The little flag-bearer skipped into the room with graceful vivacity, and sprang, with a merry bound, up to the king, took his hand without ceremony, and pressed it to his lips. Then, raising up his head and shaking back his light-brown curls from his rosy cheeks, his bright-blue eyes sparkling, he looked him full in the face. “Your majesty, you say that you sent for me; but I must tell you that if you had not sent for me I would have come here alone, and begged so long at the door, that you would have let me come in!”
“And what if I would not have let you come in at all?” said the king, smiling.
The little flag-bearer reflected a moment, then answered with a confident air: “Your majesty, I would have forced open the door, thrown myself at your feet, and kissed your hand, saying, ‘My king, my dear great-uncle, I must come in to thank you a thousand times for the flag-bearer’s commission you have sent me, and for the beautiful uniform.’ Then I would see if your majesty had the courage to send me away.”
“Let me see, my prince—do you think my courage could fail me upon any occasion?”
“Yes, in bad things,” zealously cried the prince, “and it would be bad if you would not let me thank you. I am so happy with the commission and the beautiful uniform which you so graciously sent to me! Tell me, your majesty, do I not look beautifully?” The boy straightened his elegant, slender form, and saluted the king, putting the two fingers of his right hand upon his cap.
“Yes, yes,” said Frederick, “you look very nicely, my prince; but it is not enough that you look well—you must behave well. From a flag-bearer in my army I expect very different things than from any common child. Who wears my uniform must prove himself worthy of the honor.”
“Your majesty,” cried the prince, “I assure you, upon my word of honor, that I have no bad marks when I wear the uniform. Your majesty can ask my tutor. He came with me, and waits in the anteroom to speak with you. He will tell you that I have a good report.”
“Very well, we will call him presently,” said Frederick, smiling. “Now we will chat a little together. Tell me whether you are very industrious, and if you are learning anything of consequence?”
“Sire, I must learn, even if I had no inclination to; Herr Behnisch leaves me no peace. I have scarcely time to play. I am always learning to read, to write, to cipher, and to work.”
“How about the geography and universal history?”
“Oh, your majesty, I wish there were no geography and history in the world, and then I should not have to study so cruelly hard, and I could play more. My mother sent me last week a new battledore and shuttlecock, but I can never learn to play with it. I no sooner begin, than Herr Behnisch calls me to study. To-day I was very cunning—oh, I was so sly! I put it in the great-pocket of my tutor’s coat, and he brought it here without knowing it.”
“That was very naughty,” said the king, a little severely. The prince colored, and, a little frightened, said: “Sire, I could not bring it any other way. I beg pardon, the uniform is so tight, and then—then, I thought it would be dishonoring it to put a shuttlecock in the cartridge-box.”
“That was a good thought, prince, and for that I will forgive you the trick upon your tutor. But what will you do with the ball here? Why did you bring it?”
“Oh, I wished to show it to your majesty, it is so beautiful, and then beg you to let me play a little.”
“We will see, Fritz,” said the king, much pleased. “If you deserve it, that shall be your reward. Tell me the truth, is your tutor satisfied with you?”
“Sire, Herr Behnisch is never really pleased, but he has not scolded me much lately, so I must have been pretty good. One day he wrote ‘Bien’ under my French exercise. Oh, I was so happy that I spent six groschen of the thaler my father gave me a little while since, and bought two pots of gilly-flowers, one for myself and one for my little brother Henry, that he should have a souvenir of my ‘Bien!’”
“That was right,” said the king, nodding approvingly. “When you are good, you must always let your friends and relations take part in it; keep the bad only for yourself.”
“I will remember that, and I thank you for the kind instruction.”
“The studies seem to go very well, but how is it with the behavior? They tell me that the prince is not always polite to his visitors; that he is sometimes very rude, even to the officers who pay their respects to him on his father’s account, and on my account, not on his own, for what do they care for such a little snip as he? They go to honor Prince Frederick William of Prussia, though he is only a little flag-bearer. They tell me that you do not appreciate the honor, but that at Easter you behaved very badly.”
“Sire, it is true; I cannot deny it—I did behave badly,” sighed the little prince.
“What was the matter?” asked the king. “It was not from fear, I hope? I should be very angry at that. Tell me yourself, and tell me the truth.”
