myself an immense amount of trouble in vain to remind them of their pledged word and their compromised honor."
"Oh! I know it," said the king. "My good Berliners love money as well as any other of the good-for-nothing children of men. Proceed!"
"Well, when I found them deaf to the voice of honor, I let them hear the words of cowardly prudence. I painted to them the horrors awaiting them if the enemy perchance should return as conquerors, and what a fearful revenge they would take on the perjured city. I reminded them that the enemy would immediately attack all our property in Courland, Dantzic, and Livonia, and that at the Russian headquarters they had threatened me that they would publish, us in all the open commercial marts as issuers of false bonds."
"You were then in the Russian camp?"
"A fortnight ago, sire. The Council of Berlin requested me to undertake this journey to complete the transactions left unfinished by the rapid retreat of General von Tottleben."
"And did you finish them?"
"I was obliged to give General Tottleben a written agreement that I would return in four weeks to the Russian camp to carry out the transactions in the name of these merchants."
"I have been told that the Russian general would not accept the bonds for the war-tax unless you indorsed them. Is that true, too?"
"It is true."
"And what did you do?"
"I indorsed them."
The king's eye lighted up with friendship and kindness. "D'Argens is right," said he. "Cornelius Nepos and Livy would have mentioned you in their writings." And he paced up and down the room in deep thought.
A long pause ensued. Finally, Gotzkowsky was bold enough to break it."And the tax, your majesty, may we pay it?"
The king stopped in front of him. "The tax shall be paid," said he curtly; but, as Gotzkowsky was about to break out in loud expressions of gratitude, the king waved him off with his hand. "That is," said he, "I myself will pay it, if it cannot be otherwise. Go back into the Russian camp, as you have promised. Endeavor to get some abatement of the amount, or some other profitable terms; but if you do not succeed, well, I will have to pay this million and a half for Berlin. But in return you must grant me a favor."
"What, sire? Whatever it may be," cried Gotzkowsky, ardently, "I am ready to perform any service for your majesty, even to the sacrifice of my life."
The king smiled. "Oh, no! not quite so bad as that, although the service I ask of you is more difficult to most men than dying—I meankeeping silence." And as he laid his hand affectionately on Gotzkowsky's shoulder, he continued: "Betray to no one what I have said to you, and only at the very last moment, if it is absolutely necessary, take the Council into your confidence."
"How, sire?" said Gotzkowsky, painfully. "You wish to deprive your Berlin citizens of the gratification of expressing to you their gratitude, their infinite affection. Berlin may not even know how kind, how gracious your majesty has been to her!"
"I don't like the jingling of words, nor the throwing of wreaths. The very people who throw laurel-wreaths would be only too glad if the laurels were hard enough to break our heads. You pay the contribution, that is to say, you advance it, and I'll return it to you.[4] That's all, and now don't say another word about it." At the same time, as if fearful that Gotzkowsky might yet venture to act contrary to his wishes, he continued more rapidly: "Now tell me a little about Berlin, and above all things about our gallery at Sans-Souci. How does it fare?"
"It is finished, sire, and the people flock to see it."
"I only, like a fugitive or a Don Quixote, am driven about," said the king to himself, "and cannot even enter my own house, and they call that royal happiness!" Turning to Gotzkowsky, he remarked aloud: "Have you seen the gallery since the enemy took up his quarters in it?"
"Yes, sire! Prince Esterhazy was this noble enemy. He protected Sans-Souci like something sacred. When he left he only took one single small picture with him, as a souvenir."
The king gave a friendly nod. "I know it," said he, "and that is the only pleasure I have had for a long time. Once more I will see my Titians and Correggios, my Rubenses and Vandycks, which you bought for me. Now tell me about Charlottenburg. But mind, give me the truth. I have noticed that no one will speak out about it, nobody will tell the truth. They are afraid of my anger. But you are a brave man, you are not even afraid of the Cossacks. You will have the courage to let your king know the facts. How is it with Charlottenburg? The Saxons have quartered there—what did they do?"
