Chapter V: Act IV: Scene I (1)

_The_ COLONEL'S _summer parlor_. COLONEL _enters from the garden, followed by_ CARL.

COLONEL (_on entering, crossly_).

Who ordered William to bring the horse round in front of the bedrooms? The brute makes a noise with his hoofs that would wake the dead.

CARL.

Are you not going to ride today, Colonel?

COLONEL.

No. Take the horse to the stable!

CARL.

Yes, Colonel. [_Exit_.]

COLONEL (_rings_, CARL _reappears at the door_).

Is Miss Runeck at home?

CARL.

She is in her room; the judge has been with her an hour already.

COLONEL.

What? Early in the morning?

CARL.

Here she is herself.

[_Exit as soon as_ ADELAIDE _enters_.]

_Enter_ ADELAIDE _and_ KORB _through the door on the right_.

ADELAIDE (_to_ KORB).

You had better remain near the garden gate, and when the said young man comes bring him to us.

[_Exit_ KORB.]

Good-morning, Colonel.

[_Going up to him and examining him gaily_.]

How is the weather today?

COLONEL.

Gray, girl, gray and stormy. Vexation and grief are buzzing round in my head until it is fit to burst. How is the child?

ADELAIDE.

Better. She was wise enough to fall asleep toward morning. Now she is sad, but calm.

COLONEL.

This very calmness annoys me. If she would only once shriek and tear her hair a bit! It would be horrible, but there would be something natural about it. It is this smiling and then turning away to dry secret tears that makes me lose my composure. It is unnatural in my child.

ADELAIDE.

Possibly she knows her father's kind heart better than he does himself; possibly she still has hopes.

COLONEL.

Of what? Of a reconciliation with him? After what has happened a reconciliation between Oldendorf and myself is out of the question.

ADELAIDE (_aside_).

I wonder if he wants me to contradict him!

_Enter_ KORB.

KORB (_to_ ADELAIDE).

The gentleman has come.

ADELAIDE.

I will ring.

[_Exit_ KORB.]

Help me out of a little dilemma. I have to speak with a strange young man who seems in need of help, and I should like to have you stay near me.--May I leave this door open?

[_Points to the door on the left_.]

COLONEL.

That means, I suppose, in plain English, that I am to go in there?

ADELAIDE.

I beg it of you--just for five minutes.

COLONEL.

Very well--if only I don't have to listen.

ADELAIDE.

I do not require it; but you will listen all the same if the conversation happens to interest you.

COLONEL (_smiling_).

In that case I shall come out.

[_Exit to the left_; ADELAIDE _rings_.]

_Enter_ SCHMOCK. KORB _also appears at the entrance, but quickly withdraws_.

SCHMOCK (_with a bow_).

I wish you a good-morning. Are you the lady who sent me her secretary?

ADELAIDE.

Yes. You said you wished to speak to me personally.

SCHMOCK.

Why should the secretary know about it if I want to tell you something? Here are the notes that Senden wrote and that I found in the paper-basket of the _Coriolanus_. Look them over, and see if they will be of use to the Colonel. What can I do with them? There's nothing to be done with them.

ADELAIDE (_looking through them, reading, in an aside_).

"Here I send you the wretched specimens of style, etc." Incautious and very low-minded! [_Lays them on the table. Aloud_.] At any rate these unimportant notes are better off in my paper-basket than in any one else's. And what, sir, induces you to confide in me?

SCHMOCK.

I suppose because Bellmaus told me you were a clever person who would choose a good way of telling the Colonel to be on his guard against Senden and against my editor; and the Colonel is a kind man; the other day he ordered a glass of sweet wine and a salmon sandwich as a lunch for me.

COLONEL (_visible at the door, clasping his hands sympathetically_).

Merciful heavens!

SCHMOCK.

Why should I let him be duped by these people!

ADELAIDE.

Since you did not dislike the lunch, we will see that you get another one.

SCHMOCK.

Oh please, don't trouble yourself on my account.

ADELAIDE.

Can we help you with anything else?

SCHMOCK.

What should you be able to help me with? [_Examining his boots and clothes_.] I have everything in order now. My trouble is only that I have got into the wrong occupation. I must try to get out of literature.

ADELAIDE (_sympathetically_.)

It is very hard, I suppose, to feel at home in literature?

SCHMOCK.

That depends. My editor is an unfair man. He cuts out too much and pays too little. "Attend to your style first of all," says he; "a good style is the chief thing." "Write impressively, Schmock," says he; "write profoundly; it is required of a newspaper today that it be profound." Good! I write profoundly, I make my style logical! But when I bring him what I have done he hurls it away from him and shrieks: "What is that? That is heavy, that is pedantic!" says he. "You must write dashingly; it's brilliant you must be, Schmock. It is now the fashion to make everything pleasant for the reader." What am I to do? I write dashingly again; I put a great deal of brilliant stuff in the article; and when I bring it he takes his red pencil and strikes out all that is commonplace and leaves me only the brilliant stuff remaining.

COLONEL.

Are such things possible?

SCHMOCK.

How can I exist under such treatment? How can I write him only brilliant stuff at less than a penny a line. I can't exist under it! And that is why I'm going to try to get out of the business. If only I could earn twenty-five to thirty dollars, I would never in my life write again for a newspaper; I would then set up for myself in business--a little business that could support me.

ADELAIDE.

Wait a moment! [_Looks into her purse_.]

COLONEL (_hastily coming forward_).

Leave that to me, dear Adelaide. The young man wants to cease being a journalist. That appeals to me. Here, here is money such as you desire if you will promise me from this day on not to touch a pen again for a newspaper. Here, take it.