“Your majesty can depend upon the whole truth. My tutor says that lying is despicable, and that a prince who will one day be a king should be too proud to tell a lie! I will tell you all about it. The officers came to see me at Easter, just as I had put the Easter eggs in the garden, for my little brother and some other boys whom I had invited to hunt for them. I had spent my last six groschen for the eggs, and I anticipated so much pleasure with the hide-and-seek for them. We had just begun, when the officers came.”
“That was really unfortunate,” said the king, sympathizingly.
“Yes, sire, very disagreeable, and I could not possibly feel kindly. While the officers were talking, I was always wishing they would go. But they stayed and stayed—and when Major von Werder began to make a long speech to me, and I thought there was no end to it, I became impatient and furious—and—”
“Why do you hesitate?” asked the king, looking tenderly at the frank, glowing face of the boy. “What happened?”
“Something dreadful, sire! I could not keep in any longer. The major kept on talking, and looked at me so sharply, I could not help making an abominable face. It is unfortunately true—I ran my tongue out at him—only just a little bit—and I drew it back in an instant; but it was done, and a dreadful scene followed. The major did not say any thing, my tutor was red as fire, and I was thunderstruck!”
“That was excessively rude, my little flag-bearer,” cried the king.
The young prince was so ashamed, and was looking down so penitently, that he did not see the smile on Frederick’s face, and the affectionate look with which he regarded the youthful sinner.
“Do you know that you deserve to be imprisoned fourteen days, and live on bread and water, for insubordination?”
“I know it now, sire. I beg pardon most humbly,” said the prince, with quivering voice and with tears in his eyes. “I have been punished enough, without that. Herr Behnisch would not let me go to the garden again, and I have never seen the eggs which I spent my last groschen for, nor the boys whom I had invited. I was made to stay in my room all Easter week, learn twenty Latin words every day, and write three pages of German words in good handwriting. It was a hard punishment, but I knew that I deserved it, and did not complain. I only thought that I would do better in future.”
“If you thought so, and you have already been punished, we will say no more about it,” said the king. “But tell me, how did you get on at Whitsuntide, when the officers paid you their respects again?”
“Your majesty,” answered the prince, “it was a great deal better; I behaved tolerably well, except a very little rudeness, which was not so bad after all. [Footnote: The little prince’s own words.—See “Diary of Prince Frederick William,” p. 18.] Herr Behnisch did not punish me; he only said, another time, that I should do better, and not be so taciturn, but greet the gentlemen in a more friendly manner. I must tell you, sire, that when Herr Behnisch does not scold, it is a sure sign that I have behaved pretty well; and this time he did not.”
“Fritz, I believe you,” said the king, “and you shall have the reward that you asked for—stay here and play a little while. Go, now, and call your tutor; I have a few words to say to him.”
The little prince sprang toward the door, but suddenly stopped, embarrassed.
“What is the matter?” asked the king. “Why do you not call your tutor?”
“Sire, I am very much troubled. Herr Behnisch will be very angry when you tell him about the shuttlecock. I beg you not to betray me!”
“Yes, but if you will play before me, you must get the plaything which you say is in his pocket.”
“Sire, then I had rather not play,” cried the prince.
“On the contrary,” said the king, “your punishment shall be, to take the plaything as cleverly out of the pocket as you put it in. If you do it well, then I will say nothing about it; but, if your tutor discovers you, then you must submit to the storm. It lies in your own hands. Whilst I am conversing with the tutor, try your luck. Now call him in.”
The prince obeyed thoughtfully, and the tutor entered. He stood near the door, and made the three prescribed bows; then he waited with a submissive air for further commands.
The king was sitting opposite the door, his hands folded upon his staff and his chin resting upon his hands, looking the tutor full in the face. Herr Behnisch bore it calmly; not a feature moved in his angular, wooden face. Near the tutor stood the little prince, his graceful, rosy, childlike face expressing eager expectation.
“Approach!” said the king.
Herr Behnisch stepped forward a little, and remained standing. The prince glided noiselessly after him, keeping his eyes fixed on the tails of the flesh-colored satin coat with which the tutor had adorned himself for this extraordinary occasion. The prince smiled as he saw the pocket open and the feathers of the shuttlecock peeping out. He stretched out his little hand and crooked his fingers to seize it.
“Come nearer! Herr Behnisch,” said Frederick, who had observed the movement of the little prince, and who was amused at the thought of keeping him in suspense a little longer.
