Napoleon and the German Peasant
The French revolution was like an earthquake, which shook the Germans from their slumbers. The French swept through this country like a hurricane, hurling down many little states, and tearing…
From: 1804 C.E. To: 1842 C.E.
Location: Germany
Note: This article has been excerpted from a larger work in the public domain and shared here due to its historical value. It may contain outdated ideas and language that do not reflect TOTA’s opinions and beliefs.
“Social Life and Habits,” from The Rural and Domestic Life of Germany by William Howitt, 1842.
Before the French invasion, what an old-fashioned state must Germany have been in! The Germans are naturally a most contented people. Contented with their mode of living, the daily round of their pursuits, with the state of things as they find them. There is no people of the same numbers, or possessing a territory of the same extent in Europe, who have shewn themselves so little disturbed by a thirst of foreign conquest and aggrandisement. If their neighbours would but let them alone, they would never meddle with their neighbours. If they had had the restless military ambitious disposition of the French, what a condition would Europe have been in! They have quarreled and fought enough in all conscience amongst themselves. That seemed to be a legacy of their feudal system, and of the jealousies arising out of the choice of their emperors, out of first one family and then another; with all the internal changes in the government of different states which followed, as well as of the martial character and love of freedom inherited from their ancestors.
But beyond this, on almost all occasions, the Germans, as a people, have been the invaded and not invading nation. The Romans of old, and the French in more modern times, have overrun them, and have raised in them little other spirit than that of resisting and expelling their enemies, and then being quiet again. Nothing can be more demonstrative of this than that, notwithstanding the more aggressive character of Prussia and Austria, which give almost the only exceptions to the character just drawn, by the partition of Poland and the absorption of Hungary and Bohemia by the latter power, (for the Italian territories are part of the old imperial Frankish dominions), yet, at the period of the invasion of the French revolutionists, almost as many petty dynasties existed in this country as there are days in the year.
In fact, before that period, the Germans seem to have lived pretty much as the Dannites did of old, “every man doing what seemed good in his own eyes." Little could have been the alteration in any thing for many generations. They must have lived on and on,—the bauers cultivating, the professors teaching and dreaming, the gentry hunting in the woods, and the ladies cooking and knitting, just as their ancestors had done for ages.
By what we see now, they must have been in a very homely condition indeed. The manual arts must have been very humble; their houses must have been very old-fashioned, ill furnished, and none of the cleanest. Their clothes, what an antique cut they must have had! Their locks, door-handles, keys, all sorts of household utensils, their furniture, their carriages, their everything, how rude and homely they must have been! What a length their hair must have grown then; what a length their coats must have been then; what a length their pipes; what a length their dreams! Washing could not have been much in fashion; for, even now, they are amazed at the English; and in the inns they more commonly give you a wine-bottle and an oval pie-dish, instead of a good capacious ewer and basin, than anything else. Such a thing as a piece of soap, or a slop-jar, you never see in the bedroom; and if you ask for water and a napkin, to wash your hands before dinner at an inn where you are not staying the night, they stare at you, and make a charge in the bill for it.
As Diogenes said, on walking through the city, so would the old Germans have said, had they gone through a city in another country, " What heaps of things are here that I have no need of." Roads even they had none—they did not want them—they wanted only to stop at home, eat their sour kraut and sausages, smoke their pipes, and drink their beer.
The French revolution was like an earthquake, which shook the Germans from their slumbers. The French swept through this country like a hurricane, hurling down many little states, and tearing up old customs and laws. Buonaparte, with his code and his imperative spirit, cleared away whole mountains of antiquated things, and made wide space for the new. The French language, French dress, French manners, which had been before repeatedly introduced, from the days of Louis XIV, and in those of Frederick the Great, once more grew prevalent.
In the plays of Iffland one sees striking pictures of the social condition and manners of Germany before the war. In Kotzebue, as striking ones of the changes introduced. He gives a very amusing picture in "Die Komodiant aus Liebe"—The Comic Actress through Love,—of a family of the real old school, which has got one of its members inoculated with French court manners and notions, and is on the point of the son marrying a young lady who may be considered a representative of the change introduced, and existing since.