SCHMOCK.

A Prussian bank note--twenty-five thalers in currency? On my honor, I promise you, on my honor and salvation, I go this very day to a cousin of mine who has a paying business. Would you like an I.O.U., Colonel, or shall I make out a long-term promissory note?

COLONEL.

Get out with your promissory note!

SCHMOCK.

Then I will write out a regular I.O.U. I prefer it to be only an I.O.U.

COLONEL (_impatiently_).

I don't want your I.O.U. either. Sir, for God's sake get out of the house!

SCHMOCK.

And how about the interest? If I can have it at five per cent. I should like it.

ADELAIDE.

The gentleman makes you a present of the money.

SCHMOCK.

He makes me a present of the money? It's a miracle! I tell you what, Colonel, if I don't succeed with the money it remains a gift, but if I work my way up with it I return it. I hope I will work my way up. COLONEL. Do just as you like about that.

SCHMOCK.

I like to have it that way, Colonel.--Meanwhile I thank you, and may some other joy come to make it up to you. Good day, Sir and Madam.

ADELAIDE.

We must not forget the lunch. [_Rings,_ KORB _enters_.] Dear Korb! [_Talks in a low tone to him_.]

SCHMOCK.

O please, do not go to that trouble!

[_Exeunt_ SCHMOCK _and_ KORB.]

COLONEL.

And now, dear lady, explain this whole conversation; it concerns me intimately enough.

ADELAIDE.

Senden spoke tactlessly to outsiders about his relations with you and your household. This young man had overheard some of it, and also had notes written by Senden in his possession, which contained unsuitable expressions. I thought it best to get these notes out of his hands.

COLONEL.

I want you to let me have those letters, Adelaide.

ADELAIDE (_entreating_).

Why, Colonel?

COLONEL.

I won't get angry, girl.

ADELAIDE.

Nor is it worth while to do so. But still I beg you won't look at them. You know enough now, for you know that he, with his associates, does not merit such great confidence as you have latterly reposed in him.

COLONEL (_sadly_).

Well, well! In my old days I have had bad luck with my acquaintances.

ADELAIDE.

If you put Oldendorf and this one (_pointing to the letters_) in the same class you are quite mistaken.

COLONEL.

I don't do that, girl. For Senden I had no such affection, and that's why it is easier to bear it when he does me an injury.

ADELAIDE (_gently_).

And because you loved the other one, that was the reason why yesterday you were so--

COLONEL.

Say it, mentor--so harsh and violent!

ADELAIDE.

Worse than that, you were unjust.

COLONEL.

I said the same thing to myself last night, as I went to Ida's room and heard the poor thing cry. I was a hurt, angry man and was wrong in the form--but in the matter itself I was, all the same, right. Let him be member of Parliament; he may be better suited for it than I. It is his being a newspaper writer that separates us.

ADELAIDE.

But he is only doing what you did yourself!

COLONEL.

Don't remind me of that folly! Were he as my son-in-law to hold a different opinion from mine regarding current happenings--that I could doubtless stand. But if day by day he were to proclaim aloud to the world feelings and sentiments the opposite of mine, and I had to read them, and had to hear my son-in-law reproached and laughed at for them on all sides by old friends and comrades, and I had to swallow it all--you see that is more than I could bear!

ADELAIDE.

And Ida? Because you won't bear it Ida is to be made unhappy?

COLONEL.

My poor child! She has been unhappy throughout the whole affair. This half-hearted way of us men has long been a mistake. It is better to end it with one sharp pain.

ADELAIDE (_seriously_).

I cannot see that ending of it as yet. I shall only see it when Ida laughs once more as merrily as she used to do.

COLONEL (_excitedly walking about, exclaiming_).

Well then, I'll give him my child, and go and sit alone in a corner. I had other views for my old age, but God forbid that my beloved girl should be made unhappy by me. He is reliable and honorable, and will take good care of her. I shall move back to the little town I came from.

ADELAIDE (_seizing his hand_).

My revered friend, no--you shall not do that! Neither Oldendorf nor Ida would accept their happiness at such a price. But if Senden and his friends were secretly to take the paper away from the professor, what then?

COLONEL (_joyfully_).

Then he would no longer be a journalist! (_Uneasily_.) But I won't hear of such a thing. I am no friend of underhanded action.

ADELAIDE.

Nor am I! (_Heartily_.) Colonel, you have often shown a confidence in me that has made me happy and proud. Even today you let me speak more frankly than is usually permitted to a girl. Will you give me one more great proof of your regard?

COLONEL (_pressing her hand_).

Adelaide, we know how we stand with each other. Speak out!

ADELAIDE.

For one hour, today, be my faithful knight. Allow me to lead you wherever I please.

COLONEL.

What are you up to, child?

ADELAIDE.

Nothing wrong, nothing unworthy of you or of me. You shall not long be kept in the dark about it.

COLONEL.

If I must, I will surrender. But may I not know something of what I have to do?

ADELAIDE.

You are to accompany me on a visit, and at the same time keep in mind the things we have just talked over so sensibly.

COLONEL.

On a visit?

_Enter_ KORB.

ADELAIDE.

On a visit I am making in my own interest.

KORB (_to_ ADELAIDE).

Mr. von Senden wishes to pay his respects.

COLONEL.

I don't wish to see him now.

ADELAIDE.

Be calm, Colonel! We have not time to be angry even with him. I shall have to see him for a few moments.

COLONEL.

Then I will go away.

ADELAIDE (_entreating_).

But you will accompany me directly? The carriage is waiting.