Herr Behnisch moved forward, and the prince, frightened, remained standing with outstretched hand. He menaced the king with a glance of his bright blue eyes. Frederick caught the look, smiled, and turned to the tutor.
“I believe it is three years since you commenced teaching the little prince?” said the king.
“At your service, your majesty, since 1775.”
“A tolerably long time,” said the king—“long enough to make a savant of a child of Nature. You have been faithful, and I am satisfied. The copybooks which you sent me according to my orders are satisfactory. I wished to acquaint you myself of my satisfaction, therefore I sent for you.”
“Your majesty is very condescending,” said the tutor, and his sharp, angular face brightened a little. “I am very happy in the gracious satisfaction of your royal highness. I wished also to make known to you personally my wishes in regard to the petition for the little prince’s pocket-money; he should learn the use of money.”
“Very well,” said the king, nodding to the prince, who stood behind the tutor, holding up triumphantly the shuttle cock.
Yet, the most difficult feat remained to be accomplished. The battledoor was in the very depths of the pocket; only the point of the handle was visible.
“Your majesty,” cried Herr Behnisch, who had taken the approving exclamation of “very well” to himself—“your majesty, I am very happy that you have the grace to approve of my petition for pocket-money.”
“Yes, I think it well,” said the king, “that the prince should learn not to throw money out of the window. I will send you, monthly, for the prince, two Fredericks d’or, and, before you hand it over to him, change it into small pieces, that there may be a great pile of it.” [Footnote: The king’s own words—See “Confidential Letters.”]
Just at that moment the prince tried to seize the battle door. Herr Behnisch felt the movement, and was on the point of turning around, when Frederick stopped him, by saying, “I believe it is time to commence a regular course of instruction for the prince. At eight years of age the education of an heir to the throne must progress rapidly, and be regulated by fixed principles. I will write out my instructions, that you may always have them before you.”
“It will be my most earnest endeavor to follow your majesty’s commands to the letter,” answered the tutor, who saw not the little prince, with beaming face, behind him, swinging the battledoor high in the air.
“I am about to enter upon a new war; no one knows if he will ever return from a campaign. I dare not spare my life, when the honor and fame of my house are at stake. Our life and death, however, are in God’s hands. Before we risk our lives, we should put every thing in order, and leave nothing undone which it is our duty to do. I will write my instructions to-day, and send them to you. Promise me, upon your word of honor as a man, that you will act upon them, as long as you are tutor to Prince Frederick William, even if I should not return from the campaign.”
“I promise it to your majesty,” answered the tutor. “I will, in all things, according to the best of my ability, follow your majesty’s instructions.”
“I believe you; I take you to be an honorable man,” said the king. “You will always be mindful of the great responsibility which rests upon you, as you have a prince to educate who will one day govern a kingdom, and upon whom the weal and woe of many millions are dependent. And when those millions of men one day bless the king whom you have educated, a part of the blessing will fall upon you; but when they curse him, so falls the curse likewise upon your guilty head, and you will feel the weight of it, though you may be in your grave! Be mindful of this, and act accordingly. Now you may depart. I will write the instructions immediately, so that you may receive them to-day.”
Herr Behnisch bowed, backing out toward the door.
“One thing more,” cried the king, motioning with his Staff to the tutor. “In order that you may ever remember our interview, I will present you with a souvenir.”
He opened the drawer of his private writing-table, and took out a gold snuff-box, with his initials set in brilliants upon the cover; handing it to Herr Behnisch, he motioned him to retire, and thus spare him the expression of his gratitude.
“Your majesty,” stammered Herr Behnisch, with tears in his eyes, “I—”
“You are an honest man, and so long as you remain so, you can count upon me. Adieu!—Now,” said the king, as the door closed, “have you recovered the plaything?”
“Here it is, your majesty,” shouted the prince, as he held up triumphantly the battledoor and shuttlecock high in the air.
“You deserve your reward, and you shall have it. You can stay with me and play with it here. Take care and not make too much noise, as I wish to write.”