There is the Oberforstmeister, chief forest-master, Von Westen, a genuine old German; his wife a perfect pattern of the genuine old German wife. There are three brothers of the Oberforstmeister, who are thus described. The Colonel is a very jolly blade, who is as fond of laughing as Democritus, and to whom a bon-mot is as good as all the profound sayings of the Seven Wise Men of Greece.
His brother, the Court Marschal, is an author. He has written a great work on the shoulder-knot of the pages, and another on the art of arranging the play-table. He is now engaged on his great work on etiquette, in eight volumes, and in three hundred and forty chapters, one of which contains very learned rules for one's behaviour towards the royal lap-dogs.
The third, the Criminal Judge, disputes upon life and death, and cannot bear that any one should yield to him out of desire of peace, which he calls dying to avoid the trouble of eating. By the way he is a little rough. When nobody will contend with him, he treads on the tail of the sleeping clog, in order to hear him growl. Then he sets himself opposite, and growls at him again. There is a sister too, an old maid, a very natural character, who saves drowning flies, but likes war because so many of those monstrous creatures, men, get shot in it!
The son has given to his intended a description of the various characters of the family, and when they come on an appointed day to meet her and her friends at an hotel in the neighbouring town, in order to see how they like her, she receives them in succession, and dressing herself according to their several tastes, addresses them as the sister of the bride; in a style adapted to their individual notions, and so enchants them, that when they finally come to know who she really is, they are all equally delighted. The conversation with the father and mother may be given here, as presenting admirable notions of the mode of living and thinking in those days.
The son announces the approach of his father, whom he says, "is a true old German blade, to whom every thing new is so hateful that one dare not congratulate him on the new-year. Once after a severe illness he was afraid of becoming deaf, and it was recommended that he should be galvanized, but as soon as he learned that this was a new invention he chased the doctor to the hangman. Geography was once his hobby, but since he has found so many towns called Newtown, and more especially that the old towns have got new masters, he has cast away his Busching and Gaspari." The youth retreats, and this scene passes between the lady and her maid—
Eliza (the lady). Give me my spinning-wheel.
Lizette. You know nothing about spinning.
Eliza. That signifies nothing, if it only looks like it.
Lizette. Sing at the same same time,—"Hurre, hurre, hurre, schnurre, my wheel, schurre."
Eliza. Heaven forbid! a song of Burger's! That is much too new.
Lizette. I hear a pair of great jack-boots on the stairs.
Eliza. Draw thyself directly into the background.
[Enter the Oberforstmeister.]
Oberf. Your servant.
Eliza (very demurely). God greet you!
Oberf. Thank you, thank you. That is a brave greeting, which one hears seldom now-a-days.
Eliza. Because now-a-days one does not hear much that is good.
Oberf. Very true my dear girl, or Miss—I know not how you style yourself.
Eliza. Maiden, hear I most gladly. I am a sister of the Frau Von Sternthal.
Oberf. Whom my son is for marrying?
Eliza (rises). Ah! are you the Herr Oberforstmeister? You are welcome (she shakes him heartily by the hand), I have heard much good of you.
Oberf. That rejoices me.
Eliza. Permit me to seat myself. I cannot bear to be idle.
Oberf. A hearty child, after the old fashion.
Eliza. I have been desired to point out your chamber to you. It is there, No. 5.
Oberf. Chamber! right brave. A fashionable puppet would have said—room.
Eliza. Shall I prepare you some warm beer, with honey in it?
Oberf. Do you understand that?
Eliza. It is my daily breakfast.
Oberf. What do I see and hear? Dear child, do you live thus after the good old fashion of our fathers?
Eliza. Ah! it is my only trouble that I was born a hundred years too late.
Oberf. There you are right. In our days—
Eliza. What manners! What morals!
Oberf. Sodom and Gomorrah.