COLONEL.

I obey the command. [_Exit to the left_.]

ADELAIDE.

I have made a hasty decision; I have ventured on something that was doubtless too bold for a girl; for now that the crisis is at hand, I feel my courage leaving me. I had to do it for his sake and for all our sakes. (_To_ KORB.) Ask Miss Ida to get ready--the coachman will come straight back for her. Dear Korb, let your thoughts be with me. I am going on a weighty errand, old friend! [_Exit_ ADELAIDE.]

KORB.

(_alone_). Gracious, how her eyes shine! What is she tip to? She's not going to elope with the old Colonel, I hope! Well, whatever she is up to, she will carry it through. There is only one person who could ever be a match for her. Oh, Mr. Conrad, if only I could speak!

[_EXIT_.]

SCENE II

_Editorial room of the Union. Enter_ BOLZ _through the door on the left, directly afterward_ MILLER.

BOLZ (_at middle door_).

In here with the table!

MILLER (_carries small table, all set, with wine-bottles, glasses and plates, to the foreground on the left; brings up five chairs while he speaks_).

Mr. Piepenbrink sends his regards, with the message that the wine is yellow-seal, and that, if the Doctor drinks any healths, he must not forget Mr. Piepenbrink's health. He was very jolly, the stout gentleman. And Madam Piepenbrink reminded him that he ought to subscribe for the _Union_. He commissioned me to see to it.

BOLZ (_who meanwhile has been turning over papers at the work-table on the right, rising_).

Let's have some wine!

[MILLER _pours some in a glass_.]

In honor of the worthy vintner! [_Drinks._]

I treated him scandalously, but he has proved true-hearted. Tell him his health was not forgotten. There, take this bottle along!--Now, get out!

[_Exit_ MILLER. BOLZ _opening the door on the left_.]

Come, gentlemen, today I carry out my promise.

[_Enter_ KÄMPE, BELLMAUS, KÖRNER.]

This is the lunch I agreed to give. And now, my charming day-flies, put as much rose-color into your cheeks and your humors as your wits will let you. [_Pouring out_.] The great victory is won; the _Union_ has celebrated one of the noblest of triumphs; in ages still to come belated angels will say with awe: "Those were glorious days," and so on--see continuation in today's paper. Before we sit down, the first toast--

KÄMPE. The member-elect--

BOLZ.

No, our first toast is to the mother of all, the great power which produces members--the newspaper, may she prosper!

ALL.

Hurrah! [_Clink glasses_.]

BOLZ.

Hurrah! And secondly, long live--hold on, the member himself is not here yet.

KÄMPE.

Here he comes.

_Enter_ OLDENDORF.

BOLZ.

The member from our venerable town, editor-in-chief and professor, journalist, and good fellow, who is angry just now because behind his back this and that got into the paper--hurrah for him!

ALL.

Hurrah!

OLDENDORF (_in a friendly tone_.)

I thank you, gentlemen.

BOLZ (_drawing_ OLDENDORF _to the front_).

And you are no longer vexed with us?

OLDENDORF.

Your intention was good, but it was a great indiscretion.

BOLZ.

Forget all about it! (_Aloud_.) Here, take your glass and sit down with us. Don't be proud, young statesman! Today you are one of us. Well, here sits the editorial staff! Where is worthy Mr. Henning--where tarries our owner, printer and publisher, Gabriel Henning?

KÄMPE.

I met him a little while ago on the stairs. He crept by me as shyly as though he were some one who had been up to mischief.

BOLZ.

Probably he feels as Oldendorf does--he is again not pleased with the attitude of the paper.

MILLER (_thrusting in his head_).

The papers and the mail!

BOLZ.

Over there! [MILLER _enters, lays the papers on the work-table._]

MILLER.

Here is the _Coriolanus_. There is something in it about our paper. The errand-boy of the _Coriolanus_ grinned at me scornfully, and recommended me to look over the article.

BOLZ.

Give it here! Be quiet, Romans, _Coriolanus_ speaks.--All ye devils, what does that mean? [_Reads_.] "On the best of authority we have just been informed that a great change is imminent in the newspaper affairs of our province. Our opponent, the _Union_, will cease to direct her wild attacks against all that is high and holy."--This high and holy means Blumenberg.--"The ownership is said to have gone over into other hands, and there is a sure prospect that we shall be able from now on to greet as an ally this widely read sheet." How does that taste to you, gentlemen?

MILLER} Thunder! KÄMPE.}_(All together_.) Nonsense! BELLMAUS.} It's a lie!

OLDENDORF.

It's another of Blumenberg's reckless inventions.

BOLZ.

There is something behind it all. Go and get me Gabriel Henning. [_Exit_ MILLER.] This owner has played the traitor; we have been poisoned. [_Springing up._] And this is the feast of the Borgia! Presently the _misericordia_ will enter and sing our dirge. Do me the favor at least to eat up the oysters before it be too late.

OLDENDORF (_who has seized the newspaper_.)

Evidently this news is only an uncertain rumor. Henning will tell us there is no truth in it. Stop seeing ghosts, and sit down with us.

BOLZ (_seating himself_).

I sit down, not because I put faith in your words, but because I don't wish to do injustice to the lunch. Get hold of Henning; he must give an account of himself.

OLDENDORF.

But, as you heard, he is not at home.

BOLZ (_zealously eating_).