The king now seated himself, to draw up the instructions for Herr Behnisch. While he was thus occupied, the little prince tossed his shuttlecock, springing lightly after it on tiptoe to catch it; sometimes he missed it, and then he cast an imploring look at the king, as it fell upon the furniture; but he observed it not. He was absorbed in writing the instructions for the education of the future king, Frederick William III. The physical education of the prince was his first care. He dwelt upon the necessity of the frequent practice of dancing, fencing, and riding, to give suppleness, grace, and a good carriage—through severe training, to make him capable of enduring all hardships. The different branches of study next occupied the king. “It is not sufficient,” he wrote, “that the prince should learn the dates of history, to repeat them like a parrot; but he must understand how to compare the events of ancient times with the modern, and discover the causes which produced revolutions, and show that, generally, in the world, virtue is rewarded and vice punished. Later, he can learn a short course of logic, free from all pedantry; then study the orations of Cicero and Demosthenes, and read the tragedies of Racine. When older, he should have some knowledge of the opinions of philosophers, and the different religious sects, without inspiring him with dislike for any one sect. Make it clear to him that we all worship God—only in different ways. It is not necessary that he should have too much respect for the priests who instruct him.”
The shuttlecock fell, at this instant, upon the paper upon which the king was writing. Frederick was too much occupied to look up, but he threw it upon the floor, continuing to write:
“The great object will be to awaken a love of learning in the prince, to prevent any approach to pedantry, and not to make the course of instruction too severe at the commencement. We now come to the chief division of education, that which concerns the morals. Neither you nor all the power in the world would be sufficient to alter the character of a child. Education can do nothing further than moderate the violence of the passions. Treat my nephew as the son of a citizen, who has to make his own fortune. Say to him that, when he commits follies, and learns nothing, the whole world will despise him. Let him assume no mannerisms, but bring him up simply. The—”
It was the second time the shuttlecock fell upon the paper. The king looked up censuringly at the prince, who stood speechless with fright and anxiety. The king again threw it upon the floor, and wrote on:
“The prince must be polite toward every one; and if he is rude, he must immediately make an apology. Teach him that all men are equal—that high birth is a myth when not accompanied with merit. Let the prince speak with every one, that he may gain confidence. It is of no consequence if he talks nonsense; every one knows that he is a child. Take care in his education, above all things, that he is self-reliant, and not led by others; his follies, as well as his good qualities, should belong to himself. It is of very great importance to inspire him with a love for military life; and for this reason say to him, and let him hear others say it, that every man who is not a soldier is a miserable fellow, whether noble or not. He must see the soldiers exercise as often as possible; and it would be well to send for five or six cadets, and have them drill before him. Every thing depends upon cultivating a taste for these things. Inspire him with a love of our country, above all things. Let no one speak to him who is not truly patriotic.”
Again the shuttlecock fell upon the paper. The little prince uttered a cry of horror, staring at the plaything. This time the king did not receive the interruption so calmly. He looked at the speechless boy as if very angry; then took it and put it in his pocket. Casting another angry glance at the prince, he continued:
“The officers who dine with the prince shall tease and annoy him, that he may become confident.”
“Your majesty,” said the prince, timidly and imploringly, “I beg pardon a thousand times for being so awkward. I am sorry, and I will be more careful in the future.”
The king paid no attention to him, but continued to write: “When you understand him better, try to learn his chief passion to uproot it, but to moderate it.” [Footnote: This entire instruction is an exact translation of the original, which Frederick drew up in French, and which is included in his “Complete Works.”]
“My dear lord and king,” began the prince again, “I beg you will have the goodness to give me my shuttlecock.”
The king was silent, and with apparent indifference commenced reading over what he had written.
Prince Frederick William waited a long time, but, on receiving no answer, and understanding that his pleading was in vain, his face grew red with anger, and his eyes flashed. With an irritated, determined manner, he stepped close up to the king, his hands resting upon his hips. “Your majesty,” cried he, with a menacing tone, “will you give me my ball or not?”
The king now looked up at the prince, who regarded him in an insolent, questioning manner. A smile, mild as the evening sunset, spread over the king’s face; he laid his hand lovingly upon the curly head of the prince, saying: “They will never take away Silesia from you. Here is your shuttlecock.” He drew it from his pocket, and gave it to the little prince, who seized his hand and pressed it to his lips.
Wilhelmine Enke passed the remainder of the day, after her meeting with the king, in anguish and tears. She recalled all that he had said to her, every word of which pierced her to the heart. Her little daughter of seven years tried in vain to win a smile from her mamma with her gentle caresses. In vain she begged her to sing to her and smile as she was wont to do. The mother, usually so kind and affectionate, would today free herself from her child, and sent her away with quivering lip, and tears in her eyes, to listen to her nurse’s stories.
