I remained standing near the gate and saw constant arrivals of more
young men. Men and women desired to accompany them inside the barracks,
but were always ordered back by the guard.
Carl, the son of the spinner who lived on the rock, was also among the
arrivals. Without any solicitation on my part, he promised to keep an
eye on Ernst.
It had become night; the gas-lamps were lit, and yet I stood there so
buried in thought, that the lamp-lighter was obliged to tell me to move
on.
There I was, in the capital in which there lived so many of my friends,
and my own child; indeed, two of my children.
Where should I go first? Our club-house was in the vicinity, and I went
there. They praised me for having come so soon, for while I had been at
the borough town they had telegraphed for me.
They were in hourly expectation of a government order, convoking the
Parliament. What we were expected to discuss no one knew; but every one
felt that it was necessary for us to assemble. I could not bring myself
to believe that war was really possible, and there were many who shared
my opinion.
Funk was there also. He offered me his hand in a careless manner, and,
feeling that in such times enmity should be at an end, I shook hands
with him.
Funk rejoiced that the grand crash was at last to come. Prussia would
have to be beaten to pieces, and a federation founded; for the present,
with a monarchical head.
The minister, who was well known as an arch-enemy of Prussia, had sent
word to the committee of our party that he would come to us that same
evening, and bring the order convoking us with him. He did not come in
person, but contented himself with sending the written order. Of what
use could we be when the harm had already been done. What were we?
Nothing but a flock without any will of our own.
I went to Bertha's house. I found her alone; her husband was at his
post, busy day and night. It had suddenly been discovered that the
troops were not fully prepared.
I had not been there long, before her friend Annette entered, from
whom as usual I was obliged to endure much praise. Annette found it
quite--she was about to say "patriarchal," but checked herself in
time--that I had come to assist Bertha.
"Only think of it," she continued, putting all her remarks in the form
of questions, as was her wont: "Would you have thought that Bertha
would be much less resigned than I? I have always wished that I might
be so gentle and self-controlled as Bertha; and now I am the quieter of
the two. Have I not as much love for my husband as any woman can have
for hers? Have I not given up everything for his sake? Now I say to
myself, 'Did you not know what you were doing when you married a
soldier? Is the uniform merely for the parade and the court ball?
Therefore, rest content. In this world everything must be paid for. It
is necessary to accept the consequences of one's actions.' Am I right
or wrong?"
Annette always closed with a note of interrogation, and of course I was
obliged to respond affirmatively.
Bertha smiled sadly, and said in a weary voice: "Yes, father, I must
admit it; I have always thought that war was one of those things of
which one only learned in the hour devoted at school to history. I only
knew of the Punic wars and the Peloponnesian war--for we never got as
far as modern history--and thought of these things as of what had once
been. But I honestly admit that I did not think they would come to pass
again in our time."
"Just think of it, Bertha," said Annette, while she drew a thick volume
from her satchel, "this is the Bible. You know that I never take
quotations at second-hand, but prefer looking them up myself. This
morning while the hairdresser was with me, it occurred to me that the
Bible says the wife should leave her father and her mother for his
sake. So I sent for the Bible, the very one that the dowager princess
presented me with when I was christened. I hunted up the passage, but
what did I find? Why, that for this the 'man would leave his father and
mother,'--the man. Now just look, it says the man; and why should it
say _the man_? He is not a domestic plant, like us girls!"
The vivacity of the pretty and graceful woman cheered me, and I must
admit that from that time my opinion of Annette changed. She seems
imbued with much of that power of self-reliance which is a peculiar
characteristic of the Jews; they are nothing by inheritence, and are
obliged to make themselves what they are.
But Annette seemed to guess at my silent thoughts, and continued, "Do
not praise me, I beg of you! I do not deserve it. I am quite different
when I am alone; then I am tormented with horrible fancies. And let me
tell you, Bertha, when our husbands leave, you must keep me with you. I
cannot be alone. I am beginning to hate my piano already. I do not go
into the room in which it stands. Ah, here come our husbands!"
We heard advancing steps. The Major entered, and greeted me politely,
but seemed quite gloomy.
I told him that I had brought Ernst.
"I hope he will do himself credit," said the Major in a hard voice.
I told him that the Parliament was about to reassemble, whereupon the
Major with great emphasis said, "Dear father, I beg of you do not let
us talk politics now. I have the greatest respect for your patriotism,
your liberalism, and for all your opinions. But now it is my uniform
alone that speaks; what is inside of it has not a word to say."
He pressed both hands to his heart, and continued:
"Pshaw! I, too, once believed in 'German unity,' as they are fond of
calling it,.... and even had hopes of Prussia. But now we will show
these impudent, mustachioed Prussian gentlemen what we are made of."
