Old Fritz and the New Era

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OLD FRITZ AND THE NEW ERA

L. MUHLBACH

TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN BY PETER LANGLEY

BOOK I.

OLD FRITZ.

I. The Lonely King

II. Wilhelmine Enke

III. Frederick William

IV. The Drive to Berlin

V. The Oath of Fidelity

VI. The Parade

VII. The Miraculous Elixir

VIII. The Golden Rain

IX. German Literature and the King

BOOK II.

ROSICRUCIANS AND POWERFUL GENIUSES.

X. Goethe in Berlin

XI. The Inner and the Middle Temple

XII. The Jesuit General

XIII. A Pensioned General

XIV. The King's Letter

XV. Hate and Love

XVI. Charles Augustus and Goethe

XVII. Goethe's Visits

XVIII. Farewell to Berlin

BOOK III.

STORM AND PRESSURE.

XIX. The King and the Austrian Diplomat

XX. The King and the Lover

XXI. In Weimar

XXII. The Reading

XXIII. Witchcraft

XXIV. The Purse-Proud Man

XXV. The Elopement

XXVI. Under the Starry Heavens

XXVII. The Sacrifice

BOOK IV.

THE VISIBLES AND THE INVISIBLES.

XXVIII. Old Fritz

XXIX. Cagliostro's Return

XXX. The Triumvirate

XXXI. Future Plans

XXXII. Miracles and Spirits

XXXIII. The Return Home

XXXIV. Behind the Mask

XXXV. The Curse

XXXVI. The King and the Rosicrucians

XXXVII. The Espousals

XXXVIII. Revenge Fulfilled

FOREWORD

I would merely say a few words in justification of the Historical
Romance, in its relation to history. Any one, with no preceding
profound study of history, who takes a few well-known historical
facts as a foundation for an airy castle of romantic invention and
fantastic adventure, may easily write an Historical Romance; for him
history is only the nude manikin which he clothes and adorns
according to his own taste, and to which he gives the place and
position most agreeable to himself. But only the writer who is in
earnest with respect to historical truth, who is not impelled by
levity or conceited presumption, is justified in attempting this
species of composition; thoroughly impressed with the greatness of
his undertaking, he will with modest humility constantly remember
that he has proposed to himself a great and sublime work which,
however, it will be difficult if not impossible for him wholly and
completely to accomplish.

But what is this great, this sublime end, which the Historical
Romance writer proposes to attain? It is this: to illustrate
history, to popularize it; to bring forth from the silent studio of
the scholar and to expose in the public market of life, for the
common good, the great men and great deeds embalmed in history, and
of which only the studious have hitherto enjoyed the monopoly. Thus,
at least, have I considered the vocation I have chosen, not vainly
or inconsiderately, but with a profound conviction of the greatness
of my undertaking, and with a depressing consciousness that my power
and acquirements may prove inadequate for the attainment of my
proposed end.

But I am also fully conscious of what was and still is my greatest
desire: to give an agreeable and popular form to our national
history, which may attract the attention and affections of our
people, which may open their understandings to the tendencies of
political movements, and connect the facts of history with the
events of actual life.

The severe historian has to do but with accomplished facts; he can
only record and describe, with the strictest regard to truth, that
which has outwardly occurred. He describes the battles of peoples,
the struggles of nations, the great deeds of heroes, the actions of
princes--in short, he gives the accomplished facts. To investigate
and explain the secret motives, the hidden causes of these facts, to
present them in connection with all that impelled to them, this is
the task of Historical Romance.

The historian presents to you the outward face, the external form of
history; Historical Romance would show you the heart of history, and
thus bring near to your heart what, else, would stand so far off. To
enable him to do this, the writer of an Historical Romance must,
indeed, make severe and various studies. He must devote his whole
mind and soul to the epoch he would illustrate, he must live in it
and feel with it. He must so familiarize himself with all the
details, as in a manner to become a child of that epoch; for he can
present a really living image of only that which is living in
himself. That this requires a deep and earnest study of history is
self-evident. Historical Romance demands the study of the historian,
together with the creative imagination of the poet. For the free
embodiment of the poet can blossom only from out the studio of the
historian, as the flower from the seed; as, by a reciprocal organic
action, the hyacinth is derived from the onion, and the rose from
its seed-capsule, so are history and poetry combined in the
Historical Romance, giving and receiving life to and from each
other.

