My father died in Leipzigerstrasse, where, two weeks after, I was born.
It is reported that I was an unusually sturdy, merry little fellow. One
of my father’s relatives, Frau Mosson, said that I actually laughed
on the third day of my life, and several other proofs of my precocious
cheerfulness were related by this lady.
So I must believe that--less wise than Lessing’s son, who looked at life
and thought it would be more prudent to turn his back upon it--I greeted
with a laugh the existence which, amid beautiful days of sunshine, was
to bring me so many hours of suffering.
Spring was close at hand; the house in noisy Leipzigerstrasse was
distasteful to my mother, her soul longed for rest, and at that time she
formed the resolutions according to which she afterward strove to train
her boys to be able men. Her first object was to obtain pure air for the
little children, and room for the larger ones to exercise. So she looked
for a residence outside the gate, and succeeded in renting for a term of
years No. 4 Thiergartenstrasse, which I have already mentioned.
The owner, Frau Kommissionsrath Reichert, had also lost her husband a
short time before, and had determined to let the house, which stood near
her own, stand empty rather than rent it to a large family of children.
Alone herself, she shrank from the noise of growing boys and girls. But
she had a warm, kind heart, and--she told me this herself--the sight of
the beautiful young mother in her deep mourning made her quickly forget
her prejudice. “If she had brought ten bawlers instead of five,” she
remarked, “I would not have refused the house to that angel face.”
We all cherish a kindly memory of the vigorous, alert woman, with
her round, bright countenance and laughing eyes. She soon became very
intimate with my mother, and my second sister, Paula, was her special
favorite, on whom she lavished every indulgence. Her horses were the
first ones on which I was lifted, and she often took us with her in the
carriage or sent us to ride in it.
I still remember distinctly some parts of our garden, especially
the shady avenue leading from our balcony on the ground floor to the
Schafgraben, the pond, the beautiful flower-beds in front of Frau
Reichert’s stately house, and the field of potatoes where I--the
gardener was the huntsman--saw my first partridge shot. This was
probably on the very spot where for many years the notes of the organ
have pealed through the Matthaikirche, and the Word of God has been
expounded to a congregation whose residences stand on the playground of
my childhood.
The house which sheltered us was only two stories high, but pretty and
spacious. We needed abundant room, for, besides my mother, the five
children, and the female servants, accommodation was required for the
governess, and a man who held a position midway between porter and
butler and deserved the title of factotum if any one ever did. His name
was Kurschner; he was a big-boned, square-built fellow about thirty
years old, who always wore in his buttonhole the little ribbon of the
order he had gained as a soldier at the siege of Antwerp, and who had
been taken into the house by our mother for our protection, for in
winter our home, surrounded by its spacious grounds, was very lonely.
As for us five children, first came my oldest sister Martha--now, alas!
dead--the wife of Lieutenant-Colonel Baron Curt von Brandenstein, and my
brother Martin, who were seven and five years older than I. They were,
of course, treated differently from us younger ones.
Paula was my senior by three years; Ludwig, or Ludo--he was called by
his nickname all his life--by a year and a half.
Paula, a fresh, pretty, bright, daring child, was often the leader in
our games and undertakings. Ludo, who afterward became a soldier and
as a Prussian officer did good service in the war, was a gentle boy,
somewhat delicate in health--the broad-shouldered man shows no trace
of it--and the best of playfellows. We were always together, and were
frequently mistaken for twins. We shared everything, and on my birthday,
gifts were bestowed on him too; on his, upon me.
Each had forgotten the first person singular of the personal pronoun,
and not until comparatively late in life did I learn to use “I” and “me”
in the place of “we” and “us.”
The sequence of events in this quiet country home has, of course,
vanished from my mind, and perhaps many which I mention here occurred
in Lennestrasse, where we moved later, but the memories of the time we
spent in the Thiergarten overlooked by our second home--are among the
brightest of my life. How often the lofty trees and dense shrubbery
of our own grounds and the beautiful Berlin Thiergarten rise before my
mental vision, when my thoughts turn backward and I see merry children
playing among them, and hear their joyous laughter!
