FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY
by
L. Muhlbach
Part 2 out of 16
not heard of her, and still my love is as great and as ardent as
ever. Yes, I believe that at the thought of her my heart beats more
quickly, more longingly than if I had her in my arms."
"The reason of this," said Pollnitz, almost sympathetically, "is
that it is your first love."
Prince Henry looked at him angrily.
"You are wrong and most unjust to this beautiful woman, who remained
good and pure in the midst of the corrupting and terrible
circumstances in which destiny placed her. She preserved a chaste
heart, an unspotted soul. Her misfortunes only refined her, and
therefore I love her, and believe that God has placed me in her way
that, after all her sufferings, I might make her happy. Oh,
precisely because of her sorrows, the shameful slanders with which
she is pursued, and all for which she is reproached, I love her."
"Well, my prince," sighed Pollnitz, with a tragical expression, "I
never saw a bolder hero and a more pious Christian than your
highness."
"What do you mean by that, Pollnitz?"
"That an enormous amount of bravery is necessary, prince, to believe
Madame von Kleist chaste and innocent, and that only a pious
Christian can count himself so entirely among those of whom Christ
says, 'Blessed are they that have not seen and yet have believed.'
May a good fairy long preserve you your bravery and your
Christianity! But surely your highness must have important and
convincing proofs to believe in the innocence and faithfulness of
this woman. I confess that any other man would have been discouraged
in his godlike belief by facts. It is a fact that for twelve days
Madame von Kleist has sent you no message through me; it is a fact
that she was not at the masked ball; that as often as I have been to
her in these last days, to deliver letters for your highness, and to
obtain hers in return, she has never received me, always excused
herself; and, therefore, I could not receive her letters, nor
deliver those of your highness."
"And were you not in Berlin early this morning! Did you not go to
her as I ordered you, and tell her she might expect me this
evening?"
"I went to her house, but in vain; she was with the queen-mother,
and I was told that she would not return until late in the evening,
I therefore could not deliver the message, your highness."
The prince stamped his foot impatiently, and walked hastily to and
fro; his brow was clouded, his lips trembled with inward emotion.
The sharp eye of the baron followed with an attentive, pitiless
glance every movement of his face, noted every sigh that came from
his anxious heart, that he might judge whether the seeds of mistrust
that he had sown in the breast of the prince would grow. But Prince
Henry was still young, brave, and hopeful; it was his first love
they wished to poison, but his young, healthy nature withstood the
venom, and vanquished its evil effects. His countenance resumed its
quiet, earnest expression, and the cloud disappeared from his brow.
"Do you know," he said, standing before Pollnitz, and looking
smilingly into his cunning face--"do you know that you do not
descend, as the rest of mankind, from Adam and Eve, but in a direct
line from the celebrated serpent? And truly you do honor to your
ancestor! No paradise is holy to you, and to do evil gives you
pleasure. But you shall not disturb my paradise; and as much of the
old Adam as is still in me, I will not be foolish enough to eat of
the bitter fruit that you offer me. No, you shall not succeed in
making me jealous and distrustful; you shall not destroy my faith:
and see you, those that believe are still in paradise,
notwithstanding your ancestor, the serpent."
"My prince," said Pollnitz, shrugging his shoulders, "your highness
looks upon me as a kind of Messiah--at least it pleases you to give
me a mother and no father. But oh, my prince! if you are right about
my descent, philosophers are certainly wrong, for they maintain that
the serpent of paradise left gold as a fearful inheritance to
mankind. I shall accuse my great-grandmother the serpent of
disinheriting me and condemning me to live upon the generosity of my
friends and patrons."
He looked at the prince, with a sly, covetous glance, but he had not
understood him; engaged in deep thought, he had stepped to the
window, and was gazing up at the heavens, where the clouds were
chasing each other.
"She will be the entire day with my mother, and I shall not see
her," he murmured. Then, turning hastily to Pollnitz, he asked, "How
is the queen-mother? Did I not hear that she was suffering?"
"Certainly, your highness, a severe attack of gout confines her to
her chair, and holds her prisoner."
"Poor mother! it is long since I saw you."
"It is true, the queen complained of it the last time I spoke with
her," said Pollnitz, with a perfectly serious face, but with inward
rejoicing.
Another pause ensued. The prince appeared to reflect, and to
struggle with his own thoughts and wishes. Pollnitz stood behind
him, and noted every motion, every sigh that he uttered, with his
malicious smiles.
"I believe," said the prince, with still averted face, perhaps to
prevent Pollnitz from seeing his blushes--"I believe it would be
proper for me to inquire to-day personally after my mother's health;
it is not only my duty to do so, but the desire of my heart."
"Her majesty will be pleased to see her beloved son again, and this
pleasure will hasten her recovery."
The prince turned hastily and glanced sharply at Pollnitz, as if he
wished to read his inmost thoughts. But the countenance of the
courtier was earnest and respectful.
"If that is your opinion," said the prince, with a happy smile, "my
duty as a son demands that I should hasten to the queen, and I will
go immediately to Berlin. But as I am going to my mother, and solely
on her account, I will do it in the proper form. Have, therefore,
the kindness to obtain my leave of the king--bring me my brother's
answer immediately, I only await it to depart."
"And I hasten to bring it to your highness," said Pollnitz,
withdrawing.
Prince Henry looked thoughtfully after him.
"I shall see her," he murmured; "I shall speak with her, and shall
learn why she withdrew herself so long from me. Oh, I know she will
be able to justify herself, and these slanders and evil reports will
flee before her glance as clouds before the rays of the sun."
In the mean while, Pollnitz hastened to Sans Souci, where he was
immediately received by the king.
"Your majesty," he said, joyfully, "the young lion has fallen into
the net that we set for him."
"He goes then to Berlin, to the queen-mother?" asked the king,
quickly.
"He begs your majesty's permission to take this little trip."
"He really charged you with this commission?"
"Yes, sire: it appears that his obstinacy is beginning to relent,
and that he thinks of submitting."
The king was silent, and walked thoughtfully to and fro, with
clouded brow, then remained standing before Pollnitz, and looked
sharply and piercingly at him.
"You rejoice," he said, coldly, "but you only think of your own
advantage. You are indifferent to the sorrow we are preparing for my
brother. You only think that your debts will be paid. Yes, I will
pay them, but I shall never forget that you have betrayed my
brother's confidence."
"I only acted according to your majesty's commands," said Pollnitz,
confounded. "Certainly, but if you had resisted my commands, I would
have esteemed and prized you the more. Now, I shall pay your debts,
but I shall despise you. No one has reasons for thanking you."
"Sire, I desire no other thanks. Had I been paid with money for my
services, instead of fine speeches, I would have been as rich as
Croesus."
"And a beggar in virtue," said the king, smiling. "But go, I was
wrong to reproach you. I shall now go to Berlin, and when my brother
arrives he shall find me there. Go now, my grand chamberlain, and
take the prince my permission for a three days' absence."
CHAPTER IX.
THE FIRST DISAPPOINTMENT.
A few hours later the equipage of Prince Henry arrived in the court-
yard of Monbijou, and the prince demanded of his mother, the widowed
queen, permission to pay her his respects.
Sophia Dorothea was suffering greatly. The gout, that slow but fatal
disease, which does not kill at once, but limb by limb, had already
paralyzed the feet of the poor queen, and confined her to her chair.
To-day her sufferings were greater than usual, and she was not able
to leave her bed. Therefore, she could not receive the prince as a
queen, but only as a mother, without ceremony or etiquette. That the
meeting might be entirely without constraint, the maids of honor
left the queen's room, and as the prince entered, he saw the ladies
disappearing by another door; the last one had just made her
farewell bow, and was kissing respectfully the queen's hand.
This was Louise von Kleist, for whose sake the prince had come, and
for whom his heart throbbed painfully. He could have cried aloud for
joy as he saw her in her bewildering loveliness, her luxuriant
beauty. He longed to seize her hands and cover them with kisses--to
tell her how much he had suffered, how much he was still suffering
for her sake.
But Louise appeared not to have seen him, not to have noticed his
entrance. She had only eyes and ears for the queen, who was just
dismissing her with winning words, telling her to remain in the
castle and return when she desired to see her.
"I shall remain and await your majesty's commands," said Louise,
withdrawing hastily.
The queen now greeted the prince as if she had just observed him,
and invited him to be seated on the fauteuil near her couch. The
prince obeyed, but he was absent-minded and restless, and the more
the queen endeavored to engage him in harmless and unconstrained
conversation, the more monosyllabic and preoccupied he became. The
poor prince remembered only that his beloved was so near, that only
a door separated them, and prevented him from gazing on her beauty.
Yes, Louise was really in the next room, in the cabinet of the
queen, sorrowful and exhausted; she had fallen upon the little sofa
near the door, the smile had left her lips, and her brilliant,
bewitching eyes were filled with tears. Louise wept; she wept for
her last youthful dream, her last hope of happiness and virtue, for
her sad, shadowed future and wounded pride; for to-day she had to
resign forever the proud hopes, the brilliant future for which she
had striven with so much energy.
But it was vain to struggle against this hard necessity. The king
had given her his orders and was there to see them carried out. He
sat behind that portiere that led into the grand saloon; he had just
left Louise, and, before going, had said to her, in a stern,
commanding tone:
"You will fulfil my commands accurately. You know that Fritz Wendel
still lives, and that I shall be inexorable if you do not act as you
have promised."
