Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Volume 68, No. 421, November 1850

ANNA HAMMER. ⁴⁴

The literature of Germany at last shows signs of revival from the torpor consequent on the late political convulsions, and the Leipzig book-catalogue for Michaelmas 1850 is far more promising than any of its predecessors since the revolutions of 1848. Out of a number of meritorious German books that have recently come before us, we have been much interested by the first instalment of a series of Zeitbilder– sketches of German social and political life during the second quarter of the present century. Anna Hammer is certainly the best we have seen of the numerous German novels of a political tendency published within the last two years. Its object is the exposure, in the course of a fictitious narrative, of the oppression and injustice which, in many German states, the people have long endured; of the wanton insolence of the military and aristocracy, the servility and corruption of the courtiers and placemen, and the frequent tyranny of the sovereigns. The book is a picture of misrule; and if, here and there, high colouring may be suspected, on the other hand most of the abuses shown up are but too real and notorious. It is written with temper and moderation, and points to redress of grievances and to constitutional government – not to subversion and anarchy. The author is no experienced novelist, nor does he pretend to that character; but he writes with a thorough knowledge of his subject, and also with much spirit and dramatic effect, preferring short sentences and pointed dialogue to the long-winded paragraphs and tedious narrative common amongst the romance-writers of his country, to whom he has evidently preferred for his models those of France and England. We augur favourably of this escape from the trammels of custom, and hope to see the example followed by others. In the present instance, the result has been a very lively tale, more than one of whose chapters would stand alone as detached and independent sketches of German life. Annexed to the tolerably intricate plot, are episodical scenes, the actors in which are dismissed without ceremony when they have fulfilled the purpose of their introduction – this purpose being the exhibition of the character and peculiarities of the classes they typify. Thus, for instance, of the persons in the second chapter of the novel we hear no more until the third volume; of some of them nothing is seen until the closing scene of all, when they appear – without, however, being dragged in – to figure in the final group on which the curtain falls. There is certainly a want of art in the construction of Anna Hammer; but this is in some degree atoned for by vividness and character, much rarer qualities with German novelists. An idea of its merits will be best conveyed by extract, for which it is well adapted by its abundant incident and desultory nature. We commence with the opening pages, a graphic sketch of garrison life.

On a warm April afternoon, three cavalry officers were seated together in the only inn of a small German town. Two of them sat at the table. One of these had one leg crossed over the other; his companion had both legs stretched out at full length before him. The third sat at the window. All three were smoking; two of them cigars, the third a huge meerschaum pipe. All three were silent. He whose legs were crossed played with his spur, and spun the rowel till it rang again. Number Two gazed at his great pipe, and at the clouds that he puffed from it. Number Three looked through the window at the clouds which the wind drove across the sky.

A weary life is that of cavalry officers in small garrisons. One hour of the twenty-four is passed in the riding-school; another in drilling recruits; a quarter of an hour is consumed in inspection of stables – and then the day's work is done, and all the other hours are before them, vacant, but heavy as lead. Only one squadron is there; it comprises, at most, but four or five officers. These were at the military school together. Their subjects of conversation – horses and dogs, women, and the army-list – are long since worn out. The nearest garrison is too remote for friendly visits. With non-commissioned officers, discipline and etiquette forbid their association. The little town affords them no society. The small, quiet, and often narrow-minded family circle of burghers and officials shuns intimacy with the officers. They meet them at the tavern and bowling-alley, and at the club, if there is one: in public places, with their wives and children, they do not willingly consort with them; and in their houses they receive them not. There are certainly a few noble families in the neighbourhood; but these are not all sociable; and those who would gladly be hospitable have been too much so, and can be so no longer. Now and then comes an invitation to a shooting party – but there is no shooting in April.

The three officers – all lieutenants and young men, of graceful figures and energetic countenances – sat for a long while still and silent. The postman entered the low-roofed apartment. He laid upon the table the latest newspaper from the capital, and departed, without a word. The officers neither moved nor spoke. At last one of them stretched out his arm and took up the paper, slowly, almost mechanically; the two others gave no heed. The former glanced over the paper, – beginning at the last page, with the deaths, marriages, and advertisements. In a few minutes he had got to the end – that is to say, to the beginning – and he threw the paper lazily upon the table.