Once alone, Wilhelmine paced her room with rapid strides and folded arms, giving vent to her repressed anguish. She reviewed her life, with all its changing scenes. It was a sad, searching retrospection, but in it she found consolation and excuse for herself. She thought of her childhood; she saw the gloomy dwelling where she had lived with her parents, brothers, and sisters. She recalled the need and the want of those years—the sickly, complaining, but busy mother; the foolish, wicked father, who never ceased his constant exercise of the bugle, except to take repeated draughts of brandy, or scold the children. Then she saw in this joyless dwelling, in which she crouched with her little sisters, a young girl enter, and greet them smilingly. She wore a robe glittering with gold, with transparent wings upon her shoulders. This young girl was Wilhelmine’s older sister, Sophie, who had just returned from the Italian opera, where she was employed. She still had on her fairy costume in which she had danced in the opera of “Armida,” and had come, with a joyous face, to take leave of her parents, and tell them that a rich Russian count loved her, and wanted to marry her; that in the intervening time he had taken a beautiful apartment for her, where she would remove that very evening. She must bid them farewell, for her future husband was waiting for her in the carriage at the door.
Sophie laughed at her grumbling father, shook hands with her weeping mother, and bent to kiss the children. Wilhelmine, in unspeakable anguish, sprang after her, holding her fast, with both hands clinching the crackling wings. She implored her sister to take her with her, while the tears ran in streams down her cheeks. “You know that I love you,” she cried, “and my only pleasure is to see you every day. Take me with you, and I will serve and obey you, and be your waiting-maid.” Wilhelmine held the wings firmly with a convulsive grasp, and continued to weep and implore, until Sophie at last laughingly yielded.
“Well, come, if you will be my waiting-maid; no one combs hair as well as you, and your simple style of arranging it suits me better than any other. Come, come, it shall be arranged, you shall be my waiting-maid.”
The pictures of memory changed, and Wilhelmine saw herself in the midst of splendor, as the poor little maid, unnoticed by her brilliant sister, the beloved of the Russian Count Matuschko. Joy and pleasure reigned in the beautifully gilded apartment where Sophie lived. She was the queen of the feasts and the balls. Many rich and fine gentlemen came there, and the beautiful Sophie, the dancer, the affianced of Count Matuschko, received their homage. No one observed the sad little waiting-maid, in her dark stuff dress, with her face bound up in black silk, as if she had the toothache. She wore the cast-off morning dresses of her sister, and, at her command, bound her face with the black silk, so that the admirers of her sister should not see, by a fugitive glance, or chance meeting, the budding beauty of the little maid.
Wilhelmine dared not enter the saloon when visitors were there; only when Sophie was alone, or her artistic hand was needed to arrange her sister’s beautiful hair, was she permitted to stay with the future countess. Every rough touch was resented with harsh words, blows, and ill-treatment. The smiling fairy of the drawing-room, was the harsh, grim mistress for her sister, whose every mistake was punished with unrelenting severity. In fact, she was made a very slave; and now, after long years, the remembrance of it even cast a gloomy shadow over Wilhelmine’s face, and her eyes flashed fire.
Another picture now rose up before her soul, which caused her face to brighten, as a beautiful beaming image presented itself, the image of her first and only love! She lived over again the day when it rose up like a sun before her wondering, admiring gaze, and yet it was a stormy day for her. Sophie was very angry with her, because in crimping her hair she had burnt her cheek, which turned the fairy into a fury. She threw the weak child upon the floor, and beat and stamped upon her.
Suddenly a loud, angry voice commanded her to cease, and a strong, manly arm raised the trembling, weeping girl, and with threatening tone bade Sophie be quiet. Prince Frederick William of Prussia took compassion on the poor child. The sister had not remarked him in her paroxysm of rage; had never heard him enter. He had been a witness to Wilhelmine’s ill-treatment. He now defended her, blaming her sister for her cruelty to her, and declared his intention to be her future protector. How handsome he looked; how noble in his anger; how his eyes flashed as he gazed upon her, who knelt at his feet, and kissed them, looking up to him as her rescuer!
