CHAPTER XXII.

Before the train left the station, the newsboys were running about

offering copies of extra issues of the journals, with news that the

Diet had raised the German colors: black, red, gold.

And thus the Diet dared to unfurl the flag which we had always regarded

with devotion,--for the sake of which we had been persecuted,

imprisoned, or exiled. It seemed as if the holiest of holies had been

denied and dishonored.

"It is the death-bed repentance of a sinner who has not enough time

left to do good in," said Richard, who divined the thoughts that were

passing through my mind.

A large company of soldiers was on the train, and went as far as the

next garrison town.

But how could they have found it in their hearts to sing?

Haymaking had begun, the cars were filled with the fragrant odor of the

newly mown grass. The laborers in the fields would look up from their

work, and raise their scythes on high when they saw us pass.

And now, when it seemed as if my Fatherland was to be laid waste and

destroyed, I became more than ever sensible of my great affection for

it.

These woods, these fields and villages, were all to be laid waste, and

shrieks of woe would resound from the flames. I felt it as keenly, as

if beholding a beloved relative in the grasp of death.

The train was just moving away from the station when I heard a soldier

call out to me, "Grandfather!"

I recognized him: it was my grandson Martin, the son of my daughter

Johanna. He nodded to me, and when I turned to look at him, I saw the

lieutenant collaring and buffeting him for speaking without orders

while in the ranks.

We had proceeded but a short distance when I observed that Funk was on

the train. He kept at a distance from us. He had bought a large bundle

of extra newspapers, which he distributed to the people at the

different stations.

When we reached our circuit town we repaired to the Wild Man Tavern,

where, while waiting for a conveyance, we seated ourselves under the

newly planted lindens. While sitting there, engrossed by thoughts of

the country's troubles, I learned of another trouble nearer home.

I am old enough to know something of human wickedness, but I admit that

I am, even to this day, frequently surprised by the shape that human

meanness will sometimes take.

At a side table was seated Funk's special satellite--the baker Lerz,

of Hollerberg. He was accompanied by his wife, and both looked about

them with an air of serene contentment. The baker was a sensual,

self-complacent man, who had a habit of smiling and moving his lips, as

if he were smacking them at the thoughts of a feast he had just been

enjoying. He had just been involved in an unclean piece of business, in

which he had sworn that he was innocent, although, according to my

conviction and the general belief, he had perjured himself in so doing.

But what does such an unconscionable voluptuary care for that? When the

peril was passed, all care was at an end.

The baker approached me and inquired if I would like to ride home with

him; for the government levies had rendered it difficult to obtain a

conveyance. I declined; Fortunately, my neighbor, the young meadow

farmer, who had been taking hay over to the railway station, was

passing by at the time, and so I rode home with him.

A little way out of the town, we came up with a young woman who was

walking along the road. She had covered her head with a large white

kerchief, and was carrying an infant in her arms.

Her head was bent forward; and it is generally a sign of deep thought

if one who is walking along a road does not look around at the rapid

approach of a vehicle. And this woman was Lerz's victim.

The meadow farmer, who was, usually, a man of few words, leaned back

from his seat on the front bench, and whispered to me, "Such a fellow

as Lerz ought not to be permitted to take an oath."

The meadow farmer had for a long while been my worst enemy, simply

because I had deprived him of his greatest enjoyment--venting his spite

on others.

Although it may, in these pages, seem as if I had cherished too high an

ideal of the people, I desire right here to say that I have found among

the lower classes that which is noblest and highest in man. But I have

also found much that is mean and revolting. Envy and malice are

characteristics almost peculiar to the farmer, and are especially shown

about the time of irrigating the meadows. It affords him peculiar

pleasure to wait until a neighbor has set his water-traps, and to sneak

out and reverse them so as to make the water flow on to his own

meadows.

The authorities had forbidden the watering of meadows after two o'clock

on Sunday morning, but it availed nothing. I appointed a servant who

was to have the sole right of setting the water-gates and opening them

again; and the meadow farmer could not forgive me for this. I had

robbed him of the pleasure of wreaking his spite on others.

It was not so much on account of the advantage he had gained thereby;

but, like the rest of them, he had found it great sport to outwit the

"gentleman farmer," as they called me.

The meadow farmer really hated me and Joseph; for if it had not been

for us he would have been the first man in the village. Wherever he

went, they inquired, "How goes it with Waldfried?" or "How is Joseph

Linker?" It annoyed him that they did not ask after him first of all.

He would have been glad to take a share in politics, but was too mean

to bestow the requisite amount of time upon such matters; and then he

would say, "Such folks as Funk should not be permitted to put in their

say; there is nothing behind him."