Oh, thou wilt have a fearful awakening, little Orsini! Bellmaus, pour me out some wine. But if the story be not true, if this _Coriolanus_ have lied, by the purple in this glass be it sworn I will be his murderer! The grimmest revenge that ever an injured journalist took shall fall on his head; he shall bleed to death from pin-pricks; every poodle in the street shall look on him scornfully and say: "Fie, _Coriolanus_, I wouldn't take a bite at you even if you were a sausage." [_A knock is heard_. BOLZ _lays down his knife.] Memento mori_! There are our grave-diggers. The last oyster, now, and then farewell thou lovely world!

_Enter_ JUDGE SCHWARZ _and_ SENDEN _from the door on the left; the door remains open_.

SCHWARZ.

Obedient servant, gentlemen!

SENDEN.

Your pardon if we disturb you.

BOLZ (_remaining seated at the table_).

Not in the least. This is our regular luncheon, contracted for a whole year--fifty oysters and two bottles daily for each member of the staff. Whoever buys the newspaper has to furnish it.

SCHWARZ.

What brings us here, Professor, is a communication which Mr. Henning should have been the first to make to you. He preferred handing over the task to me.

OLDENDORF.

I await your communication.

SCHWARZ.

Mr. Henning has, from yesterday on, transferred to me by sale all rights pertaining to him as owner of the newspaper _Union_.

OLDENDORF.

To you, Judge?

SCHWARZ.

I acknowledge that I have bought it merely as accredited agent of a third person. Here is the deed; it contains no secrets. [_Hands him a paper_.]

OLDENDORF (_looking through it, to_ BOLZ).

It is drawn up by a notary in due form--sold for thirty thousand thalers. [_Agitation among the staff-members_.] Let me get to the bottom of the matter. Is this change of owner also to be connected with a change in the political attitude of the sheet?

SENDEN (_coming forward_).

Certainly, Professor, that was the intention in making the purchase.

OLDENDORF.

Do I possibly see in you the new owner?

SENDEN.

Not that, but I have the honor to be a friend of his. You yourself, as well as these gentlemen, have a right to demand the fulfilment of your contracts. Your contracts provide, I understand, for six months' notice. It goes without saying that you continue to draw your salary until the expiration of this term.

BOLZ (_rising_).

You are very kind, Mr. von Senden. Our contracts empower us to edit the paper as we see fit, and to control its tone and its party affiliations. For the next half-year, therefore, we shall not only continue to draw our salaries but also to conduct the paper for the benefit of the party to which you have not the honor to belong.

SENDEN (_angrily_).

We'll find a way to prevent that!

OLDENDORF.

Calm yourself. That kind of work would scarcely be worthy of us. If such are the circumstances, I announce that I resign the editorship from today, and release you from all obligations to me.

BOLZ.

I don't mind. I make the same announcement.

BELLMAUS.

KÄMPE}(_together_). We too!

KÖRNER}

SENDEN (_to_ SCHWARZ).

You can testify that the gentlemen voluntarily renounce their rights.

BOLZ (_to the staff_).

Hold on, gentlemen, don't be too generous. It is all right for you to take no further part in editing the paper if your friends withdraw. But why abandon your pecuniary claims on the new owner?

BELLMAUS.

I'd rather take nothing at all from them; I'll follow your example.

BOLZ (_stroking him_).

Noble sentiment, my son! We'll make our way in the world together. What do you think of a hand-organ, Bellmaus! We 'll take it to fairs and sing your songs through. I'll turn and you'll sing.

OLDENDORF.

Since the new owner of the paper is not one of you, you will, in concluding this transaction, find the question only natural--To whom have we ceded our rights?

SENDEN.

The present owner of the paper is--

_Enter_ COLONEL _through side door on the left_.

OLDENDORF (_starting back in alarm_).

Colonel!

BOLZ.

Ah, now it is becoming high tragedy!

COLONEL.

First of all, Professor, be assured that I have nothing to do with this whole affair, and merely come at the request of the purchaser. Not until I came here, did I know anything of what was going on. I hope you will take my word for that.

BOLZ.

Well, I find this game unseemly, and I insist on being told who this new owner is who mysteriously hides behind different persons!

_Enter_ ADELAIDE _from the side door, left._

ADELAIDE.

He stands before you!

BOLZ.

I should just like to faint.

BELLMAUS.

That is a heavenly joke!

ADELAIDE (_bowing_).

How do you do, gentlemen! [_To the staff_.] Am I right in assuming that these gentlemen have hitherto been connected with editing the paper?

BELLMAUS (_eagerly_).

Yes, Miss Runeck! Mr. Kämpe for leading articles, Mr. Körner for the French and English correspondence, and I for theatre, music, fine arts, and miscellaneous.

ADELAIDE.

I shall be much pleased if your principles will let you continue devoting your talents to my newspaper. [_The three members of the staff bow_.]

BELLMAUS (_laying his hand on his heart_).

Miss Runeck, under your editorship I'll go to the ends of the world!

ADELAIDE (_smiling and politely_).

Ah, no, merely into that room.

[_Points to the door on the right_.]

I need half an hour to collect my thoughts for my new activities.

BELLMAUS (_while departing_).

That's the best thing I ever heard!

[BELLMAUS, KÄMPE, KÖRNER _leave_.]

ADELAIDE.

Professor, you resigned the management of the paper with a readiness which delights me. (_Pointedly_.) I wish to edit the _Union_ in my own fashion.

[_Seizes his hand and leads him to the_ COLONEL.]

Colonel, he is no longer editor; we have outwitted him; you have your satisfaction.

COLONEL (_holding out his arms to him_).

Come, Oldendorf! For what happened I have been sorry since the moment we parted.

OLDENDORF.

My honored friend!

ADELAIDE (_pointing to the door on the left_).

