Frederick the Great and His Court Part 35

"What amount will be required?"

"If it is all executed as your majesty proposes, at least a million."

"Very well, a million is not too much to prepare a pleasure for the queen-mother."

"But," said Pollnitz, "will not your majesty make those poor people acquainted with their fate, and console them by a gracious word for being compelled to leave their homes? It has only been a short time since I was driven by the rain to take shelter in one of those houses, and it made me most melancholy, for I have never seen such want and misery. There were starving children, a woman dying of grief, and a drunken man. Truly as I saw this scene I longed to be a king for a few moments, that I might send a ray of happiness to brighten this gloomy house, and dry the tears of these wretched people."

"It must have been a most terrible sight if even Pollnitz was distressed by it," cried the king, whose n.o.ble countenance was overshadowed with sorrow. "Come, Jordan, we will visit this house, and you shall a.s.sist in alleviating the misery of its inhabitants. You, k.n.o.belsdorf, can occupy yourself in making a drawing of this place.

Lead the way, Pollnitz."

"My desire at last attained," thought Pollnitz, as he led the king across the common. "It has been most difficult to bring the king here, but I am confident my plan will succeed. Dorris Ritter doubtless expects us; she will have considered my words, and yielding to her natural womanly coquetry, she will have followed my counsel, and have made use of the clothing I sent her yesterday."

They now stood before the wretched house which Pollnitz had indicated.

"This house has truly a most gloomy appearance," said the king.

"Many sad tears have been shed here," said Pollnitz, with the appearance of deep sympathy.

The door of the shop was merely closed; the king pushed it open, and entered with his two companions. No one came forward to meet them; silence reigned in the deserted room.

"Permit me, your majesty, to go into that room and call the woman; she probably did not hear us enter."

"No, I will go myself," said the king; "it is well that I should occasionally seek out poverty in its most wretched hiding-place, that I may learn to understand its miseries and temptations."

"Ah! my king," said Jordan, deeply touched, "from to-day your people will no longer call you their king, but their father."

The king stepped quickly to the door which Pollnitz had pointed out; the two gentlemen followed, and remained standing behind him, glancing curiously over his shoulder.

The king crossed the threshold, and then stood motionless, gazing into the room. "Is it possible to live in such a den?" he murmured.

"Yes, it is possible," replied a low, scornful voice; "I live here, with misery for my companion."

The king was startled by this voice, and turned toward that side of the room from which it proceeded; only then seeing the woman who sat in the farthest corner. She remained motionless, her hands folded on her lap; her face was deadly pail, but of a singularly beautiful oval; the hair encircling her head in heavy braids, was of a light, s.h.i.+ning blond, and had almost the appearance of a halo surrounding her clear, pale face, which seemed illumined by her wonderful eyes.

"She has not made use of the things which I sent," thought Pollnitz; "but I see she understands her own advantages. She is really beautiful; she looks like a marble statue of the Virgin Mary in some poor village church."

The king still stood gazing, with an earnest and thoughtful expression, at this woman, who looked fixedly at him, as if she sought to read his thoughts. But he remained quiet, and apparently unmoved. Did the king recognize this woman? did he hear again the dying melodies of his early youth? was he listening to their sweet, but melancholy tones? Neither Pollnitz nor Dorris Ritter could discover this in his cold, proud face.

Jordan broke this silence by saying gently, "Stand up, my good woman, it is the king who is before you."

She rose slowly from her seat, but her countenance did not betray the least astonishment or pleasure.

"The king!" she said; "what does the king desire in this den of poverty and misery?"

"To alleviate both poverty and misery if they are undeserved," said the king softly.

She approached him quickly, and made a movement as if she would offer him her hand. "My wretchedness is undeserved," she said, "but not even a king can alleviate it."

"Let me, at least, attempt to do so. In what can I a.s.sist you?"

She shook her head sadly. "If King Frederick, the son of Frederick William the First, does not know, then I do not."

"You are poor, perhaps in want?"

"I do not know--it is possible," she said absently; "how can I among so many pains and torments distinguish between despair and anguish, and want and privation?"

"You have children?"

"Yes," she said, shuddering, "I have children, and they suffer from hunger; that I know, for they often pray to me for bread, when I have none to give them."

"Why does not their father take care of them; perhaps he is not living?"

"He lives, but not for us. He is wiser than I, and forgets his grief in drink, while I nourish the gnawing viper at my heart."

"You have, then, nothing to ask of me?" said the king, becoming indignant.

She gazed at him long and searchingly, with her great piercing eyes.

"No," she said harshly. "I have nothing to ask."

At this moment the door was thrown open, and the two children, Karl and Anna, ran in, calling for their mother; but they became silent on perceiving the strangers, and crept shyly to her side. Dorris Ritter was strangely moved by the appearance of her children; her countenance, which had borne so hard an expression, became mild and gentle. She grasped the hands of the two children, and with them approached the king.

"Yes, your majesty, I have a pet.i.tion to make. I implore your pity for my children. They are pure and innocent as G.o.d's angels; let not the shame and misery of their parents fall upon their heads. King Frederick, have pity on my children!"

And overcome by her emotions and her anguish, this unhappy woman sank with her children at the feet of the king. The king regarded her thoughtfully, then turned to Jordan.

"Jordan," said he, "to you I intrust the care of these children."

The wretched woman started to her feet, and pressed her children to her arms with an expression as terrified and full of agony as that of the n.o.ble and touching statue of the Greek Niobe.

"Ah! you would tear my children from me! No, no, I ask nothing; we need no mercy, no a.s.sistance; we will suffer together; do not separate us.

They would cease to love me; they would learn to despise me, their mother, who only lives in their presence; who, in the midst of all her sorrow and grief, thanks G.o.d daily upon her bended knees that he gave her these children, who alone have saved her from despair and death."

"You have uttered very wild and G.o.dless words," said the king. "You should pray to G.o.d to make your heart soft and humble. To be poor, to suffer from hunger, to have a drunken husband, are great misfortunes, but they can be borne if you have a pure conscience. Your children shall not be parted from you. They shall be clothed and taught, and I will also see what can be done for you. And now farewell."

And the king, bowing slightly, turned toward the door, and in doing so placed a few pieces of gold on the table. Dorris had watched every movement; she started wildly forward and seized the gold, which she handed to the king.

"Your majesty," she said, with flas.h.i.+ng eyes, "I only implored mercy for my children; I did not beg for myself. My sufferings cannot be wiped out with a few pieces of gold."

The countenance of the king a.s.sumed a most severe expression, and he threw an annihilating glance on this bold woman, who dared to oppose him.

"I did not give the gold to you, but to your children," he said; "you must not rob them." He then continued more gently: "If you should ever need and desire a.s.sistance, then turn to me; I will remember your poverty, not your pride. Tell me your name, therefore, that I may not forget."

The poor, pale woman glanced searchingly at him. "My name," she said thoughtfully, as if to herself, "King Frederick wishes to know my name.

I am called--I am called Anna Schommer."

And as she replied, she placed her hand upon the head of her little daughter, as if she needed a support. Thus she stood trembling, but still upright, with head erect, while the king and his suite turned toward the door. Her son, who had kept his eyes upon the king, now followed him and lightly touched his mantle.

His mother saw it, and raising her arm threateningly, while with the other she still supported herself by leaning on her child, she cried: "Do not touch him, my son. Kings are sacred."