And now Gotzkowsky, often interrupted by the violent and angry exclamations of the king, told of the barbarous and cruel vandalism committed by the Saxons at Charlottenburg, their unbridled destructiveness and unsparing barbarity.
"And the Polignac collection?" asked the king, breathlessly.
"Almost entirely destroyed."
The king started up from his easy-chair, his eyes flashing with rage. He was no longer the philosopher of Sans-Souci, no longer the poet; he was now the warrior panting for battle and bloody vengeance. "Tell me, tell me! I wish to know all," said the king, laboring out each word, and taking long strides up and down.
But as Gotzkowsky gave him a more detailed account, and related the sacrilegious barbarity which did not spare even the sacred art-treasures, the king's brow became more darkened, and for a moment a burning flush of anger shot across his pale cheek. At one time he raised his arm threateningly, as if he would bring down the thunderbolts of heaven upon such wickedness and ruthlessness.
As Gotzkowsky finished, the king said, curtly and vehemently, "Good, very good!" and traversing the room with hasty steps, he threw open the door which led into the antechamber, and called out, "Saldern!"
Immediately General von Saldern appeared at the open door. The king commanded him to enter and shut the door; then, addressing him in a short, decisive tone: "Go to-morrow, quietly, with a detachment of infantry and cavalry, to Hubertsburg, take possession of the castle, and have all the valuable furniture carefully inventoried and packed up. I will have none of it. The money obtained from its ransom will be turned over to the Lazaretto, and I will not forget you."
There was a pause. General von Saldern remained at the door motionless, in stiff military attitude.
The king looked at him with astonishment. "Well! did you hear?"
"Yes, your majesty, I heard. But, may it please your majesty, this is against my honor and my oath."
The king compelled himself to be composed, for he loved General Saldern as a brave and noble officer. "You would be right," said he, "if I did not use this desperate means to a good object. But let me tell you, the head of the great lord does not feel it if you tear out the hair of his subjects. You must hit, then, where it hurts him; and that I intend to do. The Elector of Saxony shall find out how it feels when one's most cherished possession is destroyed. We will teach him to be humane, and behave himself. Go, therefore, to Hubertsburg, and do as I told you."
General von Saldern turned pale, and his countenance was expressive of deep suffering, as he answered gravely and firmly: "Your majesty may send me right off to attack the enemy and his batteries, and I will obey with my whole heart; but against my honor, my oath, and my duty, I cannot, dare not act."
The king stamped with his foot, and his eye flashed with threatening anger.
"You must obey, as is your duty; you are bound to obey no other voice than that of your king who commands you," said he with a voice of thunder.
General Saldern answered, calmly: "But, sire, I must obey the voice of my honor! Your majesty can easily transfer this commission to another."
The king turned from him with an involuntary frown, and, walking up and down hastily, he stopped near Saldern, and laid his hand gently on his shoulder. "Look ye, Saldern, obey—go to Hubertsburg."
"I cannot, sire!"
"You do not desire to enrich yourself?" said the king, as he turned away. "Do you wish your discharge? I have no use for soldiers who do not consider obedience their first duty."
"I herewith ask for my discharge, sire!"
"You have it—go!"[5]
Without saying a word, General von Saldern made a military obeisance, and left the room.
"You go too!" said the king to Gotzkowsky, who had been a silent, involuntary spectator of this scene—"go and tell my adjutant to send Quintus Icilius to me."
In a few minutes Major Quintus Icilius entered. "Go to Hubertsburg with a detachment of infantry and cavalry, and clear out the castle."
Major Quintus Icilius took good heed not to contradict the king. He had already, in the antechamber, heard of General von Saldern's fate, and he was not indisposed to execute the king's commission.
"Only a hundred thousand dollars you hand over to the Lazaretto, the rest you can keep for yourself."