FAIRY TALES AND FACT.
What happened in the holy of holies, my mother’s chamber, has remained,
down to the smallest details, permanently engraved upon my soul.
A mother’s heart is like the sun--no matter how much light it diffuses,
its warmth and brilliancy never lessen; and though so lavish a flood of
tenderness was poured forth on me, the other children were no losers.
But I was the youngest, the comforter, the nestling; and never was the
fact of so much benefit to me as at that time.
My parents’ bed stood in the green room with the bright carpet. It had
been brought from Holland, and was far larger and wider than bedsteads
of the present day. My mother had kept it. A quilted silk coverlet was
spread over it, which felt exquisitely soft, and beneath which one could
rest delightfully. When the time for rising came, my mother called me.
I climbed joyfully into her warm bed, and she drew her darling into her
arms, played all sorts of pranks with him, and never did I listen to
more beautiful fairy tales than at those hours. They became instinct
with life to me, and have always remained so; for my mother gave them
the form of dramas, in which I was permitted to be an actor.
The best one of all was Little Red Riding Hood. I played the little girl
who goes into the wood, and she was the wolf. When the wicked beast
had disguised itself in the grandmother’s cap I not only asked the
regulation questions: “Grandmother, what makes you have such big eyes?
Grandmother, why is your skin so rough?” etc., but invented new ones to
defer the grand final effect, which followed the words, “Grandmother,
why do you have such big, sharp teeth?” and the answer, “So that I can
eat you,” whereupon the wolf sprang on me and devoured me--with kisses.
Another time I was Snow-White and she the wicked step-mother, and also
the hunter, the dwarf, and the handsome prince who married her.
How real this merry sport made the distress of persecuted innocence, the
terrors and charm of the forest, the joys and splendours of the fairy
realm! If the flowers in the garden had raised their voices in song, if
the birds on the boughs had called and spoken to me--nay, if a tree
had changed into a beautiful fairy, or the toad in the damp path of our
shaded avenue into a witch--it would have seemed only natural.
It is a singular thing that actual events which happened in those early
days have largely vanished from my memory; but the fairy tales I heard
and secretly experienced became firmly impressed on my mind. Education
and life provided for my familiarity with reality in all its harshness
and angles, its strains and hurts; but who in later years could have
flung wide the gates of the kingdom where everything is beautiful and
good, and where ugliness is as surely doomed to destruction as evil to
punishment? Even poesy in our times turns from the Castalian fount whose
crystal-clear water becomes an unclean pool and, though reluctantly,
obeys the impulse to make its abode in the dust of reality. Therefore I
plead with voice and pen in behalf of fairy tales; therefore I tell them
to my children and grandchildren, and have even written a volume of them
myself.
How perverse and unjust it is to banish the fairy tale from the life of
the child, because devotion to its charm might prove detrimental to the
grown person! Has not the former the same claim to consideration as the
latter?
Every child is entitled to expect a different treatment and judgment,
and to receive what is his due undiminished. Therefore it is unjust to
injure and rob the child for the benefit of the man. Are we even sure
that the boy is destined to attain the second and third stages--youth
and manhood?
True, there are some apostles of caution who deny themselves every joy
of existence while in their prime, in order, when their locks are grey,
to possess wealth which frequently benefits only their heirs.
All sensible mothers will doubtless, like ours, take care that their
children do not believe the stories which they tell them to be true.
I do not remember any time when, if my mind had been called upon to
decide, I should have thought that anything I invented myself had really
happened; but I know that we were often unable to distinguish whether
the plausible tale related by some one else belonged to the realm of
fact or fiction. On such occasions we appealed to my mother, and her
answer instantly set all doubts at rest; for we thought she could never
be mistaken, and knew that she always told the truth.
