After that the young officer bestowed but little attention upon me; his
glances were now all for Bertha, to whom he addressed most of his
remarks.
Who can foretell what germs may awaken into life in the midst of the
storm? My young pupil, who had but the day before been appointed first
lieutenant, gravely delivered himself of the opinion that there was no
real military glory in conquering volunteers. When speaking of me to
Bertha, he was profuse in his assurances of gratitude and esteem.
Bertha, generally so talkative, was now silent. The young officer
procured a safe-conduct for us, and we continued on our journey.
I have never yet seen the ocean, but the country, as it then appeared
to me, awakened impressions similar to those which must be aroused when
the tide has ebbed and the objects which before that dwelt in the
depths of the sea are left lying upon the strand.
At last we reached my nephew's. He conducted me to his official
residence, where I followed him through numerous apartments, until I at
last reached his room, where we were closeted under lock and key.
He then told me that, while walking through the town the day but one
before, he had met a young peasant with a rake on his shoulder, who,
while passing, had hurriedly said to him, "Follow me, cousin; I have
something to tell you."
The director followed, but not without first making sure of his
revolver.
When they had got into the thicket, the peasant suddenly turned about
and said to him, while he removed his hat, "Don't you know me? I am
Ludwig Waldfried." The director's heart was filled with terror. Ludwig
continued, "You, and you alone, can save me. Put me in prison until I
have a chance to run away. Our cause is lost; but for my parents' sake
as well as my own, I must escape."
The cousin was not unwilling to assist Ludwig, but was at a loss how to
go about it. Ludwig, however, had studied strategy. He had carefully
considered every step in advance, and now caused the director to enter
him on the list of prisoners under the name of Rothfuss.
A state of siege, dissolving as it does all forms of civil procedure,
made it possible to carry out so irregular a proceeding; aside from
which there was the inspiring effect of being engaged in a task that
required shrewd and delicate man[oe]uvring. It was this, too, that
helped to relieve my meeting with Ludwig of much of its sadness.
Still it could not but pain me to find that in order to save one person
it was necessary to victimize others. Ludwig guessed my thoughts, and
said to me, "I am sorry, father, that I am obliged to drag you into
this trouble. I know that such affairs are not to your taste; but there
is no help for it."
Rothfuss looked upon the whole affair as a merry farce. He did not see
the least harm in outwitting and deceiving the officers and the state.
And in those days there were many thousands who felt just as he did. It
is a fit subject for congratulation, and perhaps an evidence of the
indestructible virtue of the German people, that in spite of
Metternich's soul-corrupting teachings there is yet so much
righteousness left in our land.
When Ludwig had donned the Rothfuss' clothes, one could hardly
recognize him. The transformation afforded Rothfuss great delight.
"They can do no more than lock me up by myself, and I have always said
that 'he who is wet to the skin need not dread the rain.'"
This was a favorite saying of his. He had but one regret, and that was
that he would not be allowed to smoke in the prison; but, for Ludwig's
sake, he would gladly make that sacrifice.
We departed, taking Ludwig with us. My heart trembled with fear. The
knowledge that I was committing a breach of the law, even though it was
only caused by necessity and for the sake of rescuing my son, filled me
with alarm. I felt as if every one knew what I was doing; but it seemed
as if the people we met along the road did not care to interfere.
Here again Bertha proved a great treasure to us. She had a wonderfully
cheerful flow of spirits; and perhaps, after all, women are greater
adepts in the arts of self-control and deception than we are.
When we arrived near the borders of the Palatinate, Ludwig met a
companion who had been hiding there. He was a man of about my age. It
now became my turn to take part in the dangerous game. I was obliged to
remain behind and allow the fugitive to take my place at Bertha's side.
Bertha was equal to the situation, and at once addressed the stranger
as "father."
I followed on foot, imagining that every step would be my last.
I passed the border without mishap, and in the first village found the
rescued ones awaiting me. As our old comrade had already become drunk
on French wine, we left him behind at the village and took up our
journey to my sister, the wife of the forester at Hagenau.
The most difficult task of all was to endure the vainglorious boasting
of the Frenchmen. My brother-in-law treated us as if he were a gracious
nobleman, who had taken us under his protection. His neighbors soon
joined the party, and proud words were heard on every hand: the French
were the great nation--theirs was the republic--their country the
refuge of the oppressed and persecuted. And we--what were we? Rent
asunder and bound down, while our Rhine provinces were happy in the
faith that they would soon become a portion of proud and beautiful
France. Another brother-in-law, the pastor of Huenfeld, who had studied
at Erlangen, gave us some little consolation, for he said that in
science the Germans were the greatest of nations.
"Father," said Ludwig, "I cannot endure this; I shall not remain here
another day."