“Wilhelmine, come with me; I do not wish you to remain here,” said he; “your sister will never forgive you that I have taken your part. Come, I will take you to your parents, and provide for you. You shall be as beautiful and accomplished a lady as your sister, but, Heaven grant, a more generous and noble-hearted one! Come!”
These words, spoken with a gentle, winning voice, had never died away in her heart. Twelve years had passed since then, and they still rang in her ear, in the tumult of the world as well as in the quiet of her lonely room. They had comforted her when the shame of her existence oppressed her; rejoiced her when, with the delight of youth and happiness, she had given herself up to pleasure. She had followed him quietly, devotedly, as a little dog follows his master. He had kept his word; he had had her instructed during three years, and then sent her to Paris, in order to give her the last polish, the tournure of the world, however much it had cost him to separate from her, or might embarrass him, with his scanty means, to afford the increase of expense. A year elapsed and Wilhelmine returned a pleasing lady, familiar with the tone of the great world, and at home in its manners and customs.
The prince had kept his word—that which he had promised her as he took her from her sister’s house, to make her a fine, accomplished lady. And when he repeated to her now “Come,” could she refuse him—him to whom she owed every thing, whom she loved as her benefactor, her teacher, her friend, and lover? She followed him, and concealed herself for him in the modest little dwelling at Potsdam. For him she lived in solitude, anxiously avoiding to show herself publicly, that the king should never know of her existence, and in his just anger sever the unlawful tie which bound her to the Prince of Prussia. [Footnote: “Memoirs of the Countess Lichtenau,” p. 80.] Wilhelmine recalled the past seven years of her life, her two children, whom she had borne to the prince, and the joy that filled his heart as he became a father, although his lawful wife had also borne him children. She looked around her small, quiet dwelling, arranged in a modest manner, not as the favorite of the Prince of Prussia, but as an unpretending citizen’s wife; she thought how oft with privations, with want even, she had had to combat; how oft the ornaments which the prince had sent her in the rare days of abundance had been taken to the pawnbrokers to provide the necessary wants of herself and children. Her eyes flashed with pride and joy at the thought which she dared to breathe to herself, that not for gold or riches, power or position, had she sold her love, her honor, and her good name.
“It was from pure affinity, from gratitude and affection, that I followed the husband of my heart, although he was a prince,” she said.
Still the shame of her existence weighed upon her. The king had commanded her to hide her head so securely that no one might know her shame, or the levity of the prince.
“Go! and let me never see you again!”
Did not this mean that the king would remove her so far that there would not be a possible chance to appear again before him? Was there not hidden in these words a menace, a warning? Would not the king revenge on her the sad experiences of his youth? Perhaps he would punish her for what Doris Ritter had suffered! Doris Ritter! She, too, had loved a crown prince—she, too, had dared to raise her eyes to the future King of Prussia, for which she was cruelly punished, though chaste and pure, and hurled down to the abyss of shame for the crime of loving an heir to the throne. Beaten, insulted, and whipped through the streets, and then sent to the house of correction at Spandau! Oh, poor, unhappy Doris Ritter! Will the king atone to you—will he revenge the friend of his youth on the mistress of his successor? The old King Frederick, weary of life, thinks differently from the young crown prince. He can be as severe as his father, cruel and inexorable as he.
“Doris Ritter! Thy fate haunts me. On the morrow I also may be whipped through the streets, scorned, reviled by the rabble, and then sent to Spandau as a criminal. Did not the king threaten me with the house of correction, with the spinning-wheel, which he would have ready for me?”
At the thought of it a terrible anguish, a nameless despair, seized her. She felt that the spinning-wheel hung over her like the sword of Damocles, ready at the least occasion to fall upon her, and bind her to it. She felt that she could not endure such suspense and torture; she must escape; she must rescue herself from the king’s anger.
“But whither, whither! I must fly from here, from his immediate proximity, where a motion of his finger is sufficient to seize me, to cause me to disappear before the prince could have any knowledge of it, before he could know of the danger which threatened me. I must away from Potsdam!”
The prince had arranged a little apartment in Berlin for the winter months, which she exchanged for Potsdam in the spring. This seemed to offer her more security for the moment, for she could fly at the least sign of danger, could even hide herself from the prince, if it were necessary to save him and herself. Away to Berlin, then! That was the only thought she was able to seize upon. Away with her children, before misfortune could reach them!