As to the stories invented by myself, I fared like other imaginative
children. I could imagine the most marvellous things about every member
of the household, and while telling them--but only during that time--I
often fancied that they were true; yet the moment I was asked whether
these things had actually occurred, it seemed as if I woke from a
dream. I at once separated what I had imagined from what I had actually
experienced, and it would never have occurred to me to persist against
my better knowledge. So the vividly awakened power of imagination led
neither me, my brothers and sisters, nor my children and grandchildren
into falsehood.
In after years I abhorred it, not only because my mother would rather
have permitted any other offence to pass unpunished, but because I had
an opportunity of perceiving its ugliness very early in life. When only
seven or eight years old I heard a boy--I still remember his name--tell
his mother a shameless lie about some prank in which I had shared. I did
not interrupt him to vindicate the truth, but I shrank in horror with
the feeling of having witnessed a crime.
If Ludo and I, even in the most critical situations, adhered to the
truth more rigidly than other boys, we “little ones” owe it especially
to our sister Paula, who was always a fanatic in its cause, and even
now endures many an annoyance because she scorns the trivial “necessary
fibs” deemed allowable by society.
True, the interesting question of how far necessary fibs are justifiable
among children, is yet to be considered; but what did we know of such
necessity in our sports in the Thiergarten? From what could a lie have
saved us except a blow from a beloved mother’s little hand, which, it is
true, when any special misdeed was punished by a box on the ear, could
inflict a tolerable amount of pain by means of the rings which adorned
it.
There is a tradition that once when she had slapped Paula’s pretty face,
the odd child rubbed her cheek and said, with the droll calmness that
rarely deserted her, “When you want to strike me again, mother, please
take off your rings first.”
THE GOVERNESS--THE CEMETERY.
During the time we lived in the Thiergarten my mother’s hand scarcely
ever touched my face except in a caress. Every memory of her is bright
and beautiful. I distinctly remember how merrily she jested and played
with us, and from my earliest recollections her beloved face always
greets me cheerily. Yet she had moved to the Thiergarten with a heart
oppressed by the deepest sorrow.
I know from the woman who accompanied her there as the governess of the
two eldest children, and became a faithful friend, how deeply she needed
consolation, how completely her feelings harmonized with the widow’s
weeds she wore, and in which she is said to have been so beautiful.
The name of this rare woman was Bernhardine Kron. A native of
Mecklenburg, she united to rich and wide culture the sterling character,
warmth of feeling, and fidelity of this sturdy and sympathetic branch of
the German nation. She soon became deeply attached to the young widow,
to whose children she was to devote her best powers, and, in after
years, her eyes often grew dim when she spoke of the time during which
she shared our mother’s grief and helped her in her work of education.
Both liked to recall in later days the quiet evenings when, after the
rest of the household had retired, they read alone or discussed what
stirred their hearts. Each gave the other what she could. The German
governess went through our classic authors with her employer, and my
mother read to her the works of Racine and Corneille, and urged her to
speak French and English with her; for, like many natives of Holland,
her mastery of both languages was as thorough as if she had grown up
in Paris or London. The necessity of studying and sharing her own rich
intellectual possessions continued to be a marked trait in my mother’s
character until late in life, and how much cause for gratitude we all
have for the share she gave us of her own knowledge and experience!
Fraulein Kron always deeply appreciated the intellectual development
she owed to her employer, while the latter never forgot the comfort and
support bestowed by the faithful governess in the most sorrowful days of
her life. When I first became conscious of my surroundings, these days
were over; but in saying that my first recollections of my mother were
bright and cheerful, I forgot the hours devoted to my father’s memory.
She rarely brought them to our notice; a certain chaste reserve, even
later in life, prevented her showing her deepest grief to others. She
always strove to cope with her sorest trials alone. Her sunny nature
shrank from diffusing shadow and darkness around her.