"Nothing new!" said he, gaping; and again he twirled his spur-rowel.

"As usual!" said his neighbour.

The third took no notice.

For a while longer they sat mute and motionless, till the cigars were finished, and the meerschaum-bowl smoked out. Fresh cigars were then lighted, and again the pipe was filled. At the same time the officers rose from their seats, and took a few steps through the apartment.

"Slow work!" said one.

"Damned slow!" replied another. The third looked wearily at his boots. Then they all three relapsed into their seats and their silence.

The sun set. Its last rays illumined the shifting masses of cloud, which piled themselves up into fantastical forms, displaying rich variety of tint. It grew dark in the dingy tavern-room. The clouds from the great meerschaum could scarcely be discerned. The ennui increased.

A waiter brought in two dimly-burning tallow candles, and placed them upon the table. The ennui did not diminish.

The tramp of horses was heard without. It came down the street, in the direction of the tavern. The countenances of the three officers became animated.

"Can it be the captain back already?" cried one, half surprised.

"Impossible; though he rode like the very devil, he could not be back for another hour."

"But there are two horses, an officer's and his servant's; I know it by sound of hoof."

The third officer looked round at the two speakers. "It is not the captain," he said positively. "The captain's black charger has a lighter tread. Yonder officer's horse goes heavily."

They all rose and went to the window. Two horsemen rode slowly up the street; one at an interval of a few paces behind the other.

"By Jove! an officer and his servant!" said one of the lieutenants.

The other nodded assent.

"Who can it be? Whither can he be going?"

None could answer the questions.

The foremost rider drew rein before the house. "Is this an inn?" demanded he through the open door. Host, waiter, hostler, all stumbled out together.

"May it so please you!" replied the host, humbly.

Meanwhile the officer's servant had ridden up and jumped from his horse. The officer also dismounted. The hostler would have taken his bridle. The officer pushed him back so roughly, that he staggered and fell. "Clown, how dare you touch my horse?"

The servant took the bridle from his master, and gave the unfortunate hostler a kick in the rear as he rose to his legs.

"Does your lordship propose to remain here?" inquired the innkeeper, in a tone of deep submission.

The officer answered not. He patted his horse on neck and shoulder. Then he turned round to the host and said, briefly and imperiously, "A room!"

The three officers within doors looked at each other with increasing astonishment.

"Do you know him? Who is he?" asked one of them.

He was unknown to all of them.

"He wears the uniform of our regiment!" remarked another.

"That is unaccountable," said the third, shaking his head.

"The horse is nothing extraordinary: a mere campaigning beast."

"You would have him knock up his best chargers, I suppose? They have ridden far. The horses show that."

The room door opened.

"Be so obliging as to step in here for a short time," said the innkeeper. "Your apartment shall be got ready immediately. Here you will find some gentlemen comrades."

The stranger officer entered. He was a tall, slender, and yet powerful man, with features delicately chiselled, and an air of insolent superciliousness in his whole bearing and appearance. He greeted the occupants of the room with engaging courtesy.

"Ah! comrades!" said he, "I have the honour to introduce myself – Prince of Amberg! I am transferred to your regiment – to this squadron. I recommend myself to your friendship and good fellowship!"

The senior of the three officers continued the introduction: "Von der Gruben; Von Martini; my name is Count Engelhart. We are delighted to make a good comrade welcome." They shook hands.

"May I inquire," said Prince Amberg, "where the captain is, that I may report myself to him? Duty before everything."

"The captain is on an excursion in the neighbourhood, to visit an acquaintance," replied Count Engelhart. "We expect him back in about an hour. He will alight here. I am senior lieutenant of the squadron," added he, smiling.

"Then, meanwhile, I report myself to you," replied the Prince.

With a slight smile upon their faces, the two officers interchanged military salutes.

"Excuse me, for a short half-hour," said Prince Amberg. "After four days' fatiguing ride, I feel the necessity of attention to my toilet. Au revoir." And he left the room.