There is some one else in there who wants to take part in the reconciliation. It might be Mr. Gabriel Henning.

IDA _appears at the side door_.

IDA.

Edward!

[OLDENDORF _hurries to the door_, IDA _meets him, he embraces her. Both leave on the left. The_ COLONEL _follows_.]

ADELAIDE (_sweetly_).

Before asking you, Mr. von Senden, to interest yourself in the editing of the newspaper, I beg you to read through this correspondence which I received as a contribution to my columns.

SENDEN (_takes a glance at them_).

Miss Runeck, I don't know whose indiscretion--

ADELAIDE.

Fear none on my part. I am a newspaper proprietor, and (_with, marked emphasis_) shall keep editorial secrets.

[SENDEN _bows_.]

May I ask for the deed, Judge? And will you gentlemen be kind enough to ease the mind of the vendor as to the outcome of the transaction?

[_Mutual bows_. SENDEN _and_ SCHWARZ _leave_.]

ADELAIDE (_after a short pause_).

Now, Mr. Bolz, what am I going to do about you?

BOLZ.

I am prepared for anything. I am surprised at nothing any more. If some one should go straight off and spend a capital of a hundred millions in painting negroes white with oil-colors, or in making Africa four-cornered, I should not let it astonish me. If I wake up tomorrow as an owl with two tufts of feathers for ears and a mouse in my beak, I will say, "All right," and remember that worse things have happened.

ADELAIDE.

What is the matter with you, Conrad? Are you displeased with me?

BOLZ.

With you? You have been generous as ever; only too generous. And it would all have been fine, if only this whole scene had been impossible. That fellow Senden!

ADELAIDE.

We have seen the last of him! Conrad, I'm one of the party!

BOLZ.

Hallelujah! I hear countless angels blowing on their trumpets! I'll stay with the _Union_!

ADELAIDE.

About that I am no longer the one to decide. For I have still a confession to make to you. I, too, am not the real owner of the newspaper.

BOLZ.

You are not? Now, by all the gods, I am at my wit's end. I'm beginning not to care who this owner is. Be he man, will-of-the-wisp, or the devil Beelzebub in person, I bid him defiance.

ADELAIDE.

He is a kind of a will-of-the-wisp, a little something of a devil, and from top to toe a great rogue. For, Conrad, my friend, beloved of my youth, it is you yourself.

[_Hands him the deed_.]

BOLZ (_stupefied for a moment, reads_).

"Ceded to Conrad Bolz"--correct! So that would be a sort of gift. Can't be accepted, much too little!

[_Throws the paper aside_.] Prudence be gone!

[_Falls on his knees before_ ADELAIDE.]

Here I kneel, Adelaide! What I am saying I don't know in my joy, for the whole room is dancing round with me. If you will take me for your husband, you will do me the greatest favor in the world. If you don't want me, box my ears and send me off!

ADELAIDE (_bending down to him_).

I do want you! (_Kissing him_.) This was the cheek!

BOLZ.

And these are the lips.

[_Kisses her; they remain in an embrace; short pause_.]

_Enter_ COLONEL, IDA, OLDENDORF.

COLONEL (_in amazement, at the door_).

What is this?

BOLZ.

Colonel, it takes place under editorial sanction.

COLONEL.

Adelaide, what do I see?

ADELAIDE (_stretching out her hand to the_ COLONEL).

Dear friend, I'm betrothed to a journalist!

[_As_ IDA _and_ OLDENDORF _from either side hasten to the pair, the curtain falls_]

* * * * *

[Footnote 1: Permission S. Hirzel, Leipzig.]

* * * * *

DOCTOR LUTHER (1859)

By GUSTAV FREYTAG

TRANSLATED BY E.H. BABBITT, A.B. Assistant Professor of German, Tufts College.

Some well-meaning men still wish that the defects of their old church had not led to so great a revolt, and even liberal Roman Catholics still fail to see in Luther and Zwingli anything but zealous heretics whose wrath brought about a schism. May such views vanish from Germany! All religious denominations have reason to attribute to Luther whatever in their present faith is genuine and sincere, and has a wholesome and sustaining influence. The heretic of Wittenberg is fully as much the reformer of the German Catholics as of the Protestants. This is true not only because the teachers of the Catholic Church in their struggle against him outgrew the old scholasticism, and fought for their sacraments with new weapons gained from his language, his culture, and his moral worth; nor because he, in effect, destroyed the church of the Middle Ages and forced his opponents at Trent to raise a firmer structure, though seemingly within the old forms and proportions; but still more because he expressed the common basis of all German denominations, of our spiritual courage, piety, and honesty, with such force that a good deal of his own nature, to the present benefit of every German, has survived in our doctrines and language, in our civil laws and morals, in the thoughtfulness of our people, and in our science and literature. Some of the ideas for which Luther's stubborn and contentious spirit fought, against both Catholics and Calvinists, are abandoned by the free investigation of modern times. His intensely passionate beliefs, gained in the heartrending struggles of a devout soul, occasionally missed an important truth. Sometimes he was harsh, unfair, even cruel toward his opponents; but such things should no longer disturb any German, for all the limitations of his nature and training are as nothing compared with the fulness of the blessings which have flowed from his great heart into the life of our nation.

But he should not have seceded after all, some people say; for his action has divided Germany into two hostile camps, and the ancient strife, under varying battle-cries, has continued to our day. Those who think so might assert with equal right that the Christian revolt from Judaism was not necessary--why did not the apostles reform the venerable high-priesthood of Zion? They might assert that Hampden would have done better if he had paid the ship-money and had taught the Stuarts their lesson peaceably; that William of Orange committed a crime when he did not put his life and his sword into the hands of Alva, as Egmont did; that Washington was a traitor because he did not surrender himself and his army to the English; they might condemn as evil everything that is new and great in doctrine and in life and that owes its birth to a struggle against what is old.