On the 14th of February, the anniversary of my father’s death, wherever
she might be, she always withdrew from the members of the household,
and even her own children. A second occasion of sharing her sorrowful
emotion was repeated several times every summer. This was the visit to
the cemetery, which she rarely made alone.
The visits impressed us all strongly, and the one I first remember could
not have occurred later than my fifth year, for I distinctly recollect
that Frau Rapp’s horses took us to the churchyard. My father was buried
in the Dreifaltigkeitskirchhof,--[Trinity churchyard]--just outside the
Halle Gate. I found it so little changed when I entered it again, two
years ago, that I could walk without a guide directly to the Ebers
family vault. But what a transformation had taken place in the way!
When we visited it with my mother, which was always in carriages, for
it was a long distance from our home, we drove quickly through the city,
the gate, and as far as the spot where I found the stately pile of the
brick Kreuzkirche; then we turned to the right, and if we had come in
cabs we children got out, it was so hard for the horses to drag the
vehicles over the sandy road which led to the cemetery.
During this walk we gathered blue cornflowers and scarlet poppies from
the fields, bluebells, daisies, ranunculus, and snapdragon from the
narrow border of turf along the roadside, and tied them into bouquets
for the graves. My mother moved silently with us between the rows of
grassy mounds, tombstones, and crosses, while we carried the pots of
flowers and wreaths, which, to afford every one the pleasure of helping,
she had distributed among us at the gravedigger’s house, just back of
the cemetery.
Our family burial place--my mother’s stone cross now stands there beside
my father’s--was one of those bounded in the rear by the church yard
wall; a marble slab set in the masonry bears the owner’s name. It is
large enough for us all, and lies at the right of the path between
Count Kalckreuth’s and the stately mausoleum which contains the earthly
remains of Moritz von Oppenfeld--who was by far the dearest of our
father’s relatives--and his family.
My mother led the way into the small enclosure, which was surrounded by
an iron railing, and prayed or thought silently of the beloved dead who
rested there.
Is there any way for us Protestants, when love for the dead longs to
find expression in action, except to adorn with flowers the places which
contain their earthly remains? Their bright hues and a child’s beaming
face are the only cheerful things which a mourner whose wounds are still
bleeding freshly beside a coffin can endure to see, and I might compare
flowers to the sound of bells. Both are in place and welcome in the
supreme moments of life.
Therefore my mother, besides a heart full of love, always brought to my
father’s grave children and flowers. When she had satisfied the needs of
her own soul, she turned to us, and with cheerful composure directed the
decoration of the mound. Then she spoke of our father, and if any of us
had recently incurred punishment--one instance of this kind is indelibly
impressed on my memory--she passed her arms around the child, and in
whispered words, which no one else could hear, entreated the son or
daughter not to grieve her so again, but to remember the dead. Such
an admonition on this spot could not fail to produce its effect, and
brought forgiveness with it.
On our return our hands and hearts were free again, and we were
at liberty to use our tongues. During these visits my interest in
Schleiermacher was awakened, for his grave--he died in 1834, three years
before I was born--lay near our lot, and we often stopped before the
stone erected by his friends, grateful pupils, and admirers. It was
adorned with his likeness in marble; and my mother, who had frequently
met him, pausing in front of it, told us about the keen-sighted
theologian, philosopher, and pulpit orator, whose teachings, as I was to
learn later, had exerted the most powerful influence upon my principal
instructors at Keilhau. She also knew his best enigmas; and the
following one, whose terse brevity is unsurpassed:
“Parted I am sacred,
United abominable”--
she had heard him propound himself. The answer, “Mein eid” (my oath),
and “Meineid” (perjury), every one knows.
Nothing was further from my mother’s intention than to make these
visits to the cemetery special memorial days; on the contrary, they were
inter-woven into our lives, not set at regular intervals or on certain
dates, but when her heart prompted and the weather was favourable for
out-of-door excursions. Therefore they became associated in our minds
with happy and sacred memories.