"As you command, sire! Shall I proceed at once?"
The king cast a look of disgust on him. "Are you in such a hurry to be rich?" said he. "Go—I will appoint the time and the hour more particularly."[6]
When the king was alone again, he paced up and down the room in deep thought. At one time he stopped at the window, and his bright blue eyes were turned mournfully toward heaven. "Poor fools that we are!" said he, with a sigh. "We have only a moment to live, and we make this moment as bitter as possible to each other. We take pleasure in destroying the master-pieces of industry and art, at the same time we are erecting an accursed monument to our own devastation and our cruelty."[7]
[Footnote 1: "Lettres inédites, ou Correspondance de Frédéric II.," &c., p. 120.]
[Footnote 2: The king's own words.]
[Footnote 3: "Correspondance entre Fred. et M. d'Argens," vi., p. 228.]
[Footnote 4: "Life of a Patriotic Merchant," pp. 85-254. "The king paid the contribution in fact so quietly, one hardly knew when, where, or how."—Preuss's History of Frederick.]
[Footnote 5: This interview is historical and literal. General von Saldern left the army, but after the peace entered it again, with high honor and distinction.—KUSTRE, "Traits of Saldern," p. 39.]
[Footnote 6: Not till May, 1761, was the king's order carried into execution by Major Q. Icilius, in a most barbarous manner. The king was apparently satisfied; but when Q. Icilius in 1764 applied for repayment of moneys spent in executing the royal command, the king indorsed on the application—"My officers steal like crows. They get nothing."]
[Footnote 7: His own words.]
* * * * *
The king of Prussia had left Meissen, and taken up his winter-quarters in Leipsic. The choice of this town arose from a particular need of the king. He wished to pass the winter in a university town, and, instead of the rough companions of war, to surround himself with learned men and artists, poets and musicians. He had his band brought from Berlin, and invited the professors of the Leipsic University to his table. Thus Leipsic, the rich and luxurious commercial town, found itself, for a few months, converted into a royal residence. But not willingly did she undergo this transformation; and it was against her wish that she received the Prussian king, in lieu of the troops of the allies, within her walls. Frederick knew this, and therefore exercised no mercy on this city, so rich in money and professions, whose unwelcome guest he was.
Had Leipsic welcomed the Prussian army in a ready and friendly manner, she would certainly have met with indulgence; but her defiant and sullen behavior, her warm partisanship of Austria, whose ally Saxony was, naturally only tended to increase the animosity of the king, and aggravate his ill-humor. If Leipsic insisted upon regarding the Prussians as enemies, his duty was to consider her as an enemy, and treat her as such.
Enormous contributions were laid upon the town, and in spite of the previous written promise of the king that her assessment should not, at the utmost, exceed five hundred thousand dollars, new demands were now constantly being made, and new contributions levied. In vain did the Council beg and plead for mercy and justice; in vain did the merchants protest that their means were exhausted, and that they were not able to meet any further payments. The enormous demands determined on were firmly and with iron obstinacy insisted upon; and as the refractory town did not cease to oppose them, recourse was had to threats to intimidate her. Tarred rings were hung against the houses, and it was sworn to lay the town in ashes if Leipsic did not immediately pay the million of dollars demanded. But the unfortunate inhabitants had already reached that pitch of desperation at which people are prepared for any thing, and fear nothing further because there is nothing more to lose. They declared that they could pay no more, and offered to seal their word with their death.
The tarred rings were indeed taken down from the houses, but the richest and most respectable inhabitants were seized and incarcerated. Even the authorities were not spared, and the officers of the Council were thrown into the prisons of the towns. In the most degrading manner, like a flock of sheep, they were shut up in spaces hardly able to contain them; damp straw was their bed, bread and water their only nourishment, and this was brought to them with words of cruel insult by their Prussian jailers. But to these latter the burden soon became too heavy; they were weary of their cruel service, and sought to lighten it.
