In the mire, on damp, stinking straw, under the pent-house of an old
carriage-house which had been hastily converted into a field military
hospital in a ruined Bulgarian hamlet, she had been for more than a
fortnight dying of typhus fever.
She was unconscious--and not a single physician had even glanced at her;
the sick soldiers whom she had nursed as long as she could keep on her
feet rose by turns from their infected lairs, in order to raise to her
parched lips a few drops of water in a fragment of a broken jug.
She was young, handsome; high society knew her; even dignitaries
inquired about her. The ladies envied her, the men courted her ... two
or three men loved her secretly and profoundly. Life smiled upon her;
but there are smiles which are worse than tears,
A tender, gentle heart ... and such strength, such a thirst for
sacrifice! To help those who needed help ... she knew no other happiness
... she knew no other and she tasted no other. Every other happiness
passed her by. But she had long since become reconciled to that, and all
flaming with the fire of inextinguishable faith, she dedicated herself
to the service of her fellow-men. What sacred treasures she held hidden
there, in the depths of her soul, in her own secret recesses, no one
ever knew--and now no one will ever know.
And to what end? The sacrifice has been made ... the deed is done.
But it is sorrowful to think that no one said "thank you" even to her
corpse, although she herself was ashamed of and shunned all thanks.
May her dear shade be not offended by this tardy blossom, which I
venture to lay upon her grave!
September, 1878.