The Historical Romance has its great task and its great
justification--a truth disputed by only those who either have not
understood or will not understand its nature.

The Historical Romance has, if I may be allowed so to speak, four
several objects for which to strive:

Its first object is, to throw light upon the dark places of history,
necessarily left unclear by the historian. Poetry has the right and
duty of setting facts in a clear light, and of illuminating the
darkness by its sunny beams. The poetry of the romance writer seeks
to deduce historical characteristics from historical facts, and to
draw from the spirit of history an elucidation of historical
characters, so that the writer may be able to detect their inmost
thoughts and feelings, and in just and sharp traits to communicate
them to others.

The second task of Historical Romance is, to group historical
characters according to their internal natures, and thus to
elucidate and illustrate history. This illustration then leads to
the third task, which is the discovery and exposition of the motives
which impel individual historical personages to the performance of
great historical acts, and from outwardly, apparently insignificant
events in their lives to deduce their inmost thoughts and natures,
and represent them clearly to others.

Thence follows the fourth task: the illustration of historical facts
by a romance constructed in the spirit of the history. This fourth
and principal task is the presentation of history in a dramatic form
and with animated descriptions; upon the foundation of history to
erect the temple of poesy, which must nevertheless be pervaded and
illuminated by historic truth. From this it naturally follows that
it is of very little consequence whether the personages of the
Historical Romance actually spoke the words or performed the acts
attributed to them; it is only necessary that those words and deeds
should be in accordance with the spirit and character of such
historical personages, and that the writer should not attribute to
them what they could not have spoken or done. In the Historical
Romance, when circumstances or events are presented in accordance
with historical tradition, when the characters are naturally
described, they bear with them their own justification, and
Historical Romance has need of no further defence.

Historical Romance should be nothing but an illustration of history.
If the drawing, grouping, coloring, and style of such an
illustration of any given historical epoch are admitted to be true,
then the illustration rises to the elevation of a work of art,
worthy of a place beside the historical picture, and is equally
useful.

Raphael's "School of Athens," his "Institution of the Communion,"
and many others of his pictures, are such illustrations of history--
as also the great paintings of Rubens from the life of Anna dei
Medici; and then the historical pictures of Horace Vernet, of
Delaroche, of Lessing, and of Kaulbach--all these are illustrations
of history. What those artists present and illustrate with paint and
pencil, the Historical Romancer represents in words with his pen;
and when he does this successfully, he will live in the memory of
his reader as imperishably as the great historical pictures of the
painters in the memory of their beholders.

It would occur to no one to accuse a successful historical picture
of falsehood, because the books of history do not show that the
occurrence took place precisely in the manner represented, that the
historical personages really so laughed or wept, or so deported
themselves. If the situation and grouping of historical events are
allowed to be in accordance with the general tenor of history, then
the picture may be pronounced historically true, and is just as good
a piece of history as the record of the special historian. It is the
same with the pictures of the romancer as with those of the painter;
and this is my answer to those who, on every occasion, are
continually asking: "Was it really thus? Did it really occur in that
manner?"

Show me from history that it could not be so; that it is not in
accordance with the character of the persons represented--then I
will confess that I am wrong, and you are right; then have I not
presented an illustration, but only a caricature of history, faulty
as a work of art, and wanting the dignity of truth.

I am conscious of having earnestly and devotedly striven for the
truth, and of having diligently sought it in all attainable
historical works. The author of an Historical Romance has before him
a difficult task: while he must falsify nothing in history, he must
poetize it in a manner that both historical and poetic truth shall
be the result. To those, however, who so very severely judge
Historical Romance, and would deny its historical worth, I now, in
conclusion, answer with the following significant quotation from
Schiller:

"I shall always prove a bad resource for any future historian who
may have the misfortune to recur to me. History is generally only a
magazine for my fantasy, and objects must be contented with whatever
they may become under my hand."--(See Weisnar's "Musenhof," p. 93.)

This declaration of Schiller satisfies me with respect to the nature
of my own creations. I desire not to be a resource for historical
writers, but I shall always earnestly and zealously seek to draw
from the wells of history, that nothing false or unreal may find a
place in the "magazine of my fantasy."

CLARA MUNDT,

(L. MUEHLBACH. )

BERLIN, September 22, 1866.

OLD FRITZ AND THE NEW ERA.

BOOK I.

OLD FRITZ.

CHAPTER I.

THE LONELY KING.

