Part 38 (1/2)
”Well, when I found them deaf to the voice of honor, I let them hear the words of cowardly prudence. I painted to them the horrors awaiting them if the enemy perchance should return as conquerors, and what a fearful revenge they would take on the perjured city. I reminded them that the enemy would immediately attack all our property in Courland, Dantzic, and Livonia, and that at the Russian headquarters they had threatened me that they would publish, us in all the open commercial marts as issuers of false bonds.”
”You were then in the Russian camp?”
”A fortnight ago, sire. The Council of Berlin requested me to undertake this journey to complete the transactions left unfinished by the rapid retreat of General von Tottleben.”
”And did you finish them?”
”I was obliged to give General Tottleben a written agreement that I would return in four weeks to the Russian camp to carry out the transactions in the name of these merchants.”
”I have been told that the Russian general would not accept the bonds for the war-tax unless you indorsed them. Is that true, too?”
”It is true.”
”And what did you do?”
”I indorsed them.”
The king's eye lighted up with friends.h.i.+p and kindness. ”D'Argens is right,” said he. ”Cornelius Nepos and Livy would have mentioned you in their writings.” And he paced up and down the room in deep thought.
A long pause ensued. Finally, Gotzkowsky was bold enough to break it.
”And the tax, your majesty, may we pay it?”
The king stopped in front of him. ”The tax shall be paid,” said he curtly; but, as Gotzkowsky was about to break out in loud expressions of grat.i.tude, the king waved him off with his hand. ”That is,” said he, ”I myself will pay it, if it cannot be otherwise. Go back into the Russian camp, as you have promised. Endeavor to get some abatement of the amount, or some other profitable terms; but if you do not succeed, well, I will have to pay this million and a half for Berlin. But in return you must grant me a favor.”
”What, sire? Whatever it may be,” cried Gotzkowsky, ardently, ”I am ready to perform any service for your majesty, even to the sacrifice of my life.”
The king smiled. ”Oh, no! not quite so bad as that, although the service I ask of you is more difficult to most men than dying--I mean _keeping silence_.” And as he laid his hand affectionately on Gotzkowsky's shoulder, he continued: ”Betray to no one what I have said to you, and only at the very last moment, if it is absolutely necessary, take the Council into your confidence.”
”How, sire?” said Gotzkowsky, painfully. ”You wish to deprive your Berlin citizens of the gratification of expressing to you their grat.i.tude, their infinite affection. Berlin may not even know how kind, how gracious your majesty has been to her!”
”I don't like the jingling of words, nor the throwing of wreaths. The very people who throw laurel-wreaths would be only too glad if the laurels were hard enough to break our heads. You pay the contribution, that is to say, you advance it, and I'll return it to you.[4] That's all, and now don't say another word about it.” At the same time, as if fearful that Gotzkowsky might yet venture to act contrary to his wishes, he continued more rapidly: ”Now tell me a little about Berlin, and above all things about our gallery at Sans-Souci. How does it fare?”
”It is finished, sire, and the people flock to see it.”
”I only, like a fugitive or a Don Quixote, am driven about,” said the king to himself, ”and cannot even enter my own house, and they call that royal happiness!” Turning to Gotzkowsky, he remarked aloud: ”Have you seen the gallery since the enemy took up his quarters in it?”
”Yes, sire! Prince Esterhazy was this n.o.ble enemy. He protected Sans-Souci like something sacred. When he left he only took one single small picture with him, as a souvenir.”
The king gave a friendly nod. ”I know it,” said he, ”and that is the only pleasure I have had for a long time. Once more I will see my t.i.tians and Correggios, my Rubenses and Vandycks, which you bought for me. Now tell me about Charlottenburg. But mind, give me the truth. I have noticed that no one will speak out about it, n.o.body will tell the truth. They are afraid of my anger. But you are a brave man, you are not even afraid of the Cossacks. You will have the courage to let your king know the facts. How is it with Charlottenburg? The Saxons have quartered there--what did they do?”
And now Gotzkowsky, often interrupted by the violent and angry exclamations of the king, told of the barbarous and cruel vandalism committed by the Saxons at Charlottenburg, their unbridled destructiveness and unsparing barbarity.
”And the Polignac collection?” asked the king, breathlessly.
”Almost entirely destroyed.”
The king started up from his easy-chair, his eyes flas.h.i.+ng with rage.
He was no longer the philosopher of Sans-Souci, no longer the poet; he was now the warrior panting for battle and b.l.o.o.d.y vengeance. ”Tell me, tell me! I wish to know all,” said the king, laboring out each word, and taking long strides up and down.