Louise submitted respectfully to the king's commands; she accepted
her fate, but she wept bitterly, and when she felt that the king's
eyes were no longer upon her, her tears flowed unceasingly. Perhaps
Frederick still saw her, or suspected her weakness, for the portiere
opened slightly, and his noble, but stern countenance appeared.
"Madame," he said, "if the prince sees you with tearful eyes, he
will not believe in your happiness."
Louise smiled painfully. "Ah! sire, he will believe I am weeping for
joy. I have often heard of joyful tears."
The king did not reply; he felt for her agony, and closed the
partiere.
"I will cry no more," she said; "I have accepted my destiny, and
will fulfil it bravely for the sake of my daughter. It concerns
Camilla's happiness more than my own. I will deserve the respect of
my unfortunate child."
In saying this, a smile like a sunbeam illuminated her countenance.
But now she started up, and laid her hand in terror upon her heart.
She heard steps approaching. The door moved, and in a moment the
king appeared and motioned to her.
"Courage, courage!" murmured Louise, and with instinctive fear she
flew away from the door and placed herself in the niche of the last
window.
To reach her, the prince must cross the saloon; that would give her
a few moments to recover. The door opened and Prince Henry entered;
his glance flew quickly over the saloon, and found the one he
sought.
Louise could have shrieked with agony when she saw the tender smile
with which he greeted her. Never had he appeared so handsome, so
noble as at this moment, when she must resign him forever.
But there was no time to think of this, no time for complaints or
regrets. He was there, he stood before her, offered both his hands,
and greeted her with the tenderest words of love.
Louise had a stern part to play, and she dared not listen to her
heart's pleadings.
"Ah, my prince," she said, with a laugh that sounded to herself like
the wail of a lost soul--"ah, my prince, take care! we women are
very credulous, and I might take your jesting words for truth."
"I advise you to do so," said the prince, happy and unconcerned.
"Yes, Louise, I advise you to do so, for you know well that my
jesting words have an earnest meaning. And now that we are alone, we
will dispense with ceremony. You must justify yourself before a
lover--a lover who is unfortunately very jealous. Yes, yes, Louise,
that is my weakness; I do not deny it, I am jealous--jealous of all
those who keep you from me, who prevent my receiving your letters."
"My letters!" said Louise, astonished; "why should I have written
letters to your highness? I do not believe it is the custom for
ladies to write to gentlemen voluntarily. It has been two weeks
since I received a letter from your highness."
"Because it was impossible for my messenger to deliver them, Louise:
you were so unapproachable, at least for me. But you must have known
that my thoughts were always with you, that my heart pined for news
and comfort from you."
"Non, vraiment, I did not know it," said Louise, laughingly.
"You did not know it?" asked Henry, wonderingly. "Well, what did you
suppose?"
"I thought," she said, carelessly--"I thought that Prince Henry had
overcome or forgotten his little folly of the carnival."
"And then?"
"Then I determined to follow his example. Then I preached a long
sermon to my foolish eyes--they were misty with tears. Listen, I
said to them: 'You foolish things you have no reason to weep; you
should always look bright and dazzling, even if you never see Prince
Henry again. Really, the absence of the prince has been most
fortunate for you. You might have whispered all kinds of foolish
things to my weak heart. The prince is young, handsome, and amiable,
and it amuses him to win the love of fair ladies. Had you seen him
more frequently, it is possible he might have succeeded with poor
Louise, and the little flirtation we carried on together would have
resulted in earnest love on my part. That would have been a great
misfortune. Laugh and look joyous, beautiful eyes, you have saved me
from an unrequited love. You should not weep, but rejoice. Look
around and find another suitor, who would, perhaps, love me so
fondly that he could not forget me in a few days; whose love I might
return with ardor.' This, my prince, is the sermon I preached to my
eyes when they grew dim with tears."
"And was your sermon effective?" said the prince, with pale,
trembling lips. "Did your eyes, those obedient slaves, look around
and find another lover?"
"Ah! your highness, how can you doubt it? My eyes are indeed my
slaves, and must obey. Yes, they looked and found the happiness they
sought."
"What happiness," asked Henry, apparently quite tranquil, but he
pressed his hand nervously on the chair that stood by him--"what
happiness did your eyes find?"
Louise looked at him and sighed deeply. "The happiness," she said,
and against her will her voice trembled and faltered--"the happiness
that a true, earnest love alone can give--which I have received
joyously into my heart as a gift from God."
The prince laughed aloud, but his face had a wild, despairing
expression, and his hands clasped the chair more firmly.
"I do not understand your holy, pious words. What do they mean? What
do you wish to say?"
"They mean that I now love so truly and so earnestly that I have
promised to become the wife of the man I love," said Louise, with
forced gayety.
The prince uttered a wild cry, and raised his hands as if to curse
the one who had wounded him so painfully.
"If this is true," he said, in a deep, hollow voice--"if this is
true, I despise, I hate you, and they are right who call you a
heartless coquette."
"Ah, my prince, you insult me," cried Louise.
"I insult you!" he said, with a wild laugh; "verily, I believe this
woman has the effrontery to reproach me--I who believed in and
defended her against every accusation--I that had the courage to
love and trust, when all others distrusted and despised her. Yes,
madame, I loved you: I saw in you a goddess, where others saw only a
coquette. I adored you as an innocent sacrifice to envy and malice;
I saw a martyr's crown upon your brow, and wished to change it for
the myrtle-crown of marriage. And my love and hopes are dust and
ashes; it is enough to drive me mad--enough to stifle me with rage
and shame." Carried away by passion, the prince ran wildly through
the saloon, gasping for air, struggling for composure, and now and
then uttering words of imprecation and despair.
Louise waited, in silence and resignation, the end of this stormy
crisis. She questioned her heart if this bitter hour was not
sufficient atonement for all her faults and follies; if the agony
she now suffered did not wipe out and extirpate the past.
The prince still paced the room violently. Suddenly, as if a new
thought had seized him, he remained standing in the middle of the
saloon, and looked at Louise with a strangely altered countenance.
She had forgotten for a moment the part she was condemned to play,
and leaned, pale and sad, against the window.
Perhaps he heard her sorrowful sighs--perhaps he saw her tears as
they rolled one by one from her eyes, and fell like pearls upon her
small white hands.
Anger disappeared from his face, his brow cleared, and as he
approached Louise his eyes sparkled with another and milder fire.
"Louise," he said, softly, and his voice, which had before raged
like a stormy wind, was now mild and tender--"Louise, I have divined
your purpose--I know all now. At first, I did not understand your
words; in my folly and jealousy I misconceived your meaning; you
only wished to try me, to see if my love was armed and strong, if it
was as bold and faithful as I have sworn it to be. Well, I stood the
test badly, was weak and faint-hearted; but forgive me--forgive me,
Louise, and strengthen my heart by confidence and faith in me."
He tried to take her hand, but she withdrew it.
"Must I repeat to your highness what I have said before? I do not
understand you. What do you mean?"
"Ah," said the prince, "you are again my naughty, sportive Louise.
Well, then, I will explain. Did you not say that you now love so
truly, that you have promised to become the wife of the man you
love?"
"Yes, I said that, your highness."
"And I," said the prince, seizing both her hands and gazing at her
ardently--"I was so short-sighted, so ungrateful, as not to
understand you. The many sorrows and vexations I suffer away from
you have dimmed my eyes and prevented me from seeing what is written
with golden letters upon your smiling lips and beaming eyes. Ah,
Louise, I thank you for your precious words, at last you are
captured, at last you have resolved to become the wife of him who
adores you. I thank you, Louise, I thank you, and I swear that no
earthly pomp or power could make me as proud and happy as this
assurance of your love."
Louise gazed into his beautiful, smiling face with terror.
"Ah, my prince, my words have not the meaning you imagine. I spoke
the simple truth. My heart has made its choice--since yesterday, I
am the betrothed wife of Captain du Trouffle."
"That is not true," cried the prince, casting her hands violently
from him. "You are very cruel today; you torture me with your
fearful jests."
"No, your highness, I speak the truth. I am the betrothed of Captain
du Trouffle."
"Since yesterday you are the betrothed of Captain du Trouffle!"
repeated the prince, staring at her wildly. "And you say you love
him, Louise?"
"Yes, your highness, I love him," said Louise, with a faint smile.
"It is impossible," cried the prince; "it is not true."
"And why should I deceive your highness?"
"Why?--ah, I understand all. Oh, Louise, my poor darling, how short-
sighted I have been! Why did I not immediately suspect my brother?--
he has spies to watch all my movements; they have at last discovered
my love for you. Pollnitz, who would do any thing for gold, has
betrayed us to the king, who condemns me to marry according to my
rank, and, to carry out his purpose surely, he now forces you to
marry. Oh, Louise, say that this is so; acknowledge that the power
of the king, and not your own heart, forced you to this engagement.
It is impossible, it cannot be that you have forgotten the vows that
we exchanged scarcely two weeks ago. It cannot be that you look upon
the heart that loved you so deeply, so purely, as an idle plaything,
to be thrown away so lightly! No, no, Louise, I have seen often in
your beaming eyes, your eloquent smiles, I have felt in your soft
and tender tones, that you loved me fondly; and now in your pale,
sad face I see that you love me still, and that it is the king who
wishes to separate us. My poor, lovely child, you have been
intimidated; you think that my brother, who reigns supreme over
millions, will yield to no obstacle, that it is vain to resist him.