"Well, so let it be!" said the king, sighing, as he rose from his
arm-chair; "I must go forth to the strife, and these old limbs must
again submit to the fatigue of war. But what matters it? The life of
princes is passed in the fulfilment of duties and responsibilities,
and rarely is it gladdened with the sunny rays of joy and peace! Let
us submit!

"Yes, let us submit!" repeated the king, thoughtfully, slowly pacing
his cabinet back and forth, his hands folded upon his staff behind
him, and his favorite dog, Alkmene, sleepily following him.

It was a melancholy picture to see this bowed-down old man; his
thin, pale face shaded by a worn-out, three-cornered hat, his dirty
uniform strewn with snuff; and his meagre legs encased in high-
topped, unpolished boots; his only companion a greyhound, old and
joyless as his master. Neither the bust of Voltaire, with its
beaming, intelligent face, nor those of his friends, Lord-Marshal
Keith and the Marquis d'Argens, could win an affectionate glance
from the lonely old king. He whom Europe distinguished as the Great
Frederick, whom his subjects called their "father and benefactor,"
whose name was worthy to shine among the brightest stars of heaven,
his pale, thin lips just murmured, "Resignation!"

With downcast eyes he paced his cabinet, murmuring, "Let us submit!"
He would not look up to those who were gazing down upon him from the
walls--to those who were no more. The remembrance of them unnerved
him, and filled his heart with grief. The experiences of life, and
the ingratitude of men, had left many a scar upon this royal heart,
but had never hardened it; it was still overflowing with tender
sympathy and cherished memories. To Lord-Marshal Keith, Marquis
d'Argens, and Voltaire, Frederick owed the happiest years of his
life.

D'Argens, who passionately loved Frederick, had been dead five
years; Lord-Marshal Keith one month; and Voltaire was dying! This
intelligence the king had received that very morning, from his Paris
correspondent, Grimm. It was this that filled his heart with
mourning. The face, that smiled so full of intelligence, was perhaps
distorted with agony, and those beaming eyes were now closing in
death!

Voltaire was dying!

Frederick's thoughts were with the dead and dying--with the past! He
recalled, when crown prince at Rheinsberg, how much he had admired,
loved, and distinguished Voltaire; how he rejoiced, and how honored
he felt, when, as a young king, Voltaire yielded to his request to
live with him at Berlin. This intimacy, it is true, did not long
continue; the king was forced to recognize, with bitter regret, that
the MAN Voltaire was not worthy the love which he bestowed upon the
POET. He renounced the MAN, but the poet was still his admiration;
and all the perfidy, slander and malice of Voltaire, had never
changed Frederick. The remembrance of it had long since faded from
his noble heart--only the memory of the poet, of the author of so
many hours of the purest enjoyment, remained.

Voltaire was dying!

This great and powerful spirit, who so long a time, in the natural
body, had instructed, inspired, and refreshed mankind, would leave
that body to rise--whither?

"Immortality, what art thou?" asked the king, aloud, and for the
first time raising his eyes with an inquiring glance to the busts of
his friends. "I have sought for thee, I have toiled for thee, my
whole life long! Neither the researches of the learned, nor the
subtleties of philosophy reveal thee to me. Is there any other
immortality than fame? Any other eternal life than that which the
memory of succeeding generations grants to the dead?" In this tone
of thought Frederick recited, audibly, the conclusion of a poem,
which he had addressed to D'Alembert:

"I have consecrated my days to philosophy, I admit all the innocent
pleasures of life; And knowing that soon my course will finish, I
enjoy the present with fear of the future. What is there to fear
after death? If the body and the mind suffer the same fate, I shall
return and mingle with nature; If a remnant of my intellectual fire
escapes death, I will flee to the arms of my God." [Footnote:
Posthumous works, vol. vii., p.88.]

"And may this soon be granted me!" continued the king; "then I shall
be reunited to those loved ones--gone before. I must be content to
tarry awhile in this earthly vale of sorrow, and finish the task
assigned me by the Great Teacher; therefore, let us submit."

He sighed; pacing to and fro, his steps were arrested at a side-
table, where lay a long black velvet box; it contained the flute
that his beloved teacher, Quantz, had made for him. Frederick had
always kept it in his cabinet as a memento of his lost friend; as
this room he had devoted to a temple of Memory--of the past!