We had just reached the saw-mill, down in the valley, when we saw a

large hay-wagon coming along the road in the direction of the meadow.

Martella sat on top: Rothfuss was walking beside the horses.

Martella alighted. She looked quite troubled. She welcomed Richard, and

asked me, "Where have you left Ernst?"

"He is not with us."

"Where then?"

We had no time to reply before Martella called out, "So he must go to

war after all!"

"Of course."

"Of course? Of course?" Martella asked repeatedly. She stopped for a

moment, and removing the rake from her shoulder rested herself upon it.

I told her that in all likelihood there would be no war, and that all

the clamor was nothing more than angry threatening on both sides.

"That is not true!" cried Martella; "you should not tell me an

untruth!"

"Martella, this is my father!" cried Richard.

"And mine too," she interrupted; "forgive me! Because you are my father

you should forgive me; if you did not you would not and could not be my

father. Forgive me! Oh! they will shoot my good, kind Ernst!"

She sat down by the roadside and covered her face with both her hands.

In a little while, however, she yielded to our entreaties, and

accompanied us to the house, but without speaking a word on the way. As

soon as we arrived there, she hurriedly left us and hastened to the

barn. In a few moments she returned and cried out with a loud voice,

"Mother, Richard is here!"

The child's temperament was strangely variable.

My wife was especially delighted at Richard's return. "With one

exception," she said, smiling (for she could not reconcile herself to

Richard's remaining unmarried), "you always did the right thing at the

right time. We need both a son and a Professor. Perhaps you will be

able to make Martella understand what is meant by the words State and

Fatherland."

She told us that Martella, who was generally so quick of apprehension,

found it impossible to form any conception of those ideas, and that,

naturally enough, in her present troubles, this was doubly difficult.

For, even in our eyes, the events as well as the duties of that sad

period seemed like a horrible enigma.

It seemed as if thinking of Martella had relieved my wife from the

weight of her own trouble. When I informed her of the expected arrival

of Bertha and the children, her face beamed with joy. She at once

repaired to the rooms that they were to occupy, and seemed, in

anticipation, to enjoy the thought of entertaining those who were

dearest to her.

I had told my wife nothing of Annette's coming. She was, however,

gifted with a prophetic insight that bordered on the marvellous.

Results which to others were yet invisible were, by her, discerned with

unerring foresight. She at once devoted two large rooms opening on the

garden to Annette.

Martella hurried about, helping to get the house in order, and seemed

as if there was nothing to depress her spirits.

Rothfuss complained to me that the "forest imp," as he at times called

Martella, left him no peace, day or night. She wanted him to tell her

why people had to be soldiers, and why there was such a thing as war;

and she had abused the Prince in terms that would secure her seven

years in the fortress of Illenberg, if her remarks were reported to the

authorities.

She had once even wanted to run off to the Prince and tell him how

wicked it was to command human beings to shoot one another, and that he

should, at all events, give her lover back again, for the war was

nothing to Ernst or to her.

Rothfuss called the professor to his assistance.

Richard declined the commission, remarking that it was not necessary

for every maiden to know why her lover was forced to go to the wars,

and that, in the present instance, he hardly knew the reason himself.

Notwithstanding this remark, he essayed to speak with Martella on the

subject, and I have never seen him so nervous and confused as on that

occasion; for Martella called out to him, "Do not say a word: it is all

of no use." Then she embraced him, and kissed him, and pressed him to

her heart.

Martella's ardent kisses had so surprised and confused him that it was

some time before he could collect himself. I had never seen him so

unnerved before. I believed that I understood the cause of his emotion.

Martella was a riddle which to Richard seemed more difficult of

solution than to any of us.

What we had all failed to accomplish was brought about by the

simple-minded Spinner.

Had she been told that she could be of use, or had she divined it? She

came up to Martella and said, "Child, your lot is a hard one; but look

at me: mine is still harder. My best child, indeed my only one,--for

the others had left me to starve,--has also gone to the war; and though

a lover be ever so dear, he is not a son, as you will sometime know

when you have a son of your own."

After that, Martella was quite resigned. She had, of course, not

acquired any idea of the significance of the word "State;" but she now

felt that the fate of all beings was ordained by a great overruling

power.

Joseph kept us constantly informed of the excitement that reigned

through the neighborhood. Funk was the chief spokesman. He announced

that the time was about to arrive when Germany would become a free

confederation like our neighbor Switzerland.