I was careful not to reply to his remarks, in which I could easily
notice the struggle that was going on within him. He was on duty; and
it is wrong to talk to a man who is at his post.
What sort of a war is it in which they know no other cry but "Let us
show them what we are made of!"
And if the victory is achieved, what then? An invisible demon sat
crouching on the knapsack of every soldier, making his load heavier by
a hundred-fold.
We seated ourselves at the table. The Major seemed to feel that he had
been harsh towards me, and was now particularly polite. He asked about
mother, Martella, and Rothfuss. He told us that he had that day heard
from our newly discovered cousin, in a letter from Mayence, in which he
had expressed the hope that they might stand side by side on the
battle-field, and thus again become bound to each other.
The Major had nothing more to say. He poured out a glass of wine for
me, and drank my health in silence. Annette used every exertion to
dispel the dark cloud under which we were laboring.
She asserted that her saddle horse seemed to know that it would soon be
led forth to battle, and told us a number of marvellous stories about
that clever animal. She was very fond of telling anecdotes, and had
considerable dramatic talent.
"Dear father," said the Major, "I believe I have not yet acquainted you
with my darling wish."
"I do not remember your having done so."
"My request is, that when we leave, Bertha and the children should
remain with you until the end of the campaign, which from present
indications will not extend to your neighborhood.
"They are now, at last, constructing a telegraph line through your
valley--it has been deemed a military necessity, and that will enable
us to hear from each other with dispatch."
"And will you accept an unbidden guest?" interposed Annette. "I know
that you will say 'yes,' and I promise you that I will be quite good
and docile."
I extended my hand to her, while she continued:
"You know that it has for a long while been my wish to be permitted to
spend some time with your wife. Iphigenia in the forest, in the German
pine forest! Oh, how charming it was of your father-in-law to name his
daughter so! Are pretty names only intended for books? Of course,
Grecian Iphigenia should not knit stockings. Did not your father-in-law
begin to translate Goethe's 'Iphigenia' into Greek, but fail to
complete it? Is not Iphigenia too long a name for daily use? How do you
address your wife?"
"By her middle name, Gustava."
"Ah, how lovely! 'Madame Gustava.' And the forest child? I presume she
is still with you? And now I shall at last become acquainted with your
noble and faithful servant, Rothfuss, who said that 'one who is
drenched to the skin need not dread the rain.'"
As far as our all-engrossing anxiety would permit it, Annette's
volubility and liveliness contributed greatly to our relief.
We had just left the table when Rolunt, the Major's most intimate
friend, entered. He had at one time been an officer in the service of
the Duke of Augustenberg, and had thence returned to his home, where he
was now professor at the military school.
Now political conversation could not be restrained, although the Major
refrained from taking part in it.
Rolunt was furious that, no matter how the war might end, Germany would
be obliged to give an indemnity, in the shape of Nice, to France.
We had the galling consciousness that one nation presumed to decide the
affairs of another, with as much freedom as it would regulate the taxes
or the actions of its own citizens.
We remained together until it was quite late, and when we separated, it
was with crushed hearts.
The Major insisted on my staying at his house; the war, he said, had
done away with all minor considerations.
On the following day there was another session of the Parliament. The
government demanded an extraordinary credit, which was accorded,
although it was hoped that we might escape being drawn into war; for
both the government and the legislature fondly expected that our
troubles might be arranged by diplomacy.
Who, after all, was the enemy that we were fighting against?
I went to the barracks. I was refused admission. Fortunately, I saw the
ensign approaching, and, under his protection, I was allowed to enter.
Ernst, who had already donned the uniform, was lying on a bench. He
seemed surprised to see me.
"Pray do not say a word until we get outside."
He received permission to go out for half an hour, and soon stood
before me in his smart attire. There was something graceful and yet
determined in his bearing.
When we gained the street, he asked me whether there was any chance of
his discharge.
I was in a sad dilemma. I had taken no steps, because it was only too
evident that my efforts would have been of no avail.
It was this that made me hesitate in answering him, and Ernst
exclaimed, "All right. I know all about it."
My very heart bled, pierced as it was by the same sword that rent my
Fatherland in twain.
I endeavored to persuade my son that there are times when our own wills
and thoughts are of no avail against the great current of Fate.
"Thanks, father, thanks," answered Ernst, in a strangely significant
tone.
I could only add, "I feel assured that you will do your duty. Do not
forget that you have parents and a bride."
He seemed to pay but little attention to my words.
He took off his helmet, and said, "This presses me so: I am unused to
it. It seems to crush my brain."
He looked very handsome, but very sad. We were standing before the
office of the State Gazette, when suddenly the street seemed filled
with groups of excited people, listening to a man who had climbed to
the top of a wagon and was reading off a dispatch just received from
Berlin, to the effect that there had been an attempt to shoot Bismarck,
but that the ball had missed aim.