At first they had one hundred and twenty prisoners, but, after a fortnight of useless torment, the greater number had been set free, and only seventeen retained. To be sure, these consisted of the richest and most respectable citizens of Leipsic. And these unfortunate hostages, these spoilt sons of wealth and luxury, were now forced to bear the whole weight of misfortune, the entire anger of the victorious enemy. They, whose whole life had been one of indulgence and effeminacy, had now to undergo the greatest privations, the hardest sufferings. The cold earth was their bed, a piece of bread thrown to them their nourishment; and it was a feast to them when one of the gentlewomen of Leipsic succeeded in obtaining permission to visit a brother or husband, and was able to smuggle in under her silk dress a piece of meat or a little bowl of soup for the martyrs. These cruelties would doubtless have been lessened or abolished if the king had had positive knowledge of them, or if he had believed that the city's inability to pay was real, and not a mere pretext. But the king, vexed by the continually repeated complaints, out of humor at the obstinate conduct of Leipsic, and mindful of the vandal conduct of the Saxons at Charlottenburg, had issued strict orders not to trouble him with this business, and not to report to him about them until they could at the same time show that the sum demanded had been paid. And therewith sentence had been passed upon the unfortunate citizens of Leipsic. No one dared to mention to the king the torments and tortures to which the hostages of the pitiable town were subjected. No one had the courage to beg for mercy for those whose only crime was, that their riches were exhausted, their coffers empty, and that they did not possess the means to pay the inordinate sums demanded of them.
But while the population of Leipsic was undergoing this grief, this hard time of trial, an uninterrupted quiet and precious peace prevailed in the house inhabited by the King of Prussia. Music was performed, readings were held, and in the midst of these gentle diversions and this pleasant rest Frederick drew up the plans of fresh, battles and new and great undertakings. Fasch and Quanz had been brought from Berlin to play music for him, the Marquis d'Argens to philosophize for him, his dogs to amuse him. The king, who knew enough of men to despise the wavering, erring, sinful creatures, was also a sufficient connoisseur of dogs to love the faithful, obedient, submissive animals with his whole heart, and devoted a great part of his time to them. He who was deaf to the wailing and lamentations of a whole city, had his ears open to the least whine of Biche, or his favorite Psyche, and never would have forgiven him who had dared to treat one of his dogs as so many of the noble and distinguished citizens of Leipsic were being treated in his name.
* * * * *
No one would have dared to speak a word for the refractory citizens and authorities of Leipsic to the king, nor act in direct contravention to his express orders. Even the Marquis d'Argens, his intimate friend and confidant, had refused to be the advocate of the unfortunate town. It seemed to be lost, without hope of redemption, and already it had been threatened with the extreme of severity. It had been announced to the chief men, the fathers and heads of families who were pining in the prisons, that they would be transported on foot to Magdeburg as recruits, with knapsacks on their backs. But at this moment the rescuer in need, of the afflicted city, made his appearance.
A tall, proud, manly form crossed the antechamber of the king. Power and energy were visible in his countenance, and his eyes sparkled with noble excitement. He was going to perform that duty from which courtiers and flatterers shrank with trembling; and what the bravest generals did not dare, he was going to undertake. John Gotzkowsky was going to tell the king the truth. John Gotzkowsky was not afraid to rouse the anger of a king, when it came to helping the unfortunate or protecting the oppressed. He had a more noble mission to perform than to sue for the smiles of a king, or the favor of the great. It was the higher mission of humanity which impelled him, and, as usual, his resolution was firm and unwavering. With bold decision he reached the door which led into the king's chamber. He had the privilege of entering unannounced, for the king expected him.
He had summoned Gotzkowsky from Berlin, to obtain information as to the progress of the Berlin industrial works, and the faithful patriot had, in obedience to the call of his king, come to Leipsic. He had seen the misery and suffering on this poor, down-trodden town, and, as he traversed the antechamber, he said to himself, with an imperceptible smile, "I brought the Russian general to clemency, and the king will not be harder than he was."