Eliza. Youth thinks itself old—
Oberf. And age makes itself young.
Eliza. The mothers go to tea—
Oberf. And the fathers to the club.
Eliza. The daughters wrap themselves in costly shawls—
Oberf. And the sons cultivate whiskers.
Eliza. To prate French, is called being well educated.
Oberf. But when one asks, when did Doctor Martin Luther live, then comes the answer, "Three hundred years before Christ."
Eliza. People go to the theatre rather than to the church.
Oberf. People read Schiller rather than Gellert.
Eliza. They breakfast towards evening—
Oberf. They dine about sunset.
Eliza. They occupy twenty rooms—
Oberf. And are at home in none of them.
Eliza. Coffee steams up before every journeyman.
Oberf. Wine drives the noble juice of the barley out of doors.
Eliza. Without cards there is no happiness;
Oberf And no respectably old l'hombre.
Eliza. Shameless style of dressing—
Oberf. The fig-leaves scarcely cover them at all now.
Eliza. And thence a thousand new complaints.
Oberf. The nervous affections, they call 'em.
Eliza. Our ancestors had nerves too—
Oberf. Like strings.
Eliza. And Love! Herr Oberforstmeister—Love!
Oberf. That was formerly a respectable personage.
Eliza. Now people speak of him without hesitation,—just as they do of the weather.
Oberf. And of lyings-in, as of a walk.
Eliza. Girls are come to that pitch, they stare their lovers in the very eyes!
Oberf. And the lovers to that of talking of marriage before they have said a word of it to the father.
Eliza. The ladies steal away to literary lectures.
Oberf. To stare and be stared at.
Eliza. O! they are wicked, wicked times.
Oberf. The devil is now the devil indeed!
Eliza. The noble old Germanity is gone to the grave.
Oberf. It has been poisoned.
Eliza. Foreign manners—a foreign yoke.
Oberf. One must creep into a badger's hole, if one would not see what is going on abroad.
Eliza. O! those good old times! When the father read a sermon on Sunday in his family circle, and the mother, exactly as the clock struck twelve, set on the table the pewter dish of strong soup, which she had cooked herself. When at evening the spinning-wheel of the maid whirred to the gentry in the sitting-room, and at nine o'clock the evening blessing read out of the worthy Schmolke wound up the day.
Oberf. (quite moved). Ah yes, the worthy Schmolke!
Eliza. When at early morning " Wake up, my heart, and sing," resounded from every house floor.
Oberf. (nearly in tears). Oh yes, "Wake up, my heart, and sing."
Eliza. And the daughters clean washed, nicely combed, in dresses spun by themselves, came to kiss the father's hand.
Oberf. Yes; thus it was in my father's house. My dear child, you move me inexpressibly. God bless you, what is your name?
Eliza. Martha.
Oberf. A fine old name. What is your sister called, then?
Eliza. Eliza.
Oberf. Fie! the devil! But the name does not signify so much. One can call her Elizabeth. Is she like you?
Eliza. With some difference.
Oberf. I mean in discipline and honesty.
Eliza. Why yes;—she has lived in the great world.
Oberf. The cursed great world! Through that the little world in one's heart is gone to destruction. We seek everything out of us; while in us—God forgive me!—there is nothing now to find. All our striving after enjoyment seems to me like our balloon-travelling, where the chief luck consists in a man coming to the earth again without breaking his neck. Till we meet again, dear Fraulein! Had my lad Gottlieb been so discreet as to have chosen you, I would have said Amen! Amen!—(retires by a side door.)
The young lady puts away her spinning-wheel, calls for her brilliant earrings, her rings, her fan, rouges herself well at the glass, and prepares to receive the Hoff-Marschal, the Oberforstmeister's brother, with whom she talks French, and is very much of the fine lady, according to the manners and notions introduced by the French.