Whilst the Prince embellished his elegant person, the trio of lieutenants laid their heads together to conjecture the causes that had brought him, the model courtier, the butterfly guardsman, the pet of the court ladies, the most brilliant ornament of the court circle, from the attractive capital to their tedious country garrison. The change was too disadvantageous for it possibly to be the consequence of his own caprice or inclination. On his reappearance he volunteered, over a bowl of champagne punch, the desired information. He was in disgrace at court, in consequence of a trifling indiscretion. One of his new comrades immediately guessed what this was. Martini remembered to have seen in the newspaper an account of a scandalous frolic in a public garden, where a number of young officers of aristocratic families had grossly insulted the wives and daughters of the citizens. But Martini's mention of this incident was the signal for the laughter of his friends, who jeered him for his simplicity, and scouted the idea of a nobleman falling into disgrace because he had made free with a few prudish plebeians. A similar affair that had occurred at a masquerade, and which was attended by circumstances of gross indecency, was also treated as an excellent joke. If they could not divert themselves at the expense of the bourgeoisie, Prince Amberg said, what became of the distinction of ranks? The matters in question had furnished high amusement to the whole court: the ladies had laughed heartily behind their fans at the transgressors' glowing descriptions of the consternation and scandal they had caused; and the reigning prince, whom Amberg irreverently designated as "the old gentleman," took no heed of the matter, nor of the muttered discontent of the insulted burgesses. No; his disgrace was certainly for a trifling offence, but not for such harmless drolleries as these. At church, one day, he had ventured to remark to a lady of the household that she held her prayer-book upside down. The lady, who would fain have passed for a devotee, taxed him with impertinence, and with taking her perpetually for a butt; the pious portion of the court took up the matter, talked of irreligious levity in holy places, and the upshot of the whole was his condemnation to exile in country quarters.

Meanwhile arrivals took place at the inn. The officers' attention was excited by the entrance of a slender, sickly-looking youth of nineteen or twenty, bearing a knapsack and a harp, and accompanied by a dark-eyed maiden of fifteen. These were Bernard Hammer and his sister Anna. The first glance at the young girl's blooming countenance suggested to the profligate Amberg a plan of seduction. Whilst he paid his court to Anna, Martini and Gruben took off the brother's attention, plied him with punch, professed sympathy and friendship, and inquired his history and that of his family. Bernard and his sister, it appeared, were not itinerant musicians, as their humble garb and pedestrian mode of traveling had led the officers to believe. Their father, a skilful professor of music, had taught them to play upon the harp, and Anna, grateful for the seemingly disinterested kindness of Prince Amberg, did not refuse, weary though she was, to gratify him by the display of her skill. Meanwhile the others questioned her brother.

"My story will be very short," said the Young man. "We are three in family. My eldest sister was married young to a worthy and prosperous man, and by this union the happiness of all of us seemed insured. Suddenly she experienced a terrible affliction – "

He paused. "Well?" said Von Gruben, encouragingly. The youth opened his lips to continue.

"Bernard!" exclaimed his sister in a warning voice. She had ceased playing, and, amidst the flatteries and compliments of the Prince, her first glance was for her brother. Her quick ear seemed to have caught his words. Or had she a presentiment of what he was about to say?

The brother started, and the words he was on the point of uttering remained unspoken.

Von Gruben's curiosity, previously feigned, was now strongly excited. "You were about to say – ?" he observed. Martini's attention had been attracted by the maiden's exclamation. He, too, approached Bernard, who quickly recovered himself, and continued.

"My brother-in-law," he said, "is lost to my unhappy sister. She has no longer a husband. Spare me the details. They would be too agitating for myself and my little sister. His daughter's grief hurried my father to his grave. It bound his children the closer together. My old infirm mother, my poor sister with her child, and I, have since then lived inseparable, supporting ourselves by the labour of our hands. My sister works with her needle; I draw patterns for manufacturers and embroiderers. Unfortunately, my sister's health has lately given way, and therefore have I now been to fetch home Anna, who has hitherto dwelt with a distant relative. She will take charge of our little household, and nurse our old mother, now nearly bed-ridden."

"Much misery, great cause for grief, is there not, my dear Gruben?" said Martini, twisting his mustache. Then filling the glasses, he drank with Martini and the stranger. Count Engelhart sat motionless behind the punch-bowl, smoking his great meerschaum pipe.