But before he threw off his cloak, he drew out of it a small package, which he examined carefully. Being satisfied with its appearance, he took it with him to the cabinet of the king. Frederick did not look at him at first. He was reclining on the floor, and around him, on silken cushions, lay his dogs, their bright eyes fixed on a dish which was placed in the midst of them. The king, with an ivory stick, was carefully dividing the portion for each dog, ordering the growling, discontented ones to be quiet, and comforting the patiently waiting ones with a light jest concerning the next piece. Suddenly he raised his eyes, and his quick glance rested on Gotzkowsky's smiling, placid face. "Ah, you laugh," said he, "and in your human conceit you find it quite beneath one's dignity to occupy one's self with dogs, when there are so many human beings. Let me tell you, you don't understand any thing about it! You don't know dogs at all, and perhaps you don't know men.—Quiet, Biche! leave that piece for Apollo. I gave it to him, and therefore it belongs to him. One would suppose you had been learning from men, and in the true spirit of Christian and brotherly love, grudged each other a piece of bread. Quiet, Biche, and don't be vexed that I compared you to human beings. I did not mean you were quite as bad as that."
And gently stroking and caressing the offended Biche, he rose and seated himself in his velvet-coveredfauteuil. His bright eye turned toward Gotzkowsky, and rested on the package the latter had in his hand. "What have you there?"
"A plate and a cup," said Gotzkowsky, seriously—"the first two pieces from my porcelain factory in Berlin."
The king now rose from his seat and strode hastily toward Gotzkowsky. "Give them here. I want to see what sort of potters'-ware you are going to impose upon me for porcelain." With impatient hands he tore off the paper coverings, and so eagerly was he engaged with them, that he did not perceive that Biche and Apollo were already fighting for a scrap of paper which he had thrown directly on Biche's nose, and which she consequently mistook for a delicate morsel, a prize worth a fight with Apollo. "Forsooth, it is porcelain!" cried the king, as he drew out the gold-rimmed plate and the beautifully painted cup from their wrappings, and looked at them attentively; and as his eye rested on the painting of the cup, his features assumed a soft and sad expression. "My house in Rheinsberg," muttered he softly to himself—"a greeting from my happy days."
"In the castle Rheinsberg, I first enjoyed the favor of being presented to your majesty," said Gotzkowsky. "Castle Rheinsberg is, therefore, to me a happy recollection, and it was for that reason selected to adorn the proof pieces of my porcelain factory."
The king fastened a penetrating look upon him. "You are playing me a trick—I don't like tricks, you must know. Therefore tell me the truth. Where did you get this porcelain? It is not from Meissen. The mark is wanting, and it is whiter and stronger. Where did you get it?"
"From Berlin, sire. I promised you, when you were in Meissen, that in future you should procure your porcelain from your own dominions, and I dare not forfeit my word."
"And so you imitated the Almighty, and created a porcelain factory with the breath of your mouth?"
"Not with the breath of my mouth, but the breath of my money."
"Tell me about it, and all the particulars," said the king, still holding the cup in his hand, and looking at it attentively.
And Gotzkowsky related how, on his return from Meissen, he had accidentally made the acquaintance of a young man, who was passing through Berlin on his way to Gotha, the duke having offered to advance him the capital necessary to found a factory for the making of porcelain according to a process of his own invention. The specimens exhibited convinced Gotzkowsky that this young man was fully acquainted with the secret of porcelain-making, and he had therefore immediately determined to forestall the Duke of Gotha.
Money had in this instance, as usual, exercised its charm, and nothing more was necessary than to outbid the terms agreed on with the duke. A few thousand dollars more offered, and double purchase-money, had secured the secret of porcelain-making to Gotzkowsky, and bound the inventor down in Berlin for life.[1]
The arrangements necessary for the first attempts were made in one of the out-buildings of his house, and the articles offered to the king were the first-fruits of his factory. The king listened to him with intense interest, and when Gotzkowsky had finished, he nodded to him with a smile.