"Curse him!" cried Ernst; "I would not have missed aim."
I reproved him with great severity, but he insisted that one had a
right to commit murder. I replied that no one would ever have that
right, and that this deed had been as culpable as the assassination of
Abraham Lincoln; for if any one man has the right to be both the judge
and the executioner of his enemies, you will have to accord the
privilege to the democrat as well as to the aristocrat.
"Let us cease this quarrelling," he answered; "I have no desire to
dispute with you. I am firm in my belief that one is justified in doing
wrong for the sake of bringing about a good result. But, I beg of you,
father, let us now and forever cease this quarrelling."
His face showed his conflicting emotions, and he kissed my hand when I
gently stroked his face.
The crowd had dispersed in the meanwhile, and we proceeded on our way.
Ernst suddenly stopped and said to me: "Farewell, father. Give my love
to mother and Martella."
He held on to my hand quite firmly for a moment or two longer, and then
said, "I must go to the barracks."
His eyes plainly told me that he would like to say more that he could
not express; but he merely nodded, and then turning on his heel,
departed.
"Write to us often!" I called out to him. He did not look back.
I followed after him for a while, keeping near enough to hear his firm
step and the rattling of his spurs. I fondly hoped that he would yet
return to me, and tell me of the thoughts that oppressed his heart.
I met many acquaintances on the way, who saluted me and extended their
hands. They wanted me to stop and talk with them, but I merely nodded
and passed on.
In my eager haste I ran against many people, for I did not want to lose
sight of my son. There he goes! Now he stands still--now he turns.
Surely-- At that moment a company of soldiers marched down the street
to the sound of lively music; we were now separated. I could not see my
son again. I returned to Bertha and the Major, and the latter promised
me to keep a watchful eye on Ernst, and to send us frequent tidings in
regard to him, in case he should neglect to write.
I rode to the depot. I was fearfully tired, and felt as if I could not
walk another step.
As the trains were quite irregular, I was obliged to wait there for a
long while.
I felt--no, I cannot--I dare not--revive the painful emotions that rent
my bosom. Of what avail would it be? My son was going forth to war, and
I had brought him here, myself.
"Brother fighting against brother." I fancied that I had been talking
to myself and had uttered these words; but I found that they were
frequently repeated by the excited groups that were scattered about the
depot. All about me there was ceaseless turmoil. People were rushing to
and fro, yelling, shouting, cursing, and laughing. I sat there absorbed
in thought, not caring to see or hear anything more of the world, when
a familiar voice said to me, "How charming, father, that I should meet
you here!"
My son Richard stood before me; he had finished his lectures and was
about to return home.
Accompanied by him, I started for home.
Richard informed me of the political divisions among the professors,
and thus afforded me a glimpse of a sphere of life entirely different
from my own. Even the immovable altars of science were now trembling,
and personal feeling had become so violent that the friends of Prussia,
of whom Richard was one, could not appear in public without being
subjected to insults. On our way home, we stopped for dinner at the
garrison town, where we heard the most contemptuous allusions to the
"Prussian braggarts," as they were termed.
It was said that they had no officers who had ever smelt powder. That
what had been done in Schleswig-Holstein had been achieved by the
Austrians; and that if they ever dared go so far as to fight, they
would be sent home in disgrace.
I do not know whether they really believed what they said, or whether
they were simply trying to keep up their courage. But, on every hand,
one could hear them say, "They will not let matters proceed so far;
they are loud talkers and nothing else."
I was quite beside myself; but Richard begged me to remain silent. He
thought it was well that matters had come to this pass.
Whoever had brought on this war had assumed a great, but perhaps
unavoidable, responsibility. It was the sad fiat of fate, and none
could foretell where the sacrifice and suffering would end. History
would march on in its appointed path, even though sin and suffering be
its steppingstones.
And then he pointed to our surroundings, and added, "Such fellows as
these will never be converted by speeches; nothing but a thorough
beating will teach them reason."
I have found that sober history tells us very little of all those
things. She brings the harvest under shelter and enters the result; but
who stops to ask how the weather may have changed while the grain was
ripening?
But to us who live in the present, such things are not trifles; and I
cannot help maintaining that the war of 1866 was forced on the people
against their will, as far as I can judge, and I have spoken to many on
the subject. The Prussians did not desire war; the conservatives did
certainly not wish for it, for Austria was, spite of all, the bulwark
of their principles. The liberals did not want it; nor did the soldiers
go forth with cheerful hearts. But necessity had become incarnate in
the brain of a single statesman: separation from Austria was the end to
be gained, and though it went hard, that result must be achieved.
But the operation was a difficult and a painful one.