Bernard Hammer's great ambition was to become a painter. He was an enthusiast for art. Whilst his perfidious entertainers kept his glass constantly full, and riveted his attention by their conversation and generous promises, Prince von Amberg, by dint of infernal cunning and of artifices whose real object the simple-minded girl – as yet scarcely emerged from childhood – could not even remotely suspect, inveigled Anna from the apartment. Her departure was unperceived by her brother. Presently, in a lull of the conversation, a scream was heard, proceeding from the upper part of the house. Bernard started up in alarm. The officers would fain have persuaded him to remain, alleging a squabble amongst the servants, when just then the cry was repeated. This time there was no mistaking the sound. It was a woman's voice, its shrillness and power doubled by terror, screaming for aid.

"My sister!" cried Bernard Hammer, and with one bound he was out of the room. Several persons – the host, the hostess, and other inmates of the house – were assembled in the corridor. They looked up the stairs, and seemed uncertain whether or not to ascend. Young Hammer rushed through them, and sprang up stairs. A door was violently pulled open. His sister darted out, her countenance distorted and pale as a corpse. "Wretch! monster! Save me!" she shrieked. Close behind her came Prince Amberg. He appeared quite calm, although his finely-cut features were slightly pale. A supercilious smile played upon his lips.

Anna Hammer flew into her brother's arms. "Save me, Bernard," she cried. "The wretch, the fiend!" She shook like a leaf. Prince Amberg would have passed on, but Bernard let his sister go, and confronted him.

"Sir!" he cried, "what have you done to my sister? What insult have you offered to the child? Answer for yourself! Give me satisfaction!"

The Prince laughed. "Satisfaction! Ask the little strumpet herself what ails her."

"Strumpet! Sir, you stir not hence!" And he grasped the Prince fiercely by the breast. Amberg would have shaken off his hold. The uniform coat was torn in the struggle, and Bernard received a blow in the face from his adversary. But it seemed as if the sickly youth were suddenly endowed with superhuman strength. He seized the Prince with both hands, and shook him till the strong vigorous officer almost lost consciousness. Then he threw him down upon the ground.

The other officers had followed young Hammer, and came hurrying up stairs. They tore him from above the panting Prince.

"Knave! clown!" And Gruben and Martini struck at him with their fists.

"Befoul not your fingers with him," said Count Engelhart. "Leave him to the men." And he pointed to a group of soldiers, now assembled at the stair-foot.

"You are right, comrade; the fellow is like a mad dog. It is out of his power to disgrace our uniform."

Then the officers seized the young man, and with their united strength threw him down stairs.

"Men! there is the strolling musician who dares assault your officers."

The soldiers received Bernard as he fell headlong down the staircase, and dragged him forth with shouts of savage joy, shutting the house-door behind them. The officers returned to their bowl of cardinal, Prince Amberg previously changing his torn uniform. The people of the house looked at each other in silence.

Anna Hammer had remained for a short time in a state of total unconsciousness. She came to herself just as her brother was pushed down the stairs. With a shriek, she flew after him. But she was too late. The soldiers were already forth with their prize, and in vain she shook the door, which was held from without.

In the street there arose a wild tumult; a chorus of shouts and curses, blows and screams.

Notwithstanding her terrible anxiety, the young girl's strength was soon exhausted by her fruitless efforts to open the door. She turned despairingly to the host and hostess. "For the love of God's mercy, save my poor brother! The savages will kill him. He is so weak, so suffering!"

The innkeeper shrugged his shoulders. "What can we do against the military?" he said.

"For the sake of my poor old mother!" implored the maiden. "For my sister's sake! He is our sole support! Without him we perish! And he is so good, so noble!"

The hostess went away, as though unable longer to support the spectacle of the poor girl's despair. Her husband shrugged his shoulders repeatedly. "The soldiery are too powerful. Often the officers themselves cannot restrain them."

The noise outside increased. The voices grew louder and the cries wilder – the scuffle more violent. Nothing could be distinguished of what was going on. Suddenly, above the riot and tumult, young Hammer's voice predominated. In a tone of heartrending agony and despair: "Help!" he cried; "they are murdering me!"

There followed a violent fall upon the pavement, and a wild huzza shouted by many voices. Then all was still as death.