She sprang to the door, tore it open, rushing to the nurse, upon whose knees the baby slept, near whom her little daughter knelt. With trembling hands she took her boy and pressed him to her heart. “Louisa, we must leave here immediately; it is urgent necessity!” said she, with quivering lip. “Do not say a word about it to any one, but hasten; order quickly a wagon, bargain for the places, and say we must set off at once. The wagon must not be driven to the door, but we will meet it at the Berlin Gate. We will go on foot there, and get in. Quick, Louisa, not a word—it must be!”
The servant did not dare to oppose her mistress, or contradict the orders, but hastened to obey them.
“It is all the old king’s fault,” said Louisa to herself, as she hurried through the street. “Yes, the king has ordered mistress to Berlin. He looked so furious, the old bear! His eyes flashed so terribly, one might well fear him, and I thanked Heaven when mamselle sent me home from the park. It is coming to a bad end at last; I should have done better not to have taken the place at all. Oh, if we were only away from here; if I only could find a wagon to take us!”
Thanks to the nurse’s fears and endeavors, the wagon was soon found, and scarcely an hour had passed before Wilhelmine Enke, her two children and nurse, were hidden under a plain linen-covered wagon, and on their way to Berlin.
The street was unusually animated, as the division of troops which the king had reviewed in Berlin, were marching out of the city to report themselves on the Bavarian frontier. Their first night’s quarters were to be in Potsdam, and the last great parade was to take place there on the following morning, before the king commenced his journey. The driver had often to halt at the side of the street to let the troops pass, which with a full band of music, came marching on. At the head of one of the regiments, mounted upon a fiery steed, was a general in brilliant uniform, his breast covered with orders, which glittered in the sun. He was tall and rather corpulent, but appeared to advantage. His carriage was proud and imposing, his face was almost too youthful for a general, and his body too corpulent for the expressive and delicate features. As he passed by the poor, unpretending carriage, where Wilhelmine sat with her children, she heard distinctly his beautiful, sonorous voice, and merry laugh. “Oh Heaven, it is he!—it is he!” she murmured, drawing herself farther back into the wagon with her children. Just then, out of an opening in the linen cover, Louisa peeped, whispering, “Mamselle, it is the Prince of Prussia!”
“Be quiet—for mercy’s sake be quiet, Louisa, that we may not be remarked!” said Wilhelmine, gently. “Take the child that he may not scream, for if the prince should hear him he will turn back. He knows the voice of his little son!”
“Yes, he knows the voice of his little son!” muttered the nurse, as she laid the child to her breast. “The little son must stop here on the street, in a miserable wagon, while his noble father rides past, so splendid and glittering with gold, not knowing that his little boy is so near him. Oh, a real trouble and a real heart-sorrow is this!”
“Indeed it is,” said Wilhelmine, in her heart, “a real trouble and a real heart-sorrow. How all these men would present arms, and salute my children, if they had been born to a throne instead of obscurity! How they would bow and bend, if I were called Louisa of Hesse-Darmstadt, and the lawful wife of the prince! Did they not also bend and bow before the first wife, Elizabeth von Braunschweig, [Footnote: The first wife of Prince Frederick William of Prussia was the Princess Elizabeth von Braunschweig, the niece of Frederick the Great. The crown prince was scarcely twenty-one years of age when betrothed to her. After four years they were separated, on account of the improper conduct of the princess, who was banished to Stettin. There she lived until her death in 1840, after seventy-one years of imprisonment. Never during these seventy-one years had the Princess ‘Lisbeth’, as she was called, dared to leave Stettin. There she was obliged to amuse herself. Her concerts and evening entertainments were celebrated. The second wife of the crown prince of Prussia was Louisa of Hesse-Darmstadt, the mother of Frederick William III. She died in 1805.] although every one knew of her shameful conduct—knew of her intrigues with lackeys and common soldiers? Do they not now bow before her, although she is banished to Stettin for her infamous conduct, and lives there a prisoner? A fine imprisonment that! The whole town is her prison, and when she appears in public every one stands upon the street to salute the crown princess of Prussia. But when they see me they pass carelessly by, or they look at me with a contemptuous laugh, and fancy themselves miracles of virtue, and free from sin. My only crime is that my father was not a prince, and that I am of low birth. Am I to blame for that—to blame that the man whom I love, and who loves me, cannot marry me and make me his lawful wife?”