"The Marquis d'Argens is right. I wish myself I had many such citizens as you are. It would be a fine thing to be a king if all one's subjects were true men, and made it worth one's while to be to them a kind father and lord. You have fulfilled a favorite wish of mine; and let me tell you, I do not think you will call the porcelain factory yours long. I think it will soon be a royal factory."
"I founded it for your majesty."
"Good, good! you have given me a pleasure, I will give you one in return. Ask some favor for yourself. You are silent. Do you know of nothing to ask for?"
"Oh, yes, indeed," said Gotzkowsky, ardently, "I have a great favor to ask—have pity on the poor inhabitants of this town!"
The king frowned and pressed his lips angrily together. "Do you know that I have generally forbidden any one to trouble me with these Leipsic jeremiades?"
"I know it, sire."
The king looked at him with astonishment. "And yet you do it?"
"Yes, sire, I do it because I relied on the kind, noble heart of my king, and because humanity bade me not to fear your majesty's anger, when it became a question of mercy to the oppressed."
"And for this reason you wanted to bribe me with your bits of porcelain. Oh, you are a reckoner, but this time you have reckoned without your host. No pity for these obstinate Leipsigers. They must pay the eleven hundred thousand dollars, or—"
"Or what?" asked Gotzkowsky, as he hesitated.
The king looked angrily at him. "You are very bold," said he, "to interrupt me. The Leipsigers must pay, for I need the money for my soldiers, and they are rich; they are able to pay!"
"They are not able to pay, sire! They are as little able to pay as Berlin is if Russia insists upon her demands, and her magnanimous king does not come to her assistance. But your majesty certainly does not wish that the world and history shall say that Russia acted with more forbearance and clemency toward Berlin than Prussia did toward Leipsic? To be sure, the Russians carried off the Jewish elders into captivity because they could not pay, but then they treated these poor victims of their avarice like human beings. They did not make them sleep on rotten straw; they did not let them starve, and die of misery and filth; they did not have them scourged and tortured until they wet with their tears the bit of bread thrown to them."
"Who does that?" cried the king, with thundering voice and flashing eye.
Gotzkowsky bowed low. "Your majesty, the King of Prussia does that!"
Frederick uttered a cry of anger, and advanced with his arm raised on Gotzkowsky, who looked at him quietly and firmly. "You lie! retract!" thundered the king.
"I have, as long as I have lived, spoken the truth, sire—the truth, without fear or dread of man. Your majesty is the first man who has accused me of a lie. I have seen with my own eyes your majesty's officials treating the poor captive Leipsic merchants like dogs. What do I say—like dogs? Oh, how would the poor down-trodden men envy those dogs the delicacies contained in that dish! It may be right to compel and humble the refractory, but it is not right to tread out the human soul, and even in the conquered you should honor God's image."
The king looked at him with ludicrous surprise. "Do you wish to give me a lesson? Well, I will forgive you this time, and, as you express it, honor God's image in the owner of the Berlin porcelain factory. But hush about these hard-headed Leipsigers. They must pay. My soldiers cannot live on air, and my coffers are empty."
"The Leipsigers are very willing to contribute, but the demand must not exceed their powers."
"How do you know that?"
"The magistracy and merchant guild of Leipsic sent a deputation to me, and entreated my mediation."
"You have then already the reputation of one who knows how to use his tongue well, and goes about tattling with it."
"Sire," said Gotzkowsky, smiling, "we only follow the example of our hero-king. We all are anxious to fight, and those who have no swords must fight with the tongue. I have latterly been compelled to fight a great deal with it, and the Leipsic merchants may have heard something about that. They knew that I had some exercise with my tongue, and gained a little victory with it over the Russians in Berlin."
"How much do you think the city of Leipsic can pay?" asked the king after a pause.