To but few mortals has been vouchsafed such a powerful influence as Luther had upon their contemporaries and upon subsequent ages. But his life, like that of every great man, leaves the impression of an affecting tragedy when attention is centred on its pivotal events. It shows us, like the career of all heroes of history whom Fate permitted to live out their lives, three stages. First, the personality of the man develops, powerfully influenced by the restricting environment. It tries to reconcile incompatibilities, while in the depth of his soul ideas and convictions are gradually translated into volition. At last they burst forth in a definite action, and the solitary individual enters upon the contest with the world. Then follows a period of greater activity, more rapid growth, and larger victories. The influence of the one man upon the masses grows ever greater. Mightily he draws the whole nation to follow in his footsteps, and becomes its hero, its pattern; the vital force of millions appears summed up in one man.

But the spirit of the nation does not long endure the preëminence of a single, well-centred personality; for the life and the power and the needs of a nation are more manifold than even the greatest single force and lofty aim. The eternal contrast between the individual and the nation appears. Even the soul of a nation is, in the presence of the eternal, a finite personality--but in comparison with the individual it appears boundless. A man is forced by the logical result of his thoughts and actions, by all the significance of his own deeds, into a closely restricted path. The soul of the nation needs for its life irreconcilable contrasts and incessant effort in most varied directions. Much that the individual failed to assimilate rises to fight against him. The reaction of the people begins--at first weak, here and there, based on different reasons and with slight justification; then it grows stronger and ever more victorious. Finally the intellectual influence of the life of the individual is limited to his own followers, and crystallizes into a single one of the many elements of national growth. The last period of a great life is always filled with secret resignation, with bitterness, and with silent suffering.

Thus it was with Luther. The first of these periods continued up to the day on which he posted his theses, the second until his return from the Wartburg, the third to his death and the beginning of the Schmalkaldic War. It is not the purpose of this sketch to give his entire biography, but to tell briefly how he developed and what he was. Much in his nature appears strange and unpleasing so long as he is viewed from afar; but this historic figure has the remarkable quality of becoming greater and more attractive the more closely it is approached, and from beginning to end it would inspire a good biographer with admiration, tenderness, and a certain good humor.

Luther rose from the great source of all national strength, the freeholding peasant class. His father moved from Möhra, a forest village of the Thuringian mountains, where his relatives constituted half the population, northward into the neighborhood of Mansfeld, to work as a miner. So the boy's cradle stood in a cottage in which was still felt the old thrill of the ghosts of the pine wood and the dark clefts which were thought to be the entrances to the ore veins of the mountain. Certainly the imagination of the boy was often busy with dark traditions from heathen mythology. He was accustomed to feel the presence of uncanny powers as well in the phenomena of nature as in the life of man. When he turned monk such remembrances from childhood grew gloomier and took the shape of the devil of Scripture, but the busy tempter who everywhere lies in wait for the life of man always retained for him something of the features of the mischievous goblin who secretly lurks about the peasant's hearth and stable.

His father, a curt, sturdy, vigorous man, firm in his resolves, and of unusual, shrewd common sense, had worked his way, after hard struggles, to considerable prosperity. He kept strict discipline in his household. Even in later years Luther thought with sadness of the severe punishments he had endured as a boy and the sorrow they had caused his tender, childish heart. But Old Hans Luther, nevertheless, up to his death in 1530, had some influence on the life of his son. When at the age of twenty-two Martin secretly entered the monastery the old man was violently angry; for he had already planned a good match for him. Friends finally succeeded in bringing the angry father to consent to a reconciliation; and as his imploring son confessed that a terrible apparition had driven him to the secret vow to enter the monastery, he replied with the sorrowful words, "God grant that it was not a deception and trick of the devil;" and he still further wrenched the heart of the monk by the angry question, "You thought you were obeying the command of God when you went into the monastery; have you not heard also that you shall obey your parents?" These words made a deep impression on the son, and when, many years after, he sat in the Wartburg, expelled from the Church and outlawed by the Emperor, he wrote to his father the touching words: "Do you still wish to tear me from the monastery? You are still my father and I your son. The law and the power of God are on your side--on my side human weakness. But look that you boast not yourself against God, he has been beforehand with you,--he has taken me out himself." From that time on it seemed to the old man as if his son were restored to him. Old Hans had once counted upon having a grandson for whom he would work. He now came back obstinately to this thought, caring nothing for the rest of the world, and soon urged his son to marry; his encouragement was not the least of the influences to which Luther yielded, and when his father, advanced in years, at last a councillor of Mansfeld, lay in his death throes and the minister bent over him and asked the dying man if he wished to die in the purified faith in Christ and the Holy Gospel, old Hans gathered his strength once more and said curtly, "He is a wretch who does not believe in it." When Luther told this later he added admiringly, "Yes that was a man of the old time." The son received the news of the father's death in the fortress of Coburg. When he read the letter, in which his wife inclosed a picture of his youngest daughter Magdalena, he uttered to a companion merely the words, "Well, my father is dead too," rose, took his psalter, went into his room, and prayed and wept so hard that, as the faithful Veit Dietrich wrote, his head was confused the next day; but he came out again with his soul at peace. The same day he wrote with deep emotion to Melanchthon of the great love of his father and of his intimate relations with him. "I have never despised death so much as today. We die so often before we finally die. Now I am the oldest of my family and I have the right to follow him." From such a father the son inherited what was fundamental to his character--truthfulness, a sturdy will, straightforward common sense, and tact in dealing with men and affairs. His childhood was full of rigor. He had many a bitter experience in the Latin school and as a choir boy, though tempered by kindness and love, and he kept through it all--what is more easily kept in the lowlier circles of life--a heart full of faith in the goodness of human nature and reverence for everything great in the world. When he was at the University of Erfurt, his father was already in a position to supply his needs more abundantly. He felt the vigor of youth, and was a merry companion with song and lute. Of his spiritual life at that time little is known except that death came near him, and that in a thunder storm he was "called upon by a terrible apparition from heaven." In terror he took a vow to go into a monastery, and quickly and secretly carried out his resolve.