“Ho! gee, ho!” cried the driver to his horses. “Get up!” The troops had passed, the highway was now free, and uninterrupted rolled the heavy, creaking wagon into Berlin. Within all was quiet. The two children and nurse were asleep. The driver was half asleep, his head hung shaking about; only now and then he started to give his horses a crack, which the thin, wheezing animals did not heed in the least. Wilhelmine alone slept not; in her soul there was no quiet, no peace. She grumbled at fate, and at mankind. An unspeakable anxiety seized her for the immediate future, and fear of the king’s anger. As the sun was setting they reached Berlin, and were entering the town, when the guard, in royal livery, sprang through the gate, calling, in a loud voice, to the wagon, “Halt—halt! Turn out of the way!” Then was heard the call of the sentinel, and the roll of the drums. An equipage, drawn by six black steeds, drove past. A pale, young wife, splendidly attired, leaned back in the carriage, and the little flag-bearer, Prince Frederick William, was by her side; on the seat opposite sat the second son, Prince Louis, and the lord steward. In this beautiful equipage drove the Princess of Prussia; at her side, in a miserable linen-covered wagon, crouching far in the corner, sat Wilhelmine Enke, the rival of the princess; near her, her two children, whose existence condemned her, and stamped her life with dishonor. Like a dream the brilliant apparition rushed past Wilhelmine, and it haunted her through the long streets, to the humble home where she sought a temporary refuge. And when finally alone, in her own room, where no one could spy into her face, nor understand her words, there broke forth from her soul a long-repressed wrong. She stood erect; a proud, insolent smile played around her mouth. “I am his wife, too; I alone am his beloved wife,” said she, with a loud, triumphant voice, “and my children are his only truly-beloved children, for they are those of his love. How proudly she drove past me! How beautiful is her pale face, and how interesting her sad smile! She in sunlight, and I in shade! She knows that I am her rival, but she is not mine. No, the Princess of Prussia cannot rival Wilhelmine Enke. I have no fear of her. But the king I have to fear,” cried she suddenly, shrinking with terror. In the meeting with the princess she had forgotten him, her anguish, her anxiety for the future. All were forgotten for the moment—to be recalled with renewed terror.
“Thank Heaven,” she said, “I have escaped. For the moment I am safe! What will the prince do, when he finds that we have fled from Potsdam? Will he divine where we have gone? Will he come to seek me? If he still loves me—if I am really the happy rival of his wife and every other court lady—yes, then he will come. Then he will know where to find his Wilhelmine. But if it is true, what malicious people have repeated to me, with feigned sympathy, that the prince loves another—that he has withdrawn his love from me, is indifferent and cold—then he will not seek me; then I shall remain here alone!—alone, with my children, this long, fearful night! What, then, if I am alone? No, oh, no! I will not believe that I am forsaken. These are wicked thoughts which haunt me—only the agitation of this dreadful day, which imagination has overwrought. Rise up and be strong! Go to thy children,” said she, “and read in their eyes that he can never leave thee!”
Forcing herself to composure, she sought her children; found Louisa humming and singing her little boy to sleep, and her daughter nodding, on a low stool at her feet.
“Come, my child, I will put you to sleep,” said the mother, lifting her in her arms. “Your mother will make your bed softly. When you sleep and speak with the angels, intercede for us all.”
With tender care she undressed her and bore her gently in her arms to her bed, and, kneeling before it, breathed a prayer over her sleeping child; then bent over the cradle of her son, blessing and kissing him. “Sleep my boy, sleep. I know not that I shall ever see thy beautiful eyes open again—whether I shall ever again press thee to my heart. Who can tell if they may not come this very night to remove me to prison—to punish me for you, my children, my beloved children!—Be calm, be calm! I shall remain here until morning, at least,” added she.
She turned to the nurse, who, with anxious face and folded hands, stood at the farthest corner of the room. “Go, now, Louisa—go, and take something to eat. You must be hungry and tired. Buy at the next store what you need; but do not stop to talk with any one or repeat my name. Then return quickly, and take care of the children. Do not trouble yourself about me—I need nothing more.”
“But you must eat something, mamselle; you must have some supper!”
Wilhelmine shook her head, refusing, and returned quickly to her own room.