But you are mistaken, Louise; you have forgotten that I am
Frederick's brother, that the proud, unconquerable blood of the
Hohenzollerns flows also in my veins. Let my brother try to force me
to his purpose; I shall be no weak tool in his hands. You had not
firm confidence in your lover, Louise; you did not know that I would
resign cheerfully rank and all family ties for your sake; you did
not know that I had sworn to marry only the woman I love. This I
must do to satisfy my heart and my honor, and also to show the king
that Prince Henry is a free man. Now tell me, Louise, if I have not
divined all. Is not this the king's cruel work? Ah, you do not
answer, you are silent. I understand--the king has made you swear
not to betray him. Now look at me, Louise; make me a sign with your
hand, tell me with your eyes, and I will comprehend you--I will take
you in my arms and carry you to the altar. My God! Louise do you not
see that I am waiting for this sign?--that you are torturing me?"
Louise raised her head, her heart was melting within her; she forgot
her terror, and was ready to resist God, the king, and the whole
world, to grasp the noble and unselfish love that the prince offered
her. But her glance fell involuntarily upon the curtain, behind
which the king stood, and it seemed to her as if she saw the angry,
burning eyes of Frederick threatening to destroy her. She remembered
her daughter, Fritz Wendel, and the world's mocking laughter, and
was overcome.
"You are still silent," said the prince; "you give me neither sign
nor glance."
Louise felt as if an iron hand was tearing her heart asunder.
"I really am at a loss what more to say or do," she said, in a
careless tone, that made her own heart shudder. "It pleases your
highness to make a jest of what I say. I am innocent, my prince, of
any double meaning. Five weeks have passed since I saw you--I
believed you had forgotten me; I did not reproach you, neither was I
in despair. I soon found that it was stupid and dreary to have my
heart unoccupied, and I sought for and soon found a lover, to whom
my heart became a willing captive. Therefore, when Captain Trouffle
pleaded earnestly for my hand, I had not the courage to say no. This
is my only crime, your highness. I was not cruel to myself; I
received the happiness that was offered. I have been called a
coquette, my prince; it is time to bind myself in marriage bonds,
and show the world that love can make an honest woman of me. Can
your highness blame me for this?"
The prince listened with breathless attention; gradually his
countenance changed, the color faded from his cheeks, the light from
his eyes; a smile was still on his lips, but it was cold and
mocking; his eyes burned with anger and contempt.
"No, madame," he said, with calm, proud indifference, "I do not
blame you--I praise, I congratulate you. Captain du Trouffle is a
most fortunate man--he will possess a most beautiful wife. When will
this happy ceremony be performed?"
Madame von Kleist was unable to reply. She gazed with wild terror
into his cold, iron face--she listened with horror to that voice,
whose mild, soft tone had become suddenly so harsh, so stern.
The prince repeated his question, and his tone was harder and more
imperious.
"The day is not fixed," said Louise; "we must first obtain the
king's consent to our marriage."
"I shall take care it does not fail you," said the prince, quietly.
"I will strengthen your petition to the king. Now, madame, you must
forgive me for leaving you. Many greetings to your betrothed--I
shall be introduced to him to-morrow at the parade. Farewell,
madame!"
The prince made a slight bow, and, without glancing at her again,
left the room slowly and proudly.
Louise gazed after him with mournful eyes, but he did not see it; he
did not see how she fell, as if broken, to the floor, as if struck
by lightning; and when the door closed on him she held her hands to
Heaven pleadingly for mercy and forgiveness.
The portiere now opened, and the king entered; his countenance was
pale, his eyes tearful, but they sparkled with anger when he saw
Louise upon the floor. For him she was but a heartless coquette, and
he was angry with her because of the suffering she had caused his
brother, for whom he felt the deepest pity and compassion.
But that was now past; the brother could weep a tear of pity, the
king must be firm and relentless.
As he approached her, she raised herself from the ground and made a
profound and ceremonious bow.
"You have repaired much of the evil you have done, madame," said the
king, sternly. "You have played a dishonorable game with my brother.
You enticed him to love you."
"I think I have atoned, sire," said Louise, faintly; "the prince no
longer loves but despises me. Your commands are fulfilled to the
letter, and I now beg your majesty's permission to withdraw."
"Go, madame; you have done your duty to-day, and I will also do
mine. I shall not forget what I promised you when you are Madame du
Trouffle. We will forget all the faults of Madame von Kleist."
He dismissed her with a slight bow, and gazed after her until she
had disappeared.
At this moment, a heavy fall was heard in the antechamber. The door
opened immediately, and the pale, disturbed face of Pollnitz
appeared.
"What is the matter, Pollnitz?" asked the king, hastily.
"Oh, sire, poor Prince Henry has fainted."
The king was startled, and stepped quickly to the door, but he
remained standing there until his features resumed their calm
expression.
"He will recover," he said--"he will recover, for he is a man; in my
youthful days I often fainted, but I recovered."
CHAPTER X.
THE CONQUERED.
Painful and bitter were the days for Henry that followed his first
disappointment. He passed them in rigid seclusion, in his lonely
chambers; he would see no one, no cheerful word or gay laughter was
allowed in his presence. The servants looked at him sorrowfully; and
when the prince appeared at the parade the day after his painful
interview with Louise, even the king found him so pale and
suffering, he begged him to take a week's leave and strengthen and
improve his health.
The prince smiled painfully at the king's proposition, but he
accepted his leave of absence, and withdrew to the solitude of his
rooms. His heart was wounded unto death, his soul was agonized.
Youth soon laid its healing balm upon his wounds and closed them;
anger and contempt dried his tears, and soothed the anguish of his
heart.
The king was right when he said of his brother, "He is a man, and
will recover." He did recover, and these days of suffering made a
man of him; his brow, once so clear and youthful, had received its
first mark of sorrow; the lines of his face were harsh and stern,
his features sharper and more decided. He had experienced his first
disappointment--it had nerved and strengthened him.
Before his eight days' leave of absence had expired, his door was
again open to his circle of friends and confidants.
His first invited guest was the grand chamberlain, Baron Pollnitz.
The prince welcomed him with a bright and cheerful face.
"Do you know why I wished to see you?" he asked. "You must tell me
the chronique scandaleuse of our most honorable and virtuous city.
Commence immediately. What is the on dit of the day?"
"Ah," sighed Pollnitz, "life is now stupid, dull, and monotonous. As
you say, every one has become most honorable and virtuous. No
scandals or piquant adventures occur; baptisms, marriages, and
burials are the only events. This is really a miserable existence;
for as I do not wish to be baptized or to marry, and as I am not yet
ready for burial, I really do not know why I exist."
"But those that are married and baptized, doubtless know why they
exist," said the prince, smiling. "Tell me something of this happy
class. Whose, for example, is the latest marriage?"
"The latest marriage?" said Pollnitz, hesitating--"before answering,
I must allow myself to ask after the condition of your heart. Does
it still suffer?"
"No," cried the prince, "it does not suffer; it received a heavy
shower of cold water, and was cured instantly."
"I rejoice to hear it, your highness, and congratulate you on your
recovery, for truly there is no more painful disease than a
suffering heart."
"I told you that I had recovered fully; tell me, therefore, your
news without hesitation. You spoke of a marriage. Who were the happy
lovers?"
"Your highness, Madame von Kleist has married," murmured Pollnitz.
The prince received this blow without betraying the slightest
emotion.
"When did the marriage take place?" he asked, with perfect
composure.
"Yesterday; and I assure your highness that I never saw a happier or
more brilliant bride. Love has transformed her into a blushing,
timid maiden."
Prince Henry pressed his hand upon his heart with a quick,
unconscious movement.
"I can well imagine that she was beautiful," said he, controlling
his voice with a great effort. "Madame von Kleist is happy, and
happiness always beautifies. And the bridegroom, M. du Trouffle, was
he also handsome and happy?"
"Your highness knows the name of the bride-groom," said Pollnitz,
appearing astonished.
"Yes, Madame von Kleist told me herself when she announced her
approaching marriage. But I am not acquainted with Du Trouffle--is
he handsome?"
"Handsome and amiable, your highness, and besides, a very good
officer. The king gave him, as a wedding present, a major's
commission."
"Then the beautiful Louise is now Mrs Major du Trouffle," said the
prince, with a troubled smile. "Were you present at the wedding?"
"Yes, in the name of the king."
"Did she speak the decisive Yes, the vow of faith and obedience,
with earnestness and confidence? Did she not blush, or droop her
eyelids in doing so?"
"Oh, no; she smiled as if entranced, and raised her eyes to heaven,
as if praying for God's blessing upon her vows."
"One thing more," said the prince, fixing his large, gray eyes with
a searching expression upon Pollnitz--"what is said of me? Am I
regarded as a rejected lover, or as a faithless one; for doubtless
all Berlin knows of my love for this lady, you having been our
confidant."
"Oh, my prince, that is a hard insinuation," said Pollnitz, sadly.
"Your highness cannot really believe that--"
"No protestations, I pray you," interrupted the prince, "I believe I
know you thoroughly, but I am not angry with you nor do I reproach
you: you are a courtier, and one of the best and rarest type; you
have intellect and knowledge, much experience and savoir vivre; I
could desire no better company than yourself; but for one moment
cast aside your character as a courtier, and tell me the truth: what
does the world say of this marriage in regard to me?"
"Your highness desires me to tell you the truth?"
"Yes, I do."
"Now the important moment has come," thought Pollnitz. "Now, if I am
adroit, I believe I can obtain the payment of my debts."
