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Updated: May 23, 2025
Pfannenstiel was in the act of unrolling his pictures, and the multitude, which, just before, had been shouting and screaming, became suddenly silent, and gazed up at the weaver with intense expectation. A breathless silence ensued, and, far down the street, sounded the prophet's loud and sonorous voice.
"Know what?" demanded the latter in reply, feeling his heart sink. "The Russians are coming!" sighed Mr. Krause. "That is a silly tale," cried Kretschmer peevishly, with an impatient gesture. "Would to God it were!" groaned Krause; "but the news is, alas, but too true, and it can no longer be doubted!" "Man of misfortune," cried Mr. Kretschmer, "who told you so?" "Pfannenstiel."
Around his shoulders hung a long cloak of gray linen, which, in addressing the multitude, he sometimes threw around him in picturesque folds, sometimes spread out wide, enveloping his long arms in it, so that he looked like an expanded bat. "Ah! it is Pfannenstiel, our prophetic linen-weaver," said Mr.
"I sent Pfannenstiel into the streets, to quiet the people, and to admonish them to behave peaceably and soberly, even if the Russians should come." "Oh! you believe in all these dreams of Pfannenstiel?" "I believe in the truth, and in what I know!" exclaimed Krause emphatically.
Speak, therefore, to them, and say, "The Russians are coming!" that they may become humble and quiet; that the proud word may be silenced on their lips, and that they may submit in peace." "What shall we do?" asked the people. "Help us, advise us, for thou art our prophet." Pfannenstiel drew himself up to his utmost height, and an expression of triumphant cunning sparkled in his eyes.
"The desired article for the 'Miscellaneous' is found, and I think that the prophetic linen-weaver, Pfannenstiel, is well worth more than the four children at a birth and the miserable stork's nest of yesterday's Spener's Journal. Let's write it off quickly." Kretschmer began to write most industriously, when he was suddenly interrupted by a violent knocking at the door.
Every thing depends upon our being beforehand with this braggart Gotzkowsky, and getting first the ear of the people. You, Pfannenstiel, come with us, and get up your words strong and spirited, so that the stupid people may believe you." Pfannenstiel clapped up his picture-book, and threw his cloak with majestic dignity over his lean shoulders.
"Pfannenstiel wishes the Vossian Gazette to take notice of him. He wants to be talked about, and wishes the newspapers to spread his reputation. For that reason he stationed himself right under my window, for that reason he cast such significant looks at me, for that reason he addressed the crowd and poured forth his nonsense right here. Yes, that's it!
Soon deep silence reigned in these rooms, so lately filled with noise and tumult. The garden, too, had become deserted and empty. Pfannenstiel alone remained in his elevated position, gazing pensively, as in a dream, on his collection of pictures.
He drew back thoughtfully from the window, muttering with a shudder, "The Russians are coming!" The people crowded around the prophet in still narrower circles, and in more piercing tones wept and cried out: "What shall we do? What shall we do to be saved? Have mercy, O God! Have mercy on Berlin, for the Russians are coming!" "Yes, they are coming!" cried Pfannenstiel.
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