"Another of the joys, another of the stars of my life vanished!"
murmured the king. "My charming concerts are at an end! Quantz,
Brenda, and my glorious Graun are no more. While they are listening
to the heavenly choir, I must be content with the miserable, idle
chatter of men; the thunder of battle deafening my ears, to which
that mad, ambitious Emperor of Austria hopes to force me!"

As the king thus soliloquized, he involuntarily drew from the box
the beautiful ebony flute, exquisitely ornamented with silver. A
smile played around his delicate mouth. He raised the flute to his
lips, and a melancholy strain floated through the stillness--the
king's requiem to the dead, his farewell to the dying!

No sound of the outer world penetrated that lonely room. The guard
of honor, on duty upon the Sans-Souci terrace, halted suddenly, as
the sad music fell upon his ear. The fresh spring breeze swept
through the trees, and drove the laden-blossomed elder-bushes
tapping against the windowpanes, as if to offer a May-greeting to
the lonely king. The servant in waiting stole on tiptoe to the door
of the anteroom, listening breathlessly at the key-hole to the
moving melody.

Even Alkmene suddenly raised her head as if something unusual were
taking place, fixed her great eyes upon her master, jumping upon his
knee, and resting her fore-paws lovingly upon his breast.

Frederick neither observed nor felt the movement of his favorite;
his thoughts were absent from the present--absent from the earth!
They were wandering in the unknown future, with the spirits of those
he longed to see again in the Elysian fields.

The wailing music of his flute expressed the lamentation of his
soul, and his eyes filled with tears as he raised them to the bust
of Voltaire, gazing at it with a look of pain until the melody was
finished. Then abruptly turning, half unwillingly, half angrily, he
returned the flute to the box, and stole away, covering his face
with his hands, as if to hide his emotion from himself.

"Now we have finished with the dead, and the living claim our
thoughts," sighed the king. "What an absurd thing is the human
heart! It will never grow cold or old; always pretending to a spark
of the fire which that shameful fellow Prometheus stole from the
gods. What an absurdity! What have I, an old fellow, to do with the
fire of Prometheus, when the fire of war will soon rage around me,"
At this instant the door gently opened. "What do you want, Muller?
What do you poke your stupid face in here for?" said the king.

"Pardon me, your majesty," replied the footman, "the Baron von Arnim
begs for an audience."

"Bid him enter," commanded the king, sinking back in his old, faded
velvet arm-chair. Resting his chin upon his staff, he signed to the
baron, who stood bowing upon the threshold, to approach. "Well,
Arnim, what is the matter? What papers have you there?"

"Sire," answered Baron von Arnim, "the contract of the French
actors, which needs renewing, I have to lay before your majesty;
also a paper, received yesterday, from Madame Mara; still another
from the singer Conciliani, and a petition from four persons from
the opera."

"What stupid stuff!" growled the king, at the same time bestowing a
caress upon Alkmene. "Commence with your report. Let us hear what
those singers are now asking for."

"The singer Conciliani has addressed a heart-breaking letter to your
majesty, and prays for an increase of salary--that it is impossible
for him to live upon three thousand dollars."

"Ah! that is what is wanted?" cried the king, furious, and striking
his staff upon the floor. "The fellow is mad; When he cannot live
upon three thousand, he will not be able to live upon four. I want
money for cannon. I cannot spend it for such nonsense. I am
surprised, Von Arnim that you repeat such stuff to me."

"Your majesty, it is my duty that I--"

"What! Your duty is not to flatter them. I pay them to give me
pleasure, not presumption. Remember, once for all, do not flatter
them. Conciliani will get no increase of salary. If he persists, let
him go to the mischief! This is my decision.--Proceed! What is
Madame Mara begging for?"

"Madame Mara constantly refuses to sing the airs which your majesty
commanded to be introduced into the opera of 'Coriolanus.' She has
taken the liberty to address you in writing; here is the letter, if
your majesty will have the grace to read it."

"By no means, sir, by no means!" cried the king; at the same instant
catching the paper with his staff, he slung it like a shot arrow to
the farthest corner of the room, to the great amusement of Alkmene,
who, with a loud bark, sprang from her master's knee, and with a
bound caught the strange bird, and tore it in pieces. "You are
right, my pet," said the king, laughing, "you have written my answer
with your nose to this arrogant person. Director, say to Madame Mara
that I pay her to sing, not to write. She must sing both airs, or
she may find herself at Spandau for her obstinacy, where her husband
is, for the same reason. She can reflect, and judge for herself."