"Well, then, your highness," said Pollnitz, in answer to the prince,
"I will tell you the truth, even should I incur your displeasure. I
fear, my prince, you are regarded as a rejected lover, and Madame du
Trouffle has succeeded in throwing a holy lustre around her
beautiful brow. It is said that she refused your dishonorable
proposals, and preferred being the virtuous wife of a major, to
becoming the mistress of a prince."
"Go on," said the prince, hastily, as Pollnitz ceased, and looked
searchingly at him. "What do they say of me?"
"That you are in despair, and that you have retired to your chambers
to weep and mourn over your lost love."
"Ah, they say that, do they?" cried the prince, with flashing eyes
and darkened brow; "well, I will show this credulous world that they
are mistaken. Is the king in Sans-Souci?"
"Yes, your highness."
"Well, go to him, and announce my visit; I will follow you on foot."
"We have won the day," cried Pollnitz, as he approached the king;
"the prince desires to make you a visit. He will be here
immediately."
"Do you know what my brother wishes of me?" asked the king.
"I do not know, but I suspect, sire. I think he wishes to marry, in
order to pique his faithless sweetheart."
"Go and receive the prince, and conduct him to me; then remain in
the antechamber, and await until I call."
When Pollnitz left, the king seized his flute hastily aim began to
play a soft, melting adagio. He was still playing, when the door
opened, and the prince was announced. Henry stood in the doorway,
and made the king a ceremonious bow. The king continued to play. The
low, pleading notes of the flute floated softly through the room;
they touched the heart of the prince, and quieted its wild, stormy
beating.
Was that the king's intention, or did he intend to harmonize his own
spirit before speaking to his brother? Perhaps both, for Frederick's
glance softened, and his face assumed a kind and mild expression.
When the adagio was finished, the king laid his flute aside and
approached the prince.
"Forgive me, brother," he said, offering his hand--"forgive me for
keeping you waiting, I always like to conclude what I commence. Now,
I am entirely at your service, and as I am unfortunately not
accustomed to receive such friendly visits from you, I must ask you
what brings you to me, and how I can serve you?"
The fierce, violent nature of the prince slumbered but lightly. The
king's words aroused it, and made his pulse and heart beat stormily.
"How you can serve me, my brother?" he said, hastily. "I will tell
you, and truthfully, sire."
The king raised his head, and glanced angrily at the burning face of
the prince.
"I am not accustomed to have my words repeated, and all find that
out here to their cost," he said, sternly.
"Have the goodness, then, to tell me why you have pursued me so long
and unrelentingly? What have I done to deserve your displeasure and
such bitter humiliations?"
"Rather ask me what you have done to deserve my love and
confidence," said the king, sternly. "I refer you to your own heart
for an answer."
"Ah, your majesty promised to answer my questions, and now you evade
them, but I will reply frankly. I have done nothing to deserve your
love, but also nothing to make me unworthy of it. Why are you, who
are so good and kind to all others, so stern and harsh with me?"
"I will tell you the truth," said the king, earnestly. "You have
deserved my displeasure, you have desired to be a free man, to cast
aside the yoke that Providence placed upon you, you had the grand
presumption to dare to be the master of your own actions."
"And does your majesty desire and expect me to resign this most
natural of human rights?" said the prince, angrily.
"Yes, I desire and expect it. I can truthfully say that I have given
my brothers a good example in this particular."
"But you did not do this willingly. You were cruelly forced to
submission, and you now wish to drive us to an extremity you have,
doubtlessly, long since forgotten. Now, you suffered and struggled
before declaring yourself conquered."
"No," said the king, softly, "I have not forgotten. I still feel the
wound in my soul, and at times it burns."
"And yet, my brother?"
"And yet I will have no pity with you. I say to you, as my father
said to me: 'You must submit; you are a prince, and I am your king!'
I have long since acknowledged that my father was right in his
conduct to me. I was not only a disobedient son, but a rebellious
subject. I richly deserved to mount the scaffold with Katte."
"Ah, my brother, there was a time when you wept for this faithful
and unfortunate friend," cried the prince, reproachfully.
"The sons of kings have not the right to choose their own path,
destiny has marked it out for them; they must follow it without
wavering. I neither placed the crown upon my head, nor the yoke upon
your neck. We must bear them patiently, as God and Providence have
ordained, and wear them with grace and dignity. You, my brother,
have acted like a wild horse of the desert--I have drawn the reins
tight, that is all!"
"You have caught, bound, and tamed me," said the prince, with a
faint smile; "only I feel that the bit still pains, and that my
limbs still tremble. But I am ready to submit, and I came to tell
you so. You desire me to marry, I consent; but I hold you
responsible for the happiness of this marriage. At God's throne, I
will call you to justify yourself, and there we will speak as
equals, as man to man. What right had you to rob me of my most holy
and beautiful possession? What right have you to lay a heavy chain
on heart and hand, that love will not help me to bear? I hold you
responsible for my miserable life, my shattered hopes. Will you
accept these conditions? Do you still wish me to marry?"
"I accept the conditions," said the king, solemnly. "I desire you to
marry."
"I presume your majesty has chosen a bride for me?"
"You are right, mon cher frere. I have selected the Princess
Wilhelmina, daughter of Prince Max, of Hesse-Cassel. She not only
brings you a fortune, but youth, beauty, and amiability."
"I thank you, sire," said the prince, coldly and formally. "I would
marry her if she were ugly, old, and unamiable. But is it allowed me
to add one condition?"
"Speak, my brother, I am listening."
The prince did not answer immediately; he breathed quickly and
heavily, and a glowing red suffused his pale, trembling face.
"Speak, my brother. Name your conditions," said the king.
"Well, then, so be it. My first condition is that I may be allowed
to have a brilliant wedding. I wish to invite not only the entire
court, but a goodly number of Berliners; I desire all Berlin to take
part in my happiness, and to convince every one, by my gay demeanor
and my entertainment, that I joyfully accept my bride, the
princess."
The king's eyes rested sorrowfully upon his brother's countenance.
He fully understood the emotions of his heart, and knew that his
brother wished to wound and humiliate his faithless sweetheart by
his marriage; that Henry only submitted to his wishes because his
proud heart rebelled at the thought of being pitied as a rejected
lover. But he was considerate, and would not let it appear that he
understood him.
"I agree to this first proposition," said the king, after a pause,
"and I hope you will allow me to be present at this beautiful fete,
and convince Berlin that we are in hearty unison. Have you no other
conditions?"
"Yes, one more."
"What is it?"
"That my marriage shall take place, at the latest, in a month."
"You will thus fulfil my particular and personal wish," said the
king, smiling. "I am anxious to have this marriage over, for, after
the gayeties, I wish to leave Berlin. All the arrangements and
contracts are completed, and I think now there is no obstacle in the
way of the marriage. Have you another wish, my brother?"
"No, sire."
"Then allow me to beg you to grant me a favor. I wish to leave a
kind remembrance of this eventful hour in your heart, and I
therefore give you a small memento of the same. Will you accept my
castle of Rheinsberg, with all its surroundings, as a present from
me? Will you grant me this pleasure, my brother?"
The king offered his hand, with a loving smile, to Henry, and
received with apparent pleasure his ardent thanks.
"I chose Rheinsberg," he said, kindly, "not because it is my
favorite palace, and I have passed many pleasant and happy days
there, but because none of my other palaces are so appropriate for a
prince who is discontented with his king. I have made that
experience myself, and I give you Rheinsberg, as my father gave it
to me. Go to Rheinsberg when you are angry with me and the world;
there you can pass the first months of your marriage, and God grant
it may be a happy one!"
The prince answered him with a cold smile, and begged leave to
withdraw, that he might make the necessary preparations for his
wedding. "We will both make our preparations," said the king, as he
bade the prince farewell--"you with your major-domo, and I with
Baron Pollnitz, whom I shall send as ambassador to Cassel."
CHAPTER XI.
THE TRAVELLING MUSICIANS.
The feasts, illuminations, and balls given in honor of the newly-
married couple, Henry and his wife, the Princess Wilhelmina, were at
an end. The prince and his followers had withdrawn to Rheinsberg,
and many were the rumors in Berlin of the brilliant feasts with
which he welcomed his beautiful bride. She was truly lovely, and the
good Berliners, who had received her with such hearty greetings when
she appeared with the prince on the balcony, or showed herself to
the people in an open carriage, declared there could be no happier
couple than the prince and his wife; they declared that the large,
dark eyes of the princess rested upon the prince with inexpressible
tenderness, and that the prince always returned her glance with a
joyous smile. It was therefore decided that the prince was a happy
husband, and the blessings of the Berliners followed the charming
princess to Rheinsberg, where the young couple were to pass their
honeymoon.
While the prince was giving splendid fetes, and seeking distraction,
and hoping to forget his private griefs, or perhaps wishing to
deceive the world as to his real feelings, the king left Sans-Souci,
to commence one of his customary military inspection trips. But he
did not go to Konigsberg, as was supposed; and if Trenck really had
the intention of murdering him during his sojourn there, it was
rendered impossible by the change in the king's plans. Frederick
made a tour in his Rhine provinces. At Cleves he dismissed his
followers, and they returned to Berlin.
The king declared he needed rest, and wished to pass a few days in
undisturbed quiet at the castle of Moyland.
No one accompanied him but Colonel Balby, his intimate friend, and
his cabinet-hussar, Deesen. The king was in an uncommonly good
humor, and his eyes sparkled with delight. After a short rest in his
chamber, he desired to see Colonel Balby.