From that time date our reports about the troubles of his soul. At odds with his father, full of awe at the thought of an incomprehensible eternity, cowed by the wrath of God, he began with supernatural exertions a life of renunciation, devotion, and penance. He found no peace. All the highest questions of life rushed with fearful force upon his defenseless, wandering soul. Remarkably strong and passionate with him was the necessity of feeling himself in harmony with God and the universe. What theology offered him was all unintelligible, bitter, and repulsive. To his nature the riddles of the moral order of the universe were most important. That the good should suffer, and the evil succeed; that God should condemn the human race to the monstrous burden of sin because a simple-minded woman had bitten into an apple; that this same God should endure our sins with love, toleration, and patience; that Christ at one time sent away honorable people with severity, and at another time associated with harlots, publicans, and sinners--"human understanding with its wisdom turns to folly at this." Then he would complain to his spiritual adviser, Staupitz: "Dear Doctor, our Lord treats people so cruelly. Who can serve Him if he lays on blows like this?" But when he got the answer, "How else could He subdue the stubborn heads?" this sensible argument could not console the young man. With fervid desire to find the incomprehensible God, he searched all his thoughts and dreams with self-torture. Every earthly thought, every beat of his youthful blood, became for him a cruel wrong. He began to despair of himself; he wrestled in unceasing prayer, fasted and scourged himself. At one time the priests had to break into his cell in which he had been lying for days in a condition not far from insanity. With warm sympathy Staupitz looked upon such heart-rending torment, and sought to give him peace by blunt counsel. Once when Luther had written to him, "Oh, my sin! My sin! My sin!" his spiritual adviser gave him the answer, "You long to be without sin, and you have no real sin. Christ is the forgiveness of real sins, such as parricide and the like. If Christ is to help you, you must have a list of real sins, and not come to Him with such trash and make-believe sins, seeing a sin in every trifle." The manner in which Luther gradually raised himself above such despair was decisive for his whole life. The God whom he served was at that time a God of terror. His anger was to be appeased only by the means of grace which the ancient Church prescribed--in the first place through constant confession, for which there were innumerable prescriptions and formulæ which seemed to the heart empty and cold. By strictly prescribed activities and the practice of so-called good works, the feeling of real atonement and inward peace had not come to the young man. Finally a saying of his spiritual adviser pierced his heart like an arrow: "That alone is true penance which begins with love for God. Love for God and inward exaltation is not the result of the means of grace which the Church teaches; it must go before them." This doctrine from Tauler's school became for the young man the basis of a new spiritual and moral relation to God; it was for him a sacred discovery. The transformation of his spiritual life was the principal thing. For that he had to work. From the depths of every human heart must come repentance, expiation, and atonement. He and every man could lift himself up to God, alone. Not until now did he realize what free prayer was. In place of a far-off divine power which he had formerly sought in vain through a hundred forms and childish confessions, there came before him at last the image of an all-loving protector to whom he could speak at any time joyfully and in tears; to whom he could bring all sorrow, every doubt; who took unceasing interest in him, cared for him, granted or denied his heartfelt petitions tenderly, like a good father. So he learned to pray; and how ardent his prayers became! From this time he lived in peace with the beloved God whom he had finally found, every day, every hour. His intercourse with the Most High became more intimate than with the dearest companions of this earth. When he poured out his whole self before Him, then calm came over him and a holy peace, a feeling of unspeakable love. He felt himself a part of God, and remained in this relation to Him from that time throughout his whole life. He heeded no longer the roundabout ways of the ancient Church; he could, with God in his heart, defy the whole world. Even thus early he ventured to believe that those held false doctrine who put so much stress on works of penance, that there was nothing beyond these works but a cold satisfaction and a ceremonious confession; and when, later, he learned from Melanchthon that the Greek word for penitence, _metanoia_ meant literally "change of mind," it seemed to him a wonderful revelation. On this ground rested the confident assurance with which he opposed the words of Scripture to the ordinances of the Church. By this means Luther in the monastery gradually worked his way to spiritual liberty. All his later doctrines, his battles against indulgences, his imperturbable steadfastness, his method of interpreting the Scriptures, rested upon the struggles through which he, while a monk, had found his God; and it may well be said that the new era of German history began with Luther's prayers in the monastery. Life was soon to thrust him under its hammer, to harden the pure metal of his soul.

In 1508 Luther reluctantly accepted the professorship of dialectics at the new university of Wittenberg. He would rather have taught that theology which even then he believed the true one. When, in 1510, he went to Rome on business for his order, it is well known what devotion and piety marked his sojourn in the Holy City, and with what horror the heathen life of the Romans and the moral corruption and worldliness of the clergy filled him. It was there where his devotions, while he was officiating at mass, were disturbed by the reckless jests which the Roman priests of his order called out to him. He never forgot the devil-inspired words[2] as long as he lived.