I do not think that one of those loud talkers believed in the

fulfilment of such hopes; but, for the time being, it afforded them an

opportunity of indulging in high-sounding phrases. On the other hand,

we knew that to "abolish Prussia," as their phrase ran, would simply be

the first step towards preparing for Germany the fate of Poland.

And yet my own kindred--my son, my son-in-law, and Martin, my

grandson--were fighting to accomplish that very object.

BOOK SECOND.

CHAPTER I.

We were seated on the balcony when we saw Bertha and her children

coming up the hill towards the house. My wife at once arose, and opened

the two folding-doors, as if with that action she were opening wide our

hearts to receive them.

Realizing the fact that there was no escaping from our troubles, Bertha

had conquered her sorrow, and now appeared as fresh and cheerful as if

she had just been drinking at the fountain of youth.

As soon as the first greetings were over, my wife inquired about Ernst.

Bertha had seen him but once, as his captain had sent him up the

country to get transportation for horses.

"That is bad; they should not have sent him there. O Ernst, poor, dear

Ernst!" suddenly shrieked my wife.

She grew pale and fell back on a chair. We feared that she would faint.

Bertha rushed to her aid, but she speedily recovered herself, and her

trembling lips were the only sign, of the emotion she had passed

through. She did not tell us why she had found it so wrong of them to

send Ernst on that errand. She accompanied Bertha to her room, and

stroking the light locks of little Victor, whom she had taken on her

lap, said, "He looked just as you do when he was a little boy, except

that he had blue eyes."

"Yes," said Bertha, "my husband has often noticed that Victor bears

great resemblance to Ernst."

"And Uncle Ernst promised me a horse," said Victor.

"Did he?" said my wife, with pleased looks: "If he did that, it is all

right, but sad enough for all. Still, others have their burdens to bear

as well as we."

Martella's first meeting with Bertha as well as with Annette, resulted

in mutual attraction.

Bertha was obliged to tell Martella all that she knew about Ernst, and

while she was holding the hand of the strange child, the latter must

have felt a consciousness of the candor and straightforwardness of

Bertha's character, for she looked into her face with sparkling eyes.

Martella asked Bertha whether Ernst had sent the broken ring by her.

Bertha said he had not.

She removed a ring from her finger and offered it to Martella, who

declined it.

When Annette offered both her hands to Martella, and said that she had

for a long while been anxious to make her acquaintance, Martella was

quite confused, and looked down towards the ground. When she raised her

head, her eyes fell on a light green necktie which Annette wore.

"How pretty it is!" were her first words.

Annette immediately removed the tie, and fastened it about Martella's

neck.

"It is quite warm, yet," said Martella; and Annette replied, "How

lovely! Let us regard that as a good omen."

When Bertha, who rarely gave way to sentiment, returned and joined us

again, she said, "Let us now be thrice as kind and loving to one

another as we have been, and be indulgent with each other's moods. It

is only by such means that we can manage to live through these terrible

times."

Bertha and her daughter Clotilde, a charming, graceful child about nine

years of age, were so clever in anticipating every wish of my wife's,

that, although it had always been her wont to be serving others and

providing for their comfort, she was now obliged to let them have their

own way.

Martella seemed almost inseparable from Rothfuss, and Victor was always

with the two. He accompanied them out to the fields and into the woods;

and it was difficult to say which of the two was the happier, Rothfuss

the old, or Victor the young, child.

It would have been difficult also to say which of the two, Victor or

Martella, cut wilder capers, for the young play-fellow with the soldier

cap seemed to make her forget all her trouble. She was quite proud of

her skill in leaping, and loved to display it.

Bertha maintained that, in spite of rough manners, many of Martella's

movements were full of wondrous grace; and when she would turn around

five or six times on one foot, Victor could never imitate her.

On the very day of her arrival, Annette awakened great interest in the

village.

She ascended to the top of the church steeple, where none of us had

ever been. She waved her handkerchief from the little window in the

belfry, until we took notice of her and returned her salute. All of the

villagers who were not engaged in the fields had gathered in groups,

and were looking up at the church steeple.

When she joined us at dinner, she told us that she had already found

out everything. The school-master had told her of the woods that had

been planted by my wife, that she had already been at the Gustava

Spring, and that the water had tasted as if it were pure dew.

"Ah, how fortunate you are to own all this! The very air you breathe is

your own."

She talked incessantly, and many of her remarks were quite

entertaining. She plied Richard with so many questions that he looked

quite displeased, and soon left the table.

"I can tell by the professor's looks that he is musical; is he not?"

"Indeed he is; he is esteemed an excellent violincello player."