To his great astonishment, the colonel found him searching through a
trunk, which contained a few articles of clothing little calculated
to arrest the attention of a king.
"Balby," said the king, solemnly, but with a roguish sparkle of the
eye, "I wish to present you this plain brown suit. I owe you a
reward for your hearty friendship and your faithful services. This
is a princely gift. Take it as a mark of my grateful regard. That
you may be convinced, Balby, that I have long been occupied in
preparing this surprise for you, I inform you that these rich
articles were made secretly for you in Berlin, by your tailor; I
packed them myself, and brought them here for you. Accept them,
then, my friend, and wear them in memory of Frederick."
With a solemn bow, the king offered Balby the clothes.
The colonel received this strange present with an astonished and
somewhat confused countenance.
The king laughed merrily. "What," he said, pathetically, "are you
not contented with the favor I have shown you?"
Balby knew by the comic manner of the king that the sombre suit hid
a secret, and he thought it wise to allow the king to take his own
time for explanation.
"Sire," he said, emphatically, "content is not the word to express
my rapture. I am enthusiastic, speechless at this unheard-of favor.
I am filled with profound gratitude to your majesty for having in
vented a new costume for me, whose lovely color will make me appear
like a large coffee-bean, and make all the coffee sisters adore me."
The king was highly amused. "This dress certainly has the power of
enchantment. When Colonel Balby puts on these clothes he will be
invisible, but he shall not undergo this transformation alone. See,
here is another suit, exactly like yours, and this is mine. When I
array myself in it, I am no longer the king of Prussia, but a free,
happy man."
"Ah, you are speaking of a disguise," cried the colonel.
"Yes, we will amuse ourselves by playing the role of common men for
a while, and wander about unnoticed and undisturbed. Are you agreed,
Balby, or do you love your colonel's uniform better than your
freedom?"
"Am I agreed, sire?" cried the colonel; "I am delighted with this
genial thought."
"Then take your dress, friend, and put it on. But stay. Did you
bring your violin with you, as I told you?"
"Yes, sire."
"Well, then, when you are dressed, put your violin in a case, and
with the case under your arm, and a little money in your pocket, go
to the pavilion at the farthest end of the garden; there I will meet
you. Now hasten, friend, we have no time to lose."
According to the king's orders, Colonel Balby dressed and went to
the pavilion. He did not find the king, but two strange men there.
One of them had on a brown coat, the color of his own, ornamented
with large buttons of mother-of-pearl; black pantaloons, and shoes
with large buckles, set with dull white stones; the lace on his
sleeves and vest was very coarse. He wore a three-cornered hat,
without ornament; from under the hat fell long, brown, unpowdered
hair.
Behind this stranger there stood another, in plain, simple clothes;
under one arm he carried a small bag, and under the other a case
that contained either a yard-stick or a flute. He returned the
colonel's salutation with a grimace and a profound bow. A short
pause ensued, then the supposed strangers laughed heartily and
exclaimed:
"Do you not know us, Balby?"
Their voices started the colonel, and he stepped back.
"Sire, it is yourself."
"Yes, it is I, Frederick--not the king. Yes, I am Frederick, and
this capital servant is my good Deesen, who has sworn solemnly not
to betray our incognito, and to give no one reason to suspect his
high dignity as royal cabinet-hussar. For love of us he will, for a
few days, be the servant of two simple, untitled musicians, who are
travelling around the world, seeking their fortunes, but who,
unfortunately, have no letters of recommendation."
"But who will recommend themselves by their talents and
accomplishments."
The king laughed aloud. "Balby, you forget that you are a poor
musician, chatting with your comrade. Truly your courtly bow suits
your dress as little as a lace veil would a beggar's attire; you
must lay your fine manners aside for a short time, for, with them,
you would appear to the village beauties we may meet like a monkey,
and they would laugh at instead of kissing you."
"So we are to meet country beauties," said Colonel Balby, no longer
able to suppress his curiosity. "Tell me, sire, where are we going,
and what are we going to do? I shall die of curiosity."
"Make an effort to die," said the king, gayly; "you will find it is
not so easy to do as you imagine. But I will torture you no longer.
You ask what we are going to do. Well, we are going to amuse
ourselves and seek adventures. You ask where we are going. Ask that
question of the sparrow that sits on the house-top--ask where it is
going, and what is the aim of its journey. It will reply, the next
bush, the nearest tree, the topmost bough of a weeping willow, which
stands on a lonely grave; the mast of a ship, sailing on the wide
sea; or the branch of a noble beech, waving before the window of a
beautiful maiden. I am as incapable of telling you the exact aim and
end of our journey, friend, as that little bird would be. We are as
free as the birds of the air. Come! come! let us fly, for see, the
little sparrow has flown--let us follow it."
And with a beaming smile illuminating his countenance, like a ray of
the morning sun, the king took the arm of his friend, and followed
by his servant and cabinet-hussar, Deesen, left the pavilion.
As they stood at the little gate of the garden, the king said to
Deesen,
"You must be for us the angel with the flaming sword, and open the
gates of paradise, but not to cast us out."
Deesen opened the gate, and our adventurers entered "the wide, wide
world."
"Let us stand here a few moments," said the king, as his glance
rested upon the green fields spread far and wide around him. "How
great and beautiful the world appears to-day! Observe Nature's grand
silence, yet the air is full of a thousand voices, and the white
clouds wandering dreamily in the blue heavens above, are they not
the misty veils with which the gods of Olympus conceal their
charms?"
"Ah! sire," said Balby, with a loving glance at the king's hand some
face--"ah, sire, my eyes have no time to gaze at Nature's charms,
they are occupied with yourself. When I look upon you, I feel that
man is indeed made in the image of God."
"Were I a god, I should not be content to resemble this worn, faded
face. Come, now, let us be off! Give me your instrument, Deesen, I
will carry it. Now I look like a travelling apprentice seeking his
fortune. The world is all before him where to choose his place of
rest, and Providence his guide. I envy him. He is a free man!"
"Truly, these poor apprentices would not believe that a king was
envying them their fate," said Balby, laughing.
"Still they are to be envied," said the king, "for they are free.
No, no, at present I envy no one, the world and its sunshine belong
to me. We will go to Amsterdam, and enjoy the galleries and
museums."
"I thank your majesty," said Balby, laughing, "you have saved my
life. I should have died of curiosity if you had not spoken. Now, I
feel powerful and strong, and can keep pace with your majesty's
wandering steps."
Silently they walked on until they reached a sign-post.
"We are now on the border--let us bid farewell to the Prussian
colors, we see them for the last time. Sire, we will greet them with
reverence."
He took off his hat and bowed lowly before the black and white
colors of Prussia, a greeting that Deesen imitated with the fervor
of a patriot.
The king did not unite in their enthusiasm; he was writing with his
stick upon the ground.
"Come here, Balby, and read this," he said, pointing to the lines he
had traced. "Can you read them?"
"Certainly," said Balby, "the words are, 'majesty' and 'sire.'"
"So they are, friend. I leave these two words on the borders of
Prussia; perhaps on our return we may find and resume them. But as
long as we are on the soil of Holland there must be no majesty, no
sire."
"What, then, must I call my king?"
" You must call him friend, voila tout."
"And I?" asked Deesen, respectfully. "Will your majesty be so
gracious as to tell me your name?"
"I am Mr. Zoller, travelling musician, and should any one ask you
what I want in Amsterdam, tell them I intend giving a concert. En
avant, mes amis. There lies the first small village of Holland, in
an hour we shall be there, and then we will take the stage and go a
little into the interior. En avant, en avant!"
CHAPTER XII.
TRAVELLING ADVENTURES.
The stage stood before the tavern at Grave, and awaited its
passengers. The departure of the stage was an important occurrence
to the inhabitants of the little town--an occurrence that disturbed
the monotony of their lives for a few moments, and showed them at
least now and then a new face, that gave them something to think of,
and made them dream of the far-off city where the envied travellers
were going.
Today all Grave was in commotion and excitement. The strangers had
arrived at the post-house, and after partaking of an excellent
dinner, engaged three seats in the stage. The good people of Grave
hoped to see three strange faces looking out of the stage window;
many were the surmises of their destiny and their possible motives
for travelling. They commenced these investigations while the
strangers were still with them.
A man had seen them enter the city, dusty and exhausted, and he
declared that the glance which the two men in brown coats had cast
at his young wife, who had come to the window at his call, was very
bold--yes, even suspicious, and it seemed very remarkable to him
that such plain, ordinary looking wanderers should have a servant,
for, doubtless, the man walking behind them, carrying the very small
carpet-bag, was their servant; but, truly, he appeared to be a proud
person, and had the haughty bearing of a general or a field-marshal,
he would not even return the friendly greetings of the people he
passed. His masters could not be distinguished or rich, for both of
them carried a case under their arms. What could be in those long
cases, what secret was hidden there? Perhaps they held pistols, and
the good people of Grave would have to deal with robbers or
murderers. The appearance of the strangers was wild and bold enough
to allow of the worst suspicions.
The whole town, as before mentioned, was in commotion, and all were
anxious to see the three strangers, about whom there was certainly
something mysterious. They had the manners and bearing of noblemen,
but were dressed like common men.
A crowd of idlers had assembled before the post-house, whispering
and staring at the windows of the guests' rooms. At last their
curiosity was about to be gratified, at last the servant appeared
with the little carpet-bag, and placed it in the stage, and returned
for the two cases, whose contents they would so greedily have known.