Then comes the youth's mother, of whom the youth in announcing her says—"She lives and moves in kitchen and cellar, amongst the fowls and the linen-bleaching. In summer she scolds the dew because it lies so long on the ground, and in winter because it rises so late. Cookery books are her library, and linen is her heart's delight." The damsel takes out her earrings, lays down her fan, washes off the rouge, calls for an apron and a bunch of keys, and puts a cap on.
Mother (entering). My God! how dirty the steps are!
Eliza. There you are right, good lady, and yet this hotel is called an hotel garni, and reckoned one of the best. When one is accustomed at home to order and cleanliness, one might be in despair over all this dirt and dust. In the meantime I have ordered the maid very strictly to sweep your chamber three times out.
Mother. I thank you, my dear young woman. Do you belong to the house?
Eliza. Heaven forbid! I am a sister of the Frau von Sternthal. My name is Gretchen.
Mother. So! The future sister-in-law of my son.
Eliza. If God will.
Mother. Quite right, my Fraulein. The will of God has not yet, however, very clearly declared itself.
Eliza. It is all one to me, so that we can but get quickly out of the city again.
Mother. You love the country?
Eliza. Ah! good lady, where had one rather be than in one's own yard, where the loveliest hens, the proudest geese, cackle and quackle about one; where the sickle rings, and the butter churn clappers? What prospect is so charming as heaven-blue fields, where the future flax blooms? What sound is more delightful to a brave housewife than the first bleat of a hopeful calf?
Mother. Very true. A field of luxuriant flax,—the heart leaps at the sight of it!
Eliza. One sees already the linen bleaching on the grass.
Mother. One measures it already with the yardwand, and packs it in imagination in the well-preserved chests.
Eliza. Did you see the kitchen as you passed? And the cook, with whose apron to all appearance they have swept the chimney?
Mother. Oh! it horrifies me yet when I think of it.
Eliza. I pride myself in my clean hearth, in my shining dishes.
Mother. Do you go yourself into the kitchen?
Eliza. I am not ashamed of that.
Mother. You may be proud of it.
Eliza. My acquirements in the whole art of cookery are truly yet but small. I draw them entirely from books.
Mother. Yes, we have an abundance of cookery books. The Viennese may be a very good one; the Bavarian is not to be despised; the Prussian is celebrated.
Eliza. I avail myself of the Swedish.
Mother. That of Miss Warg;—also good. But one always does better when one enjoys the oral instructions of an experienced person.
Eliza. Yes, if ever that luck could be mine; if I could but come to school to you, gracious lady, in four weeks I should be a perfect housekeeper.
Mother. Nay, nay! it goes not so fast as that. I have studied and practised twenty years.
Eliza. Twenty years!
Mother. This is no jurisprudence, my child, or philosophy, that a man can make himself master of in three years or so.
Eliza. Yet what science can boast itself of working so immediately on the happiness of mankind"?
Mother. None.
Eliza. All that proceeds unquestionably from the stomach. A contented stomach makes a contented heart; and never are men so susceptible of all good as when they are fed to their heart's content.
Mother. A sublime truth!
Eliza. The best husband frowns when the soup is burnt; but the features of the surliest fellow brighten up when the savoury dish steams up against him.
Mother. Incontrovertibly.
Eliza. Whence springs every evil in the world?—Out of bad digestion. And whence bad digestion?—Out of indifferent cookery.
Mother. Truly. There wants seasoning.
Eliza. Therefore the body-and-mouth cook is the chief officer of a mighty prince. War and peace proceed out of his spice-cupboard. Who can tell what would now be the aspect of things in Europe if Frederick the Second had eaten no polenka?
Mother. And Esau's dish of lentils, that plays a great part in history,—and, without doubt, was superbly prepared.
Eliza. O thou noblest of arts! Thou nourisher of the loftiest thought! Thou unwearied creator of social joys! Thou only art able to unite at one table familiarly, genius and stupidity! Thou bribest the judge, who probably would despise gold! Thou assemblest poets and statesmen around those to whom, without thee, nobody would come! Thou awardest the noblest fame—the highest which man can acquire in the state,—so that men say of him, He gives good dinners!