"They have murdered him!" shrieked the maiden. "They have murdered my brother!"

She burst into the room in which the officers sat, and threw herself at the feet of the first she saw. "Save, save! Oh, for heaven's love, save my brother!"

"My little girl," quoth Lieutenant Martini in a tone of quiet jocularity, "it strikes me you are not at all wanted here."

Just then the loud and cheerful notes of a post-horn resounded in front of the house, and a carriage stopped at the door.

"A carriage at this late hour! Quite a day of adventures, I declare!" yawned Count Engelhart.

The house door was heard to open. A few seconds later, that of the public room was thrown wide, and a lady in an elegant travelling-dress was ushered in by the host. She was tall, rather full than slender in person, and apparently about five-and-twenty. Her complexion was fresh, her eyes were lively. Her air and bearing were those of the first society.

On her entrance Prince Amberg sprang from his seat in astonishment. "Frau von Horberg! Your ladyship, what an unhoped-for pleasure!"

"You here, Prince! – how unexpected a meeting!"

Anna Hammer rose to her feet. The thought of a last possible chance of succour and mercy flashed through her soul when she saw that the stranger was acquainted with the prince. Throwing herself before her, she clasped her knees. "Oh, most gracious lady," implored she, "have compassion on my poor brother: say one word for him to the gentleman, that he may free him from the soldiers' hands."

"Will the little toad be gone!" exclaimed Prince Amberg, stepping forward. Then, turning to the lady – "A harp-player, an impudent stroller, who has been making a disturbance here with her brother."

"Ah, fie!" cried the lady, and pushed the young girl from her with a sort of loathing – not with her hand, but with her foot.

Anna Hammer stood up. Feelings of inexpressible grief and bitterness crowded upon her young heart. At that moment she felt herself no longer a child. One hour's events had converted her into a woman. She cast a glance of scorn at the lady, at the officer. Then she silently left the room. She crossed the empty entrance hall, and passed through the open door into the street. Here all was still; not a living creature was to be seen. An icy wind blew. She sought around. A moonbeam, forcing its way through the scudding clouds, revealed to her a dark form lying along the side of the street. She approached this object. It was her brother; he was covered with blood, and did not stir. She threw herself upon his body. He still breathed.

Poor, unhappy sister!

At that moment an officer rode up. He drew bridle at the tavern door, dismounted, gave his horse to the orderly who followed him, and entered the house.

In the public room sat Prince Amberg, conversing with the lady in the familiar tone of old acquaintanceship. On the officer's entrance he sprang from his chair, buckled on his sabre in a twinkling, clapped his dragoon helmet upon his head, and stepped forward with all the rigid decorum of military discipline. "Captain, I report myself – Lieutenant Prince Amberg, appointed to your squadron!"

Habitual readers of German novels will assuredly deem Anna Hammer a great improvement on their usual ponderous style – a decided step in the right direction. Whatever its faults, it has a vivacity not common in German works of fiction. The above extracts, the beginning and end of the first chapter, although sketchy, and hurried, and reading as if written at a scamper, without much artistical finish, are very effective, and exhibit touches of acute observation and quiet humour. We like novels that at once plunge the reader into action and bustle, and crowd the stage with characters. Explanatory introductions and parenthetical explanations are alike odious. The author of Anna Hammer avoids both, and carries out his plan and shows off his personages by dialogue and incident. We have already remarked on his propensity abruptly to discard characters, whose careful introduction led the reader to expect their reappearance. Thus we thought to have again met with the three smoking lieutenants, but it seems they served their turn in the single chapter in which they are held up as examples of the brutality and depravity of their class. They are left to their pipes and their ennui, to their dull German newspaper, and their duller country inn. Even Prince Amberg, the profligate favourite of the equally profligate heir to the crown, is brought forward but once more, under mysterious circumstances, whose explanation is left in great measure to the reader's imagination. Madame von Horberg plays a rather more important, but still a subordinate part in the story, whose chief interest turns upon the courage and self-devotion of Anna Hammer. We shall not trace the plot in detail, which would spoil the interest to those who may read the book. Before glancing at its general outline, we proceed to further extract, and for that purpose need not go beyond the second chapter, which is in itself a little drama of considerable interest. It is entitled —