I felt as he did, and we took our departure for Strasburg. At the
Gutenberg Platz we were obliged to halt our horses, for the guard were
just marching by. All seemed as happy if a piece of good fortune had
just befallen them. All was as merry as a wedding-feast, while with our
neighbors beyond the line there was funereal sadness.
Strasburg was crowded with fugitives, by some of whom Ludwig was at
once recognized. We went with a party of them to the Grape Vine Tavern,
and whom should we meet at the door but the very comrade we had left
behind.
He had a curious contrivance about his throat. It was a simple rope
with a knot tied in it; and he called out to Ludwig that he too was
entitled to wear this grand cordon. He conducted us into the room
where, at a table apart from the rest, were seated young men and old,
all of whom had ropes around their necks.
"Ah! here comes the father of 'the King of the Turners'!" were the
words with which a large and powerfully built man welcomed me. I
recognized him as the man who had been my guide during the September
riots. "Hurrah, comrades! Here comes another companion. This way,
Ludwig; this is the seat of honor. All who are seated here are under
sentence of death, and as a badge we wear this rope about our necks."
And they sang:
Should princes ask: "Where's Absalom?"
And seek to learn his plight--
Just tell them he is hanging high;
The poor, unlucky wight.
And though he's dead, he hangeth not
From tree, nor yet from beam.
He dreamt that he could Germans free
And 'twas a fatal dream.
Their ribald jokes disgusted me, and I was therefore glad to chance
upon one who had been a fellow-member of the Frankfort Parliament, and
who shared my feelings at such distorted views of an unsuccessful
attempt at revolution.
I have known many pure-hearted, unselfish men, but never have I met
with one whose love of freedom was greater than that of our friend
Wilhelmi. Over and above that, he had a genuine love for his
fellow-men. There are, unfortunately, many lovers of freedom who are
not lovers of mankind, a contradiction which I have never been able to
understand.
Friend Wilhelmi gave me an insight as to the character of the old
refugee, who was by nature of a peaceable disposition, but, giving way
to the frenzy which in those days seemed to fill the very air, had lost
all self-control. He was unable to endure the sufferings of exile. A
deep longing for home preyed upon his spirits. To drown his grief, he
indulged in wine, and the result of his copious draughts was that he
became bold and noisy. This seemed to be his daily experience. In his
sober moments he sat brooding in silence, and was often seen to weep.
Wilhelmi had of course painted his picture in mild colors.
I must add that the refugee at last died in a mad-house in America. It
is sad to think of the many noble beings who were ruined and sacrificed
during those terrible days.
There was something inspiring in the words and thoughts of Doctor
Wilhelmi. When I heard his voice I felt as if in a temple. And at this
very moment memory revives the impression then made upon me.
Meanness and detraction were without any effect upon him; for he could
look over and beyond them. He had determined to emigrate to America
with his wife, who was his equal in courage and confidence. Bertha, who
found but little to her fancy in the rude and dreary life that here
environed us, and who was especially indignant that the soldiers who
had simply done their duty were referred to so contemptuously, spent
most of her time in Madame Wilhelmi's room. She was constantly urging
our speedy return. And Wilhelmi could endure neither the mockery of one
class of Frenchmen nor the pity of the others. Ludwig determined to
join his friend. Wilhelmi had a serious task with his comrades, for
nearly all of them were firmly convinced that the troubles in Germany
would be renewed with the morrow, and that it was their duty to remain
on the borders so that they might be at hand when needed. Wilhelmi, on
the other hand, warned them against such self-deception, which, if
persisted in, would only lead to the destruction of the mere handful
that was left of them. He often declared to me that he at last
acknowledged that our German nation is not fitted for revolution. It
has too many genial traits, and is devoid of the passion of hate. He
felt assured that, when the crisis arrived, the German monarchs would
of themselves see that, both for their own sakes and that of their
people, it would be necessary to introduce an entire change in our
political system. But when and how this was to be done (whether in our
lifetime or afterwards), who could foretell?
"We should not forget," said Wilhelmi, "the significance of the fact
that the German people, so long bound down by a system of police
espionage, has at last become aroused; nor will its oppressors forget
it. Now they are furious against the evil-doers; but a second
generation will not find so much to blame in their deeds, and, as you
well know, my dear friend, for you are a forester, there is an old
proverb which tells us that 'vermin cannot destroy a healthy tree.' The
May beetles would rather prey on the oak than on any other tree, but
although they destroy every leaf, and cause the tree to look like a dry
broom, it renews its leaves with the following year."
In olden times when men swore eternal friendship, a man would sometimes
say, "This is my friend, and without knowing what he intends to say, I
will swear that it is the truth, for he cannot tell a lie." In my own
heart I had just such faith in Wilhelmi.