Mother. Thy generous enthusiasm, my Fraulein, enchants me. You deserve that your talents should be cultivated to the utmost. But let not the kitchen alone be your great aim. Never forget that kings' daughters tended their herds, and that Penelope weaved with her own hands.
Eliza. Oh! who feels greater tenderness than I for a lovely herd with their bells chiming the sun to rest.
Mother. But hear me;—how do you feed your calves?
Eliza (aside). Alas! I never reared a calf in my life!
Mother. I know very well that there are people who call themselves philanthropists, who ask first after the bringing up of children. There is one Pestalozzi, of whom there is much talk now, and yet I bet a trifle that I could give him a puzzler. The children, good God! they grow up—they are brought up of themselves; but the dear cattle, they must be nourished and cherished, if they are to prosper. So, to come again to the calves, how do you proceed with these noble youngsters?
Eliza. Ah, good lady! what shall I say? I feed them.
Mother. Ay, of course; but how? with what? how often? how much? how long?
Eliza. There remains much for me here also to learn, and with veneration regard I my sublime pattern. When in our neighbourhood doubts as to the best management arise, immediately it is said, "Go only to Frau Von Westen; you must ask the Frau Von Westen that." And whoever has been so happy as with his own eyes to admire your activity and skill, comes home full of your fame.
Mother. O yes! I let no grass grow under my feet. But, to come again to the calves—
Eliza. Your linen then, would fill a whole warehouse!
Mother. Yes, God has blessed me with linen indeed. Linen, my dear child, is the most convincing sign of a good housewife. This must she from year to year collect and hoard up,—whether she want it or not, no matter,—till her chests burst and cupboards crack again.
Eliza. I burn with impatience to gaze on your treasures.
Mother. I preserve it solely in order to shew it to my female friends. There you shall see linen that challenges Silesia, Holland, and Westphalia.
Eliza. How would my eyes riot amongst it!
Mother. Has your sister also a turn and a taste for housewifery?
Eliza. Rather for music.
Mother. Oh music! for that, I have birds in the garden that play music all day long. And is it not true, my Fraulein, that when a proud herd lows, that sounds quite another thing?
Eliza. Ah, indeed! quite another thing!
Mother. Farewell, my good child. You are a sensible person. It will give me pleasure to allow you to copy out my receipt-book,
Eliza. This unmerited generosity.
Mother. For a well-instructed housewife, there is no greater pleasure in the world than to impart good counsel, and to make all things better understood. (Aside) Where was my son's head, that his choice did not light on sister Gretchen.
Since that time another and more important and permanent influence has triumphed over that of the French. French dress and French literature still continue to be cultivated; but the English literature has produced a far more decided effect, and the introduction of English notions, English manners, and above all, English manufactures and arts, especially the use of steam,—these are elements which are perpetually at work, and are every day effecting a steady progressive alteration of the system, aspect, character, and feeling of social life.
To our eyes the difference yet seems wide. We regard with wonder the simple style of furnishing; the early hours; the old-fashioned habits and amusements; the spitting and smoking; the cooking and housewifery habits of the ladies; and many other things, as bringing back to us an image of what England was three hundred years ago.
Yet something of this is every day silently gliding away. Rooms are becoming more and more carpeted in winter; spitting is put under daily more restraint; smoking is not allowed in the streets of the chief cities, nor in any good society, in company. Hours at balls and parties grow later and later; the old household sports fall more and more before the more fashionable amusements, of balls, conceits, theatres, operas, and such things; and it may be feared that only too soon these worthy Germans will not only much nearer resemble us in their notions of luxury and refinement, but too much so in all that loss of quietness, of contentment with simple pleasures, and of hearty equality of intercourse, which prevail in a more artificial condition of society.
Let us sketch them and their social life, as they at present appear before us. Our children, twenty years hence, looking on this description, will at once become sensible of a wonderful change in these matters.
Howitt, William. The Rural and Domestic Life of Germany. Longman, Brown, Green, and Longmans, 1842.
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