The postilion blew his horn, the moment of departure had arrived.
A murmur was heard through the crowd, the strangers appeared, they
approached the stage, and with such haughty and commanding glances
that the men nearest them stepped timidly back.
The postilion sounded his horn again, the strangers were entering
the stage. At the door stood the postmaster, and behind him his
wife, the commanding postmistress.
"Niclas," she whispered, "I must and will know who these strangers
are. Go and demand their passports."
The obedient Niclas stepped out and cried in a thundering voice to
the postilion, who was just about to start, to wait. Stepping to the
stage, he opened the door.
"Your passports, gentlemen," he said, roughly. "You forgot to show
me your passports."
The curious observers breathed more freely, and nodded encouragingly
to the daring postmaster.
"You rejoice," murmured his wife, who was still standing in the
door, from whence she saw all that passed, and seemed to divine the
thoughts of her gaping friends--"you rejoice, but you shall know
nothing. I shall not satisfy your curiosity."
Mr. Niclas still stood at the door of the stage. His demand had not
been attended to; he repeated it for the third time.
"Is it customary here to demand passports of travellers?" asked a
commanding voice from the stage.
Niclas, and taking the two mysterious cases from the stage, he
placed them before the strangers.
"Let us go into the house," whispered the king to his friends. "We
must make bonne mine a mauvais jeu," and he approached the door of
the house--there stood the wife of the postmaster, with sparkling
eyes and a malicious grin.
"The postilion is going, and you will lose your money," she said,
"they never return money when once they have it."
"Ah! I thought that was only a habit of the church," said the king,
laughing. "Nevertheless, the postmaster can keep what he has. Will
you have the kindness to show me a room, where I can open my bag at
leisure, and send some coffee and good wine to us?"
There was something so commanding in the king's voice, so imposing
in his whole appearance, that even the all-conquering Madame Niclas
felt awed, and she silently stepped forward and showed him her best
room. The servant followed with the two cases and the bag, and laid
them upon the table, then placed himself at the door.
"Now, madame, leave us," ordered the king, "and do as I told you."
Madame Niclas left, and the gentlemen were once more alone.
"Now, what shall we do?" said the king, smilingly. "I believe there
is danger of our wonderful trip falling through."
"It is only necessary for your majesty to make yourself known to the
postmaster," said Colonel Balby.
"And if he will not believe me, this fripon who declares that no one
could tell by my appearance whether I was a rascal or not, this
dull-eyed simpleton, who will not see the royal mark upon my brow,
which my courtiers see so plainly written there? No, no, my friend,
that is not the way. We have undertaken to travel as ordinary men--
we must now see how common men get through the world. It is
necessary to show the police that we are at least honest men.
Happily, I believe I have the means to do so at hand. Open our
ominous bag, friend Balby, I think you will discover my portfolio,
and in it a few blank passes, and my state seal."
Colonel Balby did as the king ordered, and drew from the bag the
portfolio, with its precious contents.
The king bade Balby sit down and fill up the blanks at his
dictation.
The pass was drawn up for the two brothers, Frederick and Henry
Zoller, accompanied by their servant, with the intention of
travelling through Holland.
The king placed his signature under this important document.
"Now, it is only necessary to put the state seal under it, and we
shall be free; but how will we get a light?"
"I cannot tell who is a rascal, you may be one for aught I know."
Balby uttered an angry exclamation and stepped nearer to the daring
postmaster, while his servant shook his fist threateningly at
Niclas.
The king dispelled their anger with a single glance.
"Sir," he said to Niclas, "God made my face, and it is not my fault
if it does not please you, but concerning our passports, they are
lying well preserved in my carpet-bag. I should think that would
suffice you."
"No, that does not suffice me," screamed Niclas. "Show me your
passports if I am to believe that you are not vagabonds."
"You dare to call us vagabonds?" cried the king, whose patience now
also appeared exhausted, and whose clear brow was slightly clouded.
"The police consider everyone criminal until he has proved he is not
so," said Niclas, emphatically.
The king's anger was already subdued.
"In the eyes of the police, criminality is then the normal condition
of mankind," he said, smilingly.
"Sir, you have no right to question the police so pointedly," said
Niclas, sternly. "You are here to be questioned, and not to
question."
The king laughingly arrested the uplifted arm of his companion.
"Mon Dieu," he murmured, "do you not see that this is amusing me
highly? Ask, sir, I am ready to answer."
"Have you a pass?"
"Yes, sir."
"Then give it to me to vise."
"To do so, I should have to open my bag, and that would be very
inconvenient, but, if the law absolutely demands it, I will do it."
"The law demands it."
The king motioned to his servant, and ordered him to carry the bag
into the house.
"Why this delay--why this unnecessary loss of time?" asked Niclas.
"The postilion can wait no longer. If he arrives too late at the
next station, he will be fined."
"I will not wait another minute," cried the postilion,
determinately. "get in, or I shall start without you."
"Show me your passports, and then get in," cried Niclas.
The strangers appeared confused and undecided. Niclas looked
triumphantly at his immense crowd of listeners, who were gazing at
him with amazement, awaiting in breathless stillness the unravelling
of this scene.
"Get in, or I shall start," repeated the postilion.
"Give me your passports, or I will not let you go!" screamed "We can
demand them if we wish to do so."
"And why do you wish it now?" said the same voice.
"I wish it simply because I wish it," was the reply.
A stern face now appeared at the door, looking angrily at the
postmaster.
"Think what you say, sir, and be respectful."
"Silence!" interrupted the one who had first spoken. "Do not let us
make an unnecessary disturbance, mon ami. Why do you wish to see our
passports, sir?"
"Why?" asked Niclas, who was proud to play so distinguished a part
before his comrades--"you wish to know why I desire to see your
passports? Well, then, because you appear to me to be suspicious
characters."
A gay laugh was heard from the stage. "Why do you suspect us?"
"Because I never trust people travelling without baggage," was the
laconic reply.
"Bravo! well answered," cried the crowd, and even Madame Niclas was
surprised to see her husband show such daring courage.
"We need no baggage. We are travelling musicians, going to
Amsterdam."
"Travelling musicians All the more reason for mistrusting you; no
good was ever heard of wandering musicians."
"You are becoming impertinent, sir," and Balby, the tallest and
youngest of the two friends, sprang from the stage, while the
servant swung himself from the box, where he was sitting with the
postilion, and with an enraged countenance placed himself beside his
master.
"If you dare to speak another insulting word, you are lost," cried
Balby.
A hand was laid on his shoulder, and a voice murmured in his ear:
"Do not compromise us."
The king now also left the stage, and tried to subdue the anger of
his companion.
"Pardon, sir, the violence of my friend," said the king, with an
ironical smile, as he bowed to the postmaster. "We are not
accustomed to being questioned and suspected in this manner, and I
can assure you that, although we are travelling musicians, as it
pleased you to say, we are honest people, and have played before
kings and queens."
"If you are honest, show me your passports; no honest man travels
without one!"
"It appears to me that no rascal should travel without one," said
the king. "I will obtain one immediately," said Balby, hastening to
the door.
The king held him back. "My brother, you are very innocent and
thoughtless. You forget entirely that we are suspected criminals.
Should we demand a light, and immediately appear with our passes, do
you not believe that this dragon of a postmaster would immediately
think that we had written them ourselves, and put a forged seal
under them?"
"How, then, are we to get a light?" said Balby, confused.
The king thought a moment, then laughed gayly.
"I have found a way," he said; "go down into the dining-room, where
I noticed an eternal lamp burning, not to do honor to the Mother of
God, but to smokers; light your cigar and bring it here. I will
light the sealing-wax by it, and we will have the advantage of
drowning the smell of the wax with the smoke."
Balby flew away, and soon returned with the burning cigar; the king
lit the sealing-wax, and put the seal under the passport.
"This will proclaim us free from all crime. Now, brother Henry, call
the worthy postmaster."
When Niclas received the passport from the king's hand his
countenance cleared, and he made the two gentlemen a graceful bow,
and begged them to excuse the severity that his duty made necessary.
"We have now entirely convinced you that we are honest people," said
the king, smiling, "and you will forgive us that we have so little
baggage."
"Well, I understand," said Mr. Niclas, confusedly, "musicians are
seldom rich, but live from hand to mouth, and must thank God if
their clothes are good and clean. Yours are entirely new, and you
need no baggage."
The king laughed merrily. "Can we now go?" he asked.
"Yes; but how, sir? You doubtlessly heard that the postilion left as
soon as you entered the house."
"Consequently we are without a conveyance; we have paid for our
places for nothing, and must remain in this miserable place," said
the king, impatiently.
Niclas reddened with anger. "Sir, what right have you to call the
town of Grave a miserable place? Believe me, it would be very
difficult for you to become a citizen of this miserable place, for
you must prove that you have means enough to live in a decent
manner, and it appears to me--"
"That we do not possess them," said the king; "vraiment, you are
right, our means are very insufficient, and as the inhabitants of
Grave will not grant us the rights of citizens, it is better for us
to leave immediately. Have, therefore, the goodness to furnish us
with the means of doing so."
"There are two ways, an expensive and a cheap one," said Niclas,
proudly: "extra post, or the drag-boat. The first is for respectable
people, the second for those who have nothing, and are nothing."
"Then the last is for us," said the king, laughing. "Is it not so,
brother Henry?--it is best for us to go in the drag-boat."
"That would be best, brother Frederick."