"If your majesty will remit them a few hundred thousand dollars, and allow the merchants time, they are willing to bind themselves in joint bonds."
"Parbleu! are they willing to do that?" asked the king, derisively. "The bonds of the Leipsic merchants would be no security to me." And turning quickly on Gotzkowsky, he asked him, "Are you willing to guarantee the payment?"
"If your majesty orders it, the bonds shall be drawn out with my guaranty."
"I look to you, then, for their payment."
"At your orders, sire."
"Well, then, for your sake I will remit the Leipsigers three hundred thousand dollars; but for the rest of the million you are answerable."
"I will be answerable for it."
"I will let these gentlemen of Leipsic know that it is to your intercession and your guaranty that they are indebted for the mitigation of their contributions; and then you can, if it gives you pleasure, bargain with the rich town for some reward for your services rendered."
"That would give me no pleasure, sire!" cried Gotzkowsky, with noble indignation. "Your majesty must not think so meanly of me as to suppose that I would make a profit out of the misfortunes of others, and that I have interceded for the poor Leipsigers in order to make a trade out of them!"
"I think that you are a hard-headed, obstinate fellow, who must be allowed to have his own way," said the king, with an affable smile. "But I must bear you witness that, in your own way, you have rendered me many a good service. For that reason, you will always find me well affected toward you, and in the Sans-Souci gallery you have created a beautiful memorial to yourself."
"If your majesty would come there now, you would find the Correggio about which you wrote to the Marquis d'Argens."
The king's eyes sparkled. "The Correggio is mine!" said he, walking up and down slowly, with his hands behind his back. "Ah," added he, after a long pause, in a low tone, as if speaking to himself, "when will this nomadic life cease, and the world be at peace, to allow this poor, badgered king a few hours of leisure and recreation, to enjoy the contemplation of his house and his pictures? The wandering Jew, if he ever existed, did not lead such a rambling life as I do. We get at last to be like the roving play-actors, who have neither hearth nor home, and thus we pass through the world, playing our bloody tragedies, with the wailings of our subjects for chorus.[2] When will it end?"
"When your majesty has subdued all your enemies."
The king looked around with surprise—he had quite forgotten Gotzkowsky. "Ah! are you still there? and you prophesy me victory? Well, that will be as good to me as the Leipsic money. Go back home, and tell the Leipsigers to hurry with the money. And hark ye! when you get to Potsdam, greet the Correggio, and tell him I yearn for him as a lover does for his mistress Adieu!"
[Footnote 1: Porcelain-making was then a great secret in Germany, only known in Meissen; the process being conducted with closed doors, and the foreman bound by oath. Gotzkowsky paid ten thousand dollars down, a life income of a thousand dollars, and house and firewood free.—"Life of a Patriotic Merchant," p. 87.]
[Footnote 2: "Correspondance de Frédéric II. avec le ComteAlgarottis."]
* * * * *
Thus did Gotzkowsky save unfortunate Leipsic from the heavy burden which weighed her down. The prisoners were released, and the merchants gave a bond, for whose punctual and prompt payment Gotzkowsky guaranteed with his signature.
He did not do this from a selfish or vain ambition to have the praise of his name sounded, nor to increase the number of his addresses of gratitude, or written asseverations of affection. He did it from love of mankind; because he desired to fulfil the vow he had made to God and himself on the highway as a shivering, starving lad: that if he should ever become rich, he would be to every unfortunate and needy one the hand which had appeared out of the dust-cloud to his relief. He did it because, as he tells us naively and simply in his Life, "I knew from my own experience how difficult it was for a community to collect such a sum, and because the idea of profiting by such misfortune was abhorrent to me."
And now there was a brilliant banquet, and no end to the words of gratitude and tears of emotion. This banquet was given by the Leipsic merchants in honor of him who had so magnanimously taken their part, saved them three hundred thousand dollars, and guaranteed their bonds. And they devoured the delicate viands and emptied the beakers to his honor, and praised him in high-sounding speeches.
