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.

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.’”