I found it as sad to part from him as from Ludwig, and this
circumstance overshadowed the grief I felt when saying "farewell" to my
son.
"What does fate intend by driving such men away from home, and far
beyond the seas?" These were the parting words of my friend Wilhelmi.
They moved me deeply; but I could not answer his question.
I felt as if beholding a hail-storm beating down a field of ripened
grain. How many a full ear must have fallen to the ground?
I also met a young schoolmaster by the name of Funk. Although there had
been no real reason for his leaving home, he had fled with the rest. I
easily persuaded him to return with me.
He was full of gratitude and submissiveness. In spite of this, however,
my daughter even then, with true foresight, concluded that he was
deceitful. I was for a long while unwilling to believe this, but was at
last forced to do so.
Funk had done nothing more than attend to some of the writing in the
ducal palace which the revolutionists had taken possession of. But it
was with great self-complacency that he spoke of his having dwelt in
the very palace which, during his student years, he had never passed
without a feeling of awe.
I often thought of my son, but quite as frequently of that good old
fellow, Rothfuss. Ludwig is free, but how does Rothfuss endure his
captivity? And as it was just harvest time, it was doubly inconvenient
to be without him.
We were bringing home our early barley. I had walked on ahead and the
loaded wagon was to follow. I opened the barn door, the wagon
approached, and on it was seated Rothfuss, who call out at the top of
his voice, "Here I am on a wagon full of beer. So far it is only in the
shape of barley. Hurrah for freedom!"
As Rothfuss had been imprisoned by mistake, he was soon set at liberty,
and it was both affecting and diverting to listen to his accounts of
his experience as a prisoner.
He told us how good it is to be in jail and yet innocent. While he was
there, he was reminded of all the sins he had ever committed, and he at
last began to believe that he deserved to be locked up.
"By rights," said he, "every one ought to spend a couple of years in
jail, just because of what he has done. When we meet a man who has just
got out of prison we ought to say to ourselves: 'Be kind to him for it
is mere luck that you have not been there yourself.'" Thus spoke
Rothfuss. He had thought he would find it pleasant to be sitting in his
cell while the other folks were hard at work with the harvest, but it
had proved terribly monotonous. The meals were not to his taste, nor
could he enjoy his sleep. He could not endure such idleness, and after
the second day, he begged the inspector to set him at chopping wood; a
request which was not granted.
And was not Rothfuss the happiest fellow in the world, when he heard
the news of Ludwig's return?
He complained that it was rather hard to know of a thing so long
beforehand. Impatience at the delay would make one angry at every day
that intervened.
When I consoled him with the idea that the chief part of enjoyment lies
in anticipation, his face lighted up with smiles, and he said, "He is
right." When he praises me, he always turns away from me as if talking
to some one in the distance, and as if determined to tell the whole
world how wise I am. "He is perfectly right. It is just so. It is a
pleasant thirst when you know that there are just so many steps to the
next inn, and that the cooling drink which is to wash your insides and
make you jolly, lies in the cellar there, waiting for you."
Rothfuss had already started for the village, when he came running up
the steps and called out: "I have found another nest; the locksmith's
Lisbeth and our three Americans will be happiest of all when they hear
the news. It is well to drink, but if one can first pour out a joyous
cup for another, it is still better. I shall be back soon," he called
out as he hurried up the road.
The widow of Blum the locksmith lived in the back street. Her husband
had settled in the village, intending to follow his trade, and also to
till a small piece of land. Partly by his own fault, and partly through
misfortune, he had not succeeded.
He then desired to emigrate to America. His wife, however, had been
unwilling to do so until she could feel assured of their being able to
get along in the new world.
At home she had her own little house and her three children. For some
time the locksmith worked at the factory in the neighboring town,
returning to his home only on Sundays. His idea of emigrating had,
however, not been given up, and at last he departed for America with
the hope of mending his fortunes, and then sending for his wife and
children.
When he arrived there, the war between the North and the South was at
its height. He heard my son's name mentioned as that of one of the
leaders, and at once enlisted under him. Ludwig was delighted to have
one at his side who was both a countryman of his and a good
artilleryman.
It was not until after the locksmith had enlisted that he spoke of his
having left a family at home. At the battle of Bull Run he lost his
life, and his wife and children, who are still living down in the
village, are in regular receipt of the pension which Ludwig secured for
them.
When the widow heard the news, she came to me at once, and told me with
tears in her eyes, that she could hardly await Ludwig's return. She
speedily acquainted the whole village with the event that was to prove
a festival to my household, and when I went out of doors every one whom
I met wished me joy; especially happy was one of the villagers who had
been among Ludwig's volunteers in 1848, and was quite proud of his
having been able to lie himself out of that scrape.