At home I found everything in excellent order. Rothfuss was still
complaining, and was not allowed to leave his bed; but he was mending,
and had naught to complain of but _ennui_ and thirst.
I cannot remember a merrier Christmas than that of 1865. We could
quietly think of our children we knew how they lived. Every Christmas
we would receive a long letter from Ludwig; and Johanna wrote us that
affairs were improving with her husband.
On the day before Christmas, Ernst arrived. He carried a roebuck on his
shoulder, and stood in front of the house shouting joyously. He waited
there until Martella went out to meet him. He reached out his arms to
embrace her, but she said, "Come into the house. When you get in there,
I will give you an honest kiss."
When I congratulated Ernst on his success in his examination, he
replied, "No thanks, father; I was lucky; that is all. I really know
very little about the subjects they examined me upon. I know more about
other things. But I passed nevertheless." It was delightful to listen
to Richard's sensible remarks; Ernst's conversation, however, was so
persuasive and so varied as to prove even more interesting than that of
Richard. He expressed himself quite happily in regard to the manner in
which one should, by stealth as it were, learn the laws of the forest
by careful observation, and referred to a point which is even yet in
dispute among foresters--whether a fertile soil or a large return in
lumber is most to be desired. I began to feel assured that my son, who
had so often gone astray, would yet be able to erect a life-fabric that
would afford happiness both to himself and to others.
Towards evening, when we were about to light the lamps, the Professor
arrived, to Martella's great delight.
"I knew you would be glad to see me," said Richard, "and I must confess
I like to come to my parents; but I have come more for the sake of
seeing you than any one else."
Richard congratulated Ernst, and promised to prepare a grand poem for
the wedding day.
The lights shone brightly, and joy beamed from every eye.
The Professor had brought some books for Martella, but had not been
fortunate in his selections. There were children's books among them,
and these Martella quietly laid aside.
Bertha had sent her a dress, Annette had contributed some furs, and
Johanna had sent her an elegantly bound Bible.
"I see already," said Martella, "that naught but good things are
showered down on me. Let them come. God grant that the day may arrive
when I, too, can bestow gifts. But now let us be happy," she said,
turning to Ernst. "When we are alone together in the wild-woods, let us
remember how lovely it is here. Look at the Christmas-tree. It was out
in the cold and was freezing; but now they have brought it into the
warm room, and decked it with lights and all sorts of pretty gifts. And
thus was I, too, out of doors and forgotten; but now I am better off;
the tree is dead, but I--" Richard grasped my hand in silence, and
softly whispered:
"Don't interrupt her. Always let her finish what she has begun this
way. When the bird singing on the tree observes that the wanderer is
looking up to it with grateful eyes, it flies away."
Martella tried on her furs, stroked them with her hand, and then lit
the lights on a little Christmas-tree on which were hanging some large
stockings--the first she had ever knit.
"Come along," she said to Ernst, "let us go to Rothfuss; and, Richard,
you had better come with us, too, and help us sing."
Carrying the burning tree in her hand, and accompanied by Ernst and
Richard, she went, singing on her way, to the room in which Rothfuss
lay.
"You are the first person," she said to Rothfuss, "to whom I can give
something. I only knit them; the wool was given me by my mother."
"Oh!" exclaimed Rothfuss, "no wizard can do what is impossible. Our
Lord makes the wool grow on the sheep; but shearing the sheep, spinning
the wool, and knitting the stockings we have to do for ourselves."
On the next day, while we were seated at table, Rothfuss entered,
crying, "A proverb, and a true one; she has put me on my feet again. I
have got well."
I cannot recall a merrier Christmas than the one we then enjoyed. There
were no more like it, for in the following year the crown had departed.
My wife's father had, after withdrawing from his position as a teacher,
employed himself in translating Goeethe's Iphigenia into Greek. He had
left his task incomplete. As a Christmas present for mother, Richard
had brought lovely pictures to illustrate the poem, and in the antique
room of our house, in which we had casts of the best Greek and Roman
statues, Richard would read aloud to my wife.
Martella always had an aversion to this large room, and when she was
called in there would look around for a while, as if lost, and then
with scarcely audible steps leave the apartment.
My wife loved all her children, but she was happiest of all with
Richard. He seemed to have succeeded to her father's unfinished labors,
and when he was in her presence she always seemed as if in a higher
sphere. Richard had a thoroughly noble disposition and dignified
bearing.
Mother repeatedly read Ludwig's letter, and said:
"The Free-thinkers could not bring about what we are now experiencing:
that on a certain evening and at an appointed hour all mankind are
united in the same feeling. Do you believe, Richard, that you
philosophers could bring about such a result?"
Richard thought not; but added that the forms assumed by higher
intellectual truth were constantly changing, and that just as they had
given the church in heathen ages a different character, so they might
at some future time effect changes in later forms of religious belief.
Martella entered the room at that moment, and my wife's significant
glance reminded Richard that he had better not prolong the discussion.
We were a happy circle, and Richard was especially so because he had
made common cause with me in the last exciting question. The future of
our Fatherland, however, did not afford him a pleasant outlook. He
believed that the great powers were playing a false game and were only
feigning to quarrel in order that they might the more successfully
divide up the lesser states among themselves. He felt sure that their
plan was to divide up all the rest of Germany between Prussia and
Austria. I, too, had sad thoughts in this connection, but could not
picture the future to myself. This alone was certain: our present
condition could not last. In the meanwhile we awaited Napoleon's New
Year's speech. His words would inform the world what was to become of
it.
In our happy family circle we forgot for a little while the feeling of
deep humiliation that hung over all, and the doubts that always caused
us to ask ourselves, "To whom will we belong?"
It is indeed sad when one is forced to say to himself, "To-morrow you
and your country may be handed over to some King."