"Have the kindness to call our servant to take the bag, and you, Mr.
Niclas, please give us a guide to show us to the canal."
The king took his box and approached the door.
"And my coffee, and the wine," asked Mrs. Niclas, just entering with
the drinks.
"We have no time to make use of them, madame," said the king, as he
passed her, to leave the room.
But Madame Niclas held him back.
"No time to make use of them," she cried; "but I had to take time to
make the coffee, and bring the wine from the cellar."
"Mais, mon Dieu, madame," said the impatient king.
"Mais, mon Dieu, monsieur, vous croyez que je travaillerai pour le
roi de Prusse, c'est-a-dire sans paiement."
The king broke out into a hearty laugh, and Balby had to join him,
but much against his will.
"Brother Henry," said the king, laughing, "that is a curious way of
speaking; 'travailler pour le roi de Prusse,' means here to work for
nothing. I beg you to convince this good woman that she has not
worked for the King of Prussia, and pay her well. Madame, I have the
honor to bid you farewell, and be assured it will always cheer me to
think of you, and to recall your charming speech."
The king laughingly took his friend's arm, and nodded kindly to
Madame Niclas as he went down the steps.
"I tell you what," said Madame Niclas, as she stood at the door with
her husband, watching the departing strangers, who, in company with
the guide and their servant, were walking down the street that led
to the canal--"I tell you I do not trust those strangers, the little
one in particular; he had a very suspicious look."
"But his passport was all right."
"But, nevertheless, all is not right with them. These strangers are
disguised princes or robbers, I am fully convinced."
CHAPTER XIII.
THE DRAG-BOAT.
What a crowd, what noise, what laughing and chatting! How bright and
happy these people are who have nothing and are nothing! How gayly
they laugh and talk together--with what stoical equanimity they
regard the slow motion of the boat! They accept it as an unalterable
necessity. How kindly they assist each other; with what natural
politeness the men leave the best seats for the women!
The boat is very much crowded. There are a great number of those
amiable people who are nothing, and have nothing, moving from place
to place cheerily.
The men on the shore who, with the aid of ropes, are pulling the
boat, those two-legged horses, groan from exertion. The bagpipe
player is making his gayest music, but in vain--he cannot allure the
young people to dance; there is no place for dancing, the large deck
of the boat is covered with human beings. Old men, and even women,
are obliged to stand; the two long benches running down both sides
of the boat are filled.
The king enjoyed the scene immensely. The free life about him, the
entire indifference to his own person, charmed and delighted him. He
leaned against the cabin, by which he was sitting, and regarded the
crowd before him. Suddenly he was touched on the shoulder, and not
in the gentlest manner. Looking up, he met the discontented face of
a peasant, who was speaking violently, but in Dutch, and the king
did not understand him; he therefore slightly shrugged his shoulders
and remained quiet.
The angry peasant continued to gesticulate, and pointed excitedly at
the ting and then at a pale young woman who was standing before him,
and held two children in her arms.
The king still shrugged his shoulders silently, but when the peasant
grasped him for the second time he waved him off, and his eye was so
stern that the terrified and astonished peasant stepped back
involuntarily.
At this moment a displeased murmur was heard among the crowd, and a
number arranged themselves by the side of the peasant, who
approached the king with a determined countenance.
The king remained sitting, and looked surprised at the threatening
countenances of the people, whose angry words he tried in vain to
comprehend.
The still increasing crowd was suddenly separated by two strong
arms, and Balby, who had been sitting at the other end of the boat,
now approached the king, accompanied by a friend, and placed himself
at the king's side.
"Tell me what these men want, mon ami," said Frederick, hastily; "I
do not understand Dutch."
"I understand it, sir," said the friend who accompanied Balby,
"these people are reproaching you."
"Reproaching me! And why?"
The stranger turned to the peasant who had first spoken, and who now
began to make himself heard again in loud and angry tones.
"Monsieur," said the stranger, "these good people are angry with
you, and, it appears to me, not entirely without cause. There is a
language that is understood without words, its vocabulary is in the
heart. Here stands a poor, sick woman, with her twins in her arms.
You, monsieur, are the only man seated. These good people think it
would be but proper for you to resign your seat."
"This is unheard-of insolence," exclaimed Balby, placing him self
determinedly before the king; "let any one dare advance a step
farther, and I--"
"Quiet, cher frere, the people are right, and I am ashamed of myself
that I did not understand them at once."
He rose and passed through the crowd with a calm, kindly face, and,
not appearing to notice them, approached the young woman, who was
kneeling, exhausted, on the floor. With a kind, sympathetic smile,
he raised her and led her to his seat. There was something so noble
and winning in his manner, that those who were so shortly before
indignant, were unconsciously touched. A murmur of approval was
heard; the rough faces beamed with friendly smiles.
The king did not observe this, he was still occupied with the poor
woman, and, while appearing to play with the children, gave each of
them a gold piece. But their little hands were not accustomed to
carry such treasures, and could not hold them securely. The two gold
pieces rolled to the ground, and the ringing noise announced the
rich gift of Frederick. Loud cries of delight were heard, and the
men waved their hats in the air. The king reddened, and looked down
in confusion.
The peasant, who had first been so violent toward the king, and at
whose feet the money had fallen, picked it up and gave it to the
children; then, with a loud laugh, he offered his big, rough hand to
the king, and said something in a kindly tone.
"The good man is thanking you, sir, "said the stranger "He thinks
you a clever, good-hearted fellow, and begs you to excuse his
uncalled-for violence."
The king answered with a silent bow. He who was accustomed to
receive the world's approval as his just tribute, was confused and
ashamed at the applause of these poor people.
The king was right in saying he left his royalty on Prussian soil;
he really was embarrassed at this publicity, and was glad when
Deesen announced that lunch was prepared for him. He gave Balby a
nod to follow, and withdrew into the cabin.
"Truly, if every-day life had so many adventures, I do not
understand how any one can complain of ennui. Through what varied
scenes I have passed to-day!"
"But our adventures arise from the peculiarity of our situation,"
said Balby. "All these little contretemps are annoying and
disagreeable; but seem only amusing to a king in disguise."
"But a disguised king learns many things," said Frederick, smiling;
"from to-day, I shall be no longer surprised to hear the police
called a hateful institution. Vraiment, its authority and power is
vexatious, but necessary. Never speak again of my god-like
countenance, or the seal of greatness which the Creator has put upon
the brow of princes to distinguish them from the rest of mankind.
Mons. Niclas saw nothing great stamped upon my brow; to him I had
the face of a criminal--my passport only made an honest man of me.
Come, friends, let us refresh ourselves."
While eating, the king chatted pleasantly with Balby of the charming
adventures of the day.
"Truly," he said, laughing, as the details of the scene on deck were
discussed, "without the interference of that learned Dutchman, the
King of Prussia would have been in dangerous and close contact with
the respectable peasant. Ah, I did not even thank my protecting
angel. Did you speak to him, brother Henry? Where is he from, and
what is his name?"
"I do not know, sir; but from his speech and manner he appeared to
me to be an amiable and cultivated gentleman."
"Go and invite him to take a piece of pie with us. Tell him Mr.
Zoller wishes to thank him for his assistance, and begs the honor of
his acquaintance. You see, my friend, I am learning how to be
polite, to flatter, and conciliate, as becomes a poor travelling
musician. I beg you, choose your words well. Be civil, or he might
refuse to come, and I thirst for company."
Balby returned in a few moments, with the stranger.
"Here, my friend," said Balby. "I bring you our deliverer in time of
need. He will gladly take his share of the pie."
"And he richly deserves it," said the king, as he greeted the
stranger politely. "Truly, monsieur, I am very much indebted to you,
and this piece of pie that I have the honor to offer you is but a
poor reward for your services. I believe I never saw larger fists
than that terrible peasant's; a closer acquaintance with them would
have been very disagreeable. I thank you for preventing it."
"Travellers make a variety of acquaintances," said the stranger,
laughing, and seating himself on the bench by the king's side, with
a familiarity that terrified Balby. "I count you, sir, among the
agreeable ones, and I thank you for this privilege."
"I hope you will make the acquaintance of this pie, and find it
agreeable," said the king. "Eat, monsieur, and let us chat in the
mean while--Henry, why are you standing there so grave and
respectful, not daring to be seated? I do not believe this gentleman
to be a prince travelling incognito."
"No, sir, take your place," exclaimed the stranger, laughing, "you
will not offend etiquette. I give you my word that I am no concealed
prince, and no worshipper of princes. I am proud to declare this."
"Ah! you are proud not to be a prince?"
"Certainly, sir."
"It appears to me," said Balby, looking at the king, "that a prince
has a great and enviable position."
"But a position, unfortunately, that but few princes know how to
fill worthily," said the king, smiling. "Every man who is sufficient
for himself is to be envied."
"You speak my thoughts exactly, sir," said the stranger, who had
commenced eating his piece of pie with great zeal. "Only the free
are happy."
"Are you happy?" asked the king.
"Yes, sir; at least for the moment I am."
"What countryman are you?"
"I am a Swiss, sir."
"A worthy and respectable people. From what part of Switzerland do
you come?"
"From the little town of Merges."
"Not far, then, from Lausanne, and the lonely lake of Geneva, not
far from Ferney, where the great Voltaire resides, and from whence
he darts his scorching, lightning-flashes to-day upon those whom he
blessed yesterday. Are you satisfied with your government? Are not
your patrician families a little too proud? Are not even the
citizens of Berne arrogant and imperious?"