The director could scarcely repress a sigh, foreboding the
disagreeable scene that he would have to encounter with the proud
and passionate singer. Timidly Von Arnim alluded to the four persons
from the opera. "Who are these demoiselles, and what do they want?"
asked the king.

"Sire," replied the Baron von Arnim, "they are the four persons who
personate the role of court ladies and maids of honor to the queens
and princesses. They beg your majesty to secure to them a fixed
income."

"Indeed! Go to my writing-table and bring paper and pencil; I will
dictate a reply to them," said the king. "Now write, Von Arnim: 'To
the four court ladies and maids of honor of the opera: You are
mistaken in addressing yourselves to me; the affair of your salaries
concerns YOUR emperors and kings. To them you must address
yourselves.--Adieu.'"

Von Arnim could scarcely repress a smile.

"Now we come to the last affair--the salaries and pensions of the
French actors," said the king; "but first tell me the news in
Berlin--what report has trumpeted forth in the last few days."

"Your majesty, the latest news in Berlin, which rumor brings home to
every hearth-side and every heart is, that your majesty has declared
war with Austria on account of the Bavarian succession. Every one
rejoices, sire, that you will humble that proud and supercilious
house of Austria, and enter the lists for Germany."

"Listen!" answered the king, sternly. "I did not ask you to blow the
trumpet of praise, as if your honor, inspector of the theatres,
thought yourself upon the stage, and would commence a comedy with
the king of lamps. So it is known then that my soldiers will enter
the great theatre of war, and that we are about to fight real
battles."

"It is known, sire," replied Von Arnim, bowing.

"Then what I am about to communicate to you will not surprise you.
The present juncture of affairs leads us to await very grave scenes-
-we can well dispense with comedy. I withdraw the salaries and
pensions of the French actors--your own is included. After you have
dismissed the French comedians, you will be entirely at leisure to
pursue your love-intrigues.--Farewell!"

"Your majesty," cried the baron, amazed, "has your highness
dismissed me?"

"Are you deaf, or have you some of the cotton in your ears which I
presented to you at your recall from Copenhagen?" replied the king.
[Footnote: Baron von Arnim was ambassador to Copenhagen until 1754,
when he begged for his recall, stating that the damp climate was
injurious to his health. The king granted his request, and the baron
returned to Berlin. At the first audience with the king, Frederick
handed Baron von Arnim a carefully-packed box, saying, "I do not
wish the government to lose so valuable a servant; in this box you
will find something that will keep you warm." Arnim could scarcely
await his return home, to open the box; it contained nothing but
cotton. Some days afterward, however, the king increased Von Arnim's
income a thousand dollars, and sent him ambassador to Dresden. Von
Arnim was afterward director of the Royal Theatre until dismissed in
the above manner.]

"Sire, I have heard all, but I cannot believe it."

"Yes, yes," interrupted the king, "To believe is difficult; you, I
presume, never belonged to the pious and believing. Your intrigues
would not admit of it; but now you have the leisure to pursue them
with a right good-will. You have only to discharge, as I have said,
the entire French troupe, and the whole thing is done with.--Adieu,
Arnim, may you be prospered!"

Baron von Arnim muttered some incomprehensible words, and retreated
from the royal presence. The door had scarcely closed, when it was
again opened without ceremony by a young man, wearing a gold-laced
dress.

"Your majesty," said he, hastily, in an undertone, "your majesty,
she has just gone to the Palace Park, just the same hour she went
yesterday."

"Is she alone?" asked the king, rising.

"No, she is not alone; at a little distance the nurse follows with
the princely infant!"

The king cast an angry glance at the saucy, laughing face of the
young man, who at once assumed a devoted, earnest mien. "Has your
majesty any further commands?" asked he, timidly.

"I command you to hold your tongue until you are spoken to!" replied
the king, harshly. "You understand spying and hanging about, as you
have good ears, a quick eye, and a keen scent. I therefore make use
of you, because I need a spy; but, understand that a fellow who
allows himself to be used as a spy, is, indeed, a useful subject,
but generally a worthless one, and to whom it is becoming to be
modest and humble. I am now going to Berlin; you will accompany me.
Take off your finery, so that every one may not recognize at once
the peacock by his feathers. Go to the taverns and listen to what
they say about the war; whether the people are much dissatisfied
about it. Keep your great ears wide open, and bring me this evening
all the latest news. Go, now, tell my coachman to be ready; in half
an hour I shall set off."

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