But the hierarchy, however deeply its corruption shocked him, still contained his whole hope; outside of it there was no God and no salvation. The noble idea of the Catholic Church, and its conquests of fifteen hundred years, enraptured the mind even of the strongest. And when this German in Roman clerical dress, at the risk of his life, inspected the ruins of ancient Rome and stood in awe before the gigantic columns of the temples which, according to report, the Goths had once destroyed, the sturdy man from the mountains of the old Hermunduri little dreamed that it would be his own fate to destroy the temples of medieval Rome more thoroughly, more fiercely, more grandly. Luther came back from Rome still a faithful son of the great Mother Church. All heresy, such as that of the Bohemians, was hateful to him. He took a warm interest, after his return, in Reuchlin's contest against the judges of heresy at Cologne, and, in 1512, stood on the side of the Humanists; but even then he felt that something separated him from this movement. When, a few years later, he was in Gotha, he did not call upon the worthy Mutianus Rufus, although he wrote him a very polite letter of apology; and soon after he was offended by the inward coldness and secular tone in which theological sinners were ridiculed in Erasmus' dialogues. The profane worldliness of the Humanists was never quite in harmony with the cheerful faith of Luther's soul, and the pride with which he afterward offended the sensitive Erasmus in a letter which was meant to be conciliatory, was probably even then in his soul. Even the forms of literary modesty adopted by Luther at that time give the impression that they were wrung from an unbending spirit by the power of Christian humility.

For even at that time he felt himself secure and strong in his faith. As early as 1516 he wrote to Spalatin, who was the link of intercourse between him and the Elector, Frederick the Wise, that the Elector was the most prudent of men in the things of this world, but was afflicted with sevenfold blindness in matters concerning God and the salvation of the soul. And Luther had reason for this expression, for the provident spirit of that moderate prince appeared in his careful efforts, among other things, to gather in for domestic use the means of grace recommended by the Church. For instance, he had a special hobby for sacred relics, and just at this time Staupitz, the vicar of the Augustinian order for Saxony, was occupied in the Rhine region and elsewhere in collecting them for the Elector. For Luther the absence of his superior was important, for he had to fill his place. He was already a respected man in his order. Although professor (of theology since 1512), he still lived in his monastery in Wittenberg and generally wore his monk's habit; and now he visited the thirty monasteries in his charge, deposed priors, uttered severe censure of bad discipline, and urged severity against fallen monks. But something of the simple faith of the brother of the monastery still clung to him.

It was in this spirit of confidence and German sincerity that he wrote, October 31, 1517, after he had posted the theses against Tetzel on the church door, to Archbishop Albert of Mainz, the protector of the seller of indulgences. Full of the popular belief in the wisdom and the goodwill of the highest rulers, Luther thought (he often said so later) that it was only necessary to present honestly to the princes of the Church the disadvantage and immorality of such abuses. But how childish this zeal of the monk appeared to the polished and worldly prince of the Church! What so deeply offended the honest man was, from the point of view of the Archbishop, a matter long settled. The sale of indulgences was an evil in the Church a hundred times deplored, but as unavoidable as many institutions seem to the politician; while not good in themselves, they must be kept for the sake of a greater interest. The greatest interest of the Archbishop and the curia was their supremacy, which was acquired and maintained by such commercial dealings. The great interest of Luther and the people was truth. This was the parting of the ways.

And so Luther entered upon the struggle, a poor and faithful son of the Church, full of German devotion to authority; but yet he had in his character something which gave him strength against too extreme exercise of this authority--a close relation to his God. He was then thirty-four years old, in the fulness of his strength, of medium stature, his body vigorous and without the corpulency of his later years, appearing tall beside the small, delicate, boyish form of Melanchthon. In the face which showed the effects of vigils and inward struggles, shone two fiery eyes whose keen brilliancy was hard to meet. He was a respected man, not only in his order, but at the University; not a great scholar--he learned Greek from Melanchthon in the first year of his professorship, and Hebrew soon after. He had no extensive book learning, and never had the ambition to shine as a writer of Latin verse; but he was astonishingly well-read in the Scriptures and some of the Fathers of the Church, and what he had once learned he assimilated with German thoroughness. He was the untiring shepherd of his flock, a zealous preacher, a warm friend, once more full of a decorous cheerfulness; he was of an assured bearing, polite and skilful in social intercourse, with a confidence of spirit which often lighted up his face in a smile. The small events of the day might indeed affect him and annoy him. He was excitable, and easily moved to tears, but on any great emergency, after he had overcome his early nervous excitement, such as, for instance, embarrassed him when he first appeared before the Diet at Worms--then he showed wonderful calmness and self-command. He knew no fear. Indeed, his lion's nature found satisfaction in the most dangerous situations. The danger of death into which he sometimes fell, the malicious ambushes of his enemies, seemed to him at that time hardly worthy of mention. The reason for this superhuman heroism, as one may call it, was again his close personal relation to his God. He had long periods in which he wished, with a cheerful smile, for martyrdom in the service of truth and of his God. Terrible struggles were still before him, but those in which men opposed him did not seem to deserve this name. He had defeated the devil himself again and again for years. He even overcame the fear and torment of hell, which did its utmost to cloud his reason. Such a man might perhaps be killed, but he could hardly be conquered.

The period of the struggle which now follows, from the beginning of the indulgences controversy until his departure from the Wartburg--the time of his greatest victories and of his tremendous popularity--is perhaps best known; but it seems to us that even here his nature has never yet been correctly judged.