"We have to complain of them, sir, but very rarely."
"Are you now residing in Holland?"
"No, I am travelling," answered the stranger, shortly. He had held
for a long time a piece of pie on his fork, trying in vain to put it
in his mouth.
The king had not observed this; he had forgotten that kings and
princes only have the right to carry on a conversation wholly with
questions, and that it did not become Mr. Zoller to be so
inquisitive.
"What brought you here?" he asked, hastily.
"To complete my studies, sir," and, with a clouded brow, the
stranger laid his fork and pie upon his plate.
But the king's questions flowed on in a continued stream.
"Do you propose to remain here?"
"I believe not, or rather I do not yet know," answered the stranger,
with a sarcastic smile, that brought Balby to desperation.
"Are not the various forms of government of Switzerland somewhat
confusing in a political point of view?"
"No, for all know that the cantons are free, as they should be."
"Does that not lead to skepticism and indifference?"
The stranger's patience was exhausted; without answering the king,
he pushed back his plate and arose from the table.
"Sir, allow me to say that, in consideration of a piece of pie,
which you will not even give me time to eat, you ask too many
questions."
"You are right, and I beg your pardon," said the king, as he
smilingly nodded at Balby to remain quiet. "We travel to improve
ourselves, but you have just cause of complaint. I will give you
time to eat your piece of pie. Eat, therefore, monsieur, and when
you have finished, if it is agreeable, we will chat awhile longer."
When the stranger arose to depart, after an animated and interesting
conversation, the king offered him his hand.
"Give me your address," he said, "that is, I beg of you to do so.
You say you have not yet chosen a profession; perhaps I may have the
opportunity of being useful to you."
The Swiss gave him his card, with many thanks, and returned to the
deck.
The king gazed thoughtfully after him.
"That man pleases me, and when I am no longer a poor musician, I
shall call him to my side.--Well, brother Henry, what do you think
of this man, who, as I see, is named Mr. Le Catt?"
"I find him rather curt," said Balby, "and he appears to be a great
republican."
"You mean because he hates princes, and was somewhat rude to me.
Concerning the first, you must excuse it in a republican, and I
confess that were I in his place I would probably do the same as to
the last, he was right to give Mr. Zoller a lesson in manners. Poor
Zoller is not yet acquainted with the customs of the common world,
and makes all manner of mistakes against bon ton. I believe to-day
is not the first time he has been reproved for want of manners."
"Mr. Zoller is every inch a king," said Balby, laughing.
[NOTE.--The king's conversation with Mr. Le Catt is historical (see
Thiebault, vol. 1., p. 218). The king did not forget his travelling
adventure, but on his return to Prussia, called Le Catt to court and
gave him the position of lecturer, and for twenty years he enjoyed
the favor and confidence of the king.]
CHAPTER XIV
IN AMSTERDAM.
Wearied, indeed utterly exhausted, the king and Balby returned to
the hotel of the Black Raven, at that time the most celebrated in
Amsterdam. They had been wandering about the entire day, examining
with never-ceasing interest and delight the treasures of art which
the rich patricians of Amsterdam had collected in their princely
homes and the public museums. No one supposed that this small man in
the brown coat, with dusty shoes and coarse, unadorned hat, could be
a king--a king whose fame resounded throughout the whole of Europe.
Frederick had enjoyed the great happiness of pursuing his journey
and his studies unnoticed and unknown. He had many amusing and
romantic adventures; and the joy of being an independent man, of
which he had heretofore only dreamed, he was now realizing fully.
The king was compelled now to confess that his freedom and manhood
were completely overcome. Hunger had conquered him--hunger! the
earthly enemy of all great ideas and exalted feelings. The king was
hungry! He was obliged to yield to that physical power which even
the rulers of this world must obey, and Balby and himself had
returned to the hotel to eat and refresh themselves.
"Now, friend, see that you order something to rejoice and strengthen
our humanity," said Frederick, stretching himself comfortably upon
the divan. "It is a real pleasure to rue to be hungry and partake of
a good meal--a pleasure which the King of Prussia will often envy
the Messieurs Zoller. To be hungry and to eat is one of life's rare
enjoyments generally denied to kings, and yet," whispered he,
thoughtfully, "our whole life is nothing but a never-ceasing
hungering and thirsting after happiness, content, and rest. The
world alas! gives no repose, no satisfying portion. Brother Henry,
let us eat and be joyful; let us even meditate on a good meal as an
ardent maiden consecrates her thoughts to a love-poem which she will
write in her album in honor of her beloved. Truly there are fools
who in the sublimity of their folly wish to appear indifferent to
such earthly pleasures. declaring that they are necessary evils,
most uncomfortable bodily craving, and nothing more. They are fools
who do not understand that eating and drinking is an art, a science,
the soul of the soul, the compass of thought and feeling. Dear
Balby, order us a costly meal. I wish to be gay and free, light-
minded and merry-hearted to-day. In order to promote this we must,
before all other things, take care of these earthly bodies and not
oppress them with common food."
"We will give them, I hope, the sublimest nourishment which the soil
of Holland produces," said Balby, laughing. "You are not aware, M.
Frederick Zoller, that we are now in a hotel whose hostess is
worshipped, almost glorified, by the good Hollanders."
"And is it this sublime piece of flesh which you propose to place
before me?" said the king, with assumed horror. "Will you satisfy
the soul of my soul with this Holland beauty? I do not share the
enthusiasm of the Hollanders. I shall not worship this woman. I
shall find her coarse, old, and ugly."
"But listen, Zoller. These good Dutchmen worship her not be cause of
her perishable beauty, but because of a famous pie which she alone
in Amsterdam knows how to make."
"Ah, that is better. I begin now to appreciate the Dutchmen, and if
the pie is good, I will worship at the same shrine. Did you not
remark, brother Henry, that while you stood carried away by your
enthusiasm before Rembrandt's picture of the 'Night Watch'--a
picture which it grieves me to say I cannot obtain," sighed the
king--" these proud Hollanders call it one of their national
treasures, and will not sell it--well, did you not see that I was
conversing zealously with three or four of those thick, rubicund,
comfortable looking mynheers? No doubt you thought we were
rapturously discussing the glorious paintings before which we stood,
and for this the good Hollanders were rolling their eyes in ecstasy.
No, sir; no, sir. We spoke of a pie! They recognized me as a
stranger, asked me from whence I came, where we lodged, etc., etc.
And when I mentioned the Black Raven, they went off into ecstatic
raptures over the venison pasty of Madame von Blaken. They then went
on to relate that Madame Blaken was renowned throughout all Holland
because of this venison pasty of which she alone had the recipe, and
which she prepared always alone and with closed doors. Her portrait
is to be seen in all the shop windows, and all the stadtholders dine
once a month in the Black Raven to enjoy this pie. Neither through
prayers nor entreaties, commands, or threatenings, has Madame Blaken
been induced to give up her recipe or even to go to the castle and
prepare the pasty. She declares that this is the richest possession
of the Black Raven, and all who would be so happy as to enjoy it
must partake of it at her table. Balby! Balby! hasten my good
fellow, and command the venison pastry," said Frederick, eagerly.
"Ah! what bliss to lodge in the Black Raven' Waiter, I say! fly to
this exalted woman!"
Balby rushed out to seek the hostess and have himself announced.
Madame Blaken received him in her boudoir, to which she had
withdrawn to rest a little after the labors of the day. These labors
were ever a victory and added to her fame. There was no better table
prepared in Holland than that of the Black Raven. She was in full
toilet, having just left the dinner table where she had presided at
the table d'hote as lady of the house, and received with dignity the
praise of her guests. These encomiums still resounded in her ears,
and she reclined upon the divan and listened to their pleasing echo.
The door opened and the head waiter announced Mr. Zoller. The
countenance of Madame Blaken was dark, and she was upon the point of
declining to receive him, but it was too late; the daring Zoller had
had the boldness to enter just behind the waiter, and he was now
making his most reverential bow to the lady. Madame Blaken returned
this greeting with a slight nod of the head, and she regarded the
stranger in his cheap and simple toilet with a rather contemptuous
smile. She thought to herself that this ordinary man had surely made
a mistake in entering her hotel. Neither his rank, fortune, nor
celebrity could justify his lodging at the Black Raven. She was
resolved to reprove her head waiter for allowing such plain and poor
people to enter the best hotel in Amsterdam.
"Sir," said she, in a cold and cutting tone, "you come without doubt
to excuse your brother and yourself for not having appeared to-day
at my table d'hote. You certainly know that politeness requires that
you should dine in the hotel where you lodge. Do not distress
yourself, however, sir. I do not feel offended now that I have seen
you. I understand fully why you did not dine with me, but sought
your modest meal elsewhere. The table d'hote in the Black Raven is
the most expensive in Amsterdam, and only wealthy people put their
feet under my table and enjoy my dishes."
While she thus spoke, her glance wandered searchingly over Balby,
who did not seem to remark it, or to comprehend her significant
words.
"Madame," said he, "allow me to remark that we have not dined. My
brother, whose will is always mine, prefers taking his dinner in his
own apartment, where he has more quiet comfort and can better enjoy
your rare viands. He never dines at a table d'hote. In every
direction he has heard of your wonderful pie, and I come in his name
to ask that you will be so good as to prepare one for his dinner to-
day,"
Madame Blaken laughed aloud. "Truly said; that is not a bad idea of
your brother's. My pasty is celebrated throughout all Holland, and I
Back to Full Books
|