When Gotzkowsky, wearied and bored by this festival, returned home, he found on his table three letters. The one which bore on its seal the arms of Prussia he opened first. It was a cabinet order from the king to his private secretary, Leinning, to pay to the merchant, John Gotzkowsky, one hundred and fifty thousand dollars. "Ah," said he, smiling, "payment on account; I bought a hundred thousand ducats' worth of paintings for the king, and he does not wish to remain always in my debt." With a slight shrug of the shoulders he opened the second letter. Suddenly he burst into a loud laugh, and his countenance assumed an expression of derisive mirth. "The Elector of Saxony, in consideration of services rendered to the town of Leipsic, appoints me his commercial privy councillor!" cried he, waving the paper in the air; "that is a good joke! The little elector, who has been my debtor for many long years, is gracious enough to throw me a bit of rank—a title! Much obliged! My name sounds well enough. It is not necessary to have a title to be a man of honor. Throw titles to numskulls, not to me—away with it!"
He then threw the paper aside with scorn, and took up the third letter. As he read it his noble countenance brightened up with proud pleasure, and his eyes sparkled. It was a document from the town of Leipsic, an address of thanks from the magistracy, the concluding words of which ran thus:
"In our extreme need we had recourse to Herr Gotzkowsky, the respected merchant and banker of Berlin, imploring the same to intercede for this town and its merchants with the king of Prussia; affording them his credit and valuable assistance, to accord to said town some reasonable respite for payment, with security. To this earnest pleading Herr Gotzkowsky yielded, and, as a true philanthropist, without any ulterior views of profit to himself, did in the most praiseworthy manner assist us, and averted this misfortune from the town. These services we are compelled to acknowledge. We therefore offer our services in return on all possible occasions, not doubting that the mercantile community of this place entertain the same sentiments, and feel themselves equally bound to all imaginable reciprocity.
[SIGNED] "The Council of Leipsic.
"Leipsic,February26, 1761."
"This paper I will carry to my daughter, as a souvenir," said Gotzkowsky, folding it up carefully, and then added thoughtfully: "Who knows but what the time may come when it will be necessary to remind the merchants of Leipsic of this document? The opinions and destinies of men are very variable."
But Gotzkowsky himself was to have occasion to remind unthankful Leipsic of her professions of gratitude—not to call on her to perform reciprocal favors, but to protect himself against calumny and unfriendly suspicions. For a day came, when Leipsic forgot the affliction and grief she had suffered, and only remembered that John Gotzkowsky was her creditor, and that she owed him large sums of money. So, when at last, weary of long waiting, he pressed for payment, they accused him of self-interest, and said that he had unnecessarily mixed himself up in their affairs, and that it would have been better if he had left them to their captivity; for although they might have had much to suffer, they would have had but little to pay.
Gotzkowsky answered these accusations in a manner characteristic of his noble, proud self—he was silent about them. But hard times and oppression came again upon the rich town of Leipsic.
The Prussian king exacted fresh contributions—and now they recalled to mind the services of Gotzkowsky; again they sent him humble letters, begging him to have pity on them; and now the cunning, calculating magistracy of Leipsic saw fit to take notice of these calumnies, which they had shortly before so industriously circulated through the public newspapers, and solemnly to declare in all the journals: "We hereby certify, in compliance with truth, through these writings, that the worshipful Herr Gotzkowsky, as well in past years, as at the late Leipsic fair, out of unchanged and innate love and friendly kindness to us, this town, and its inhabitants, has given just cause for gratitude."
Gotzkowsky forgot the insults, and was again of assistance to them. A second time he persuaded the king to mitigate their contribution, and guaranteed the new bonds issued by them. A second time the magistrates and merchants thanked him in the most touching words for his noble and disinterested assistance, and a second time were they destined to forget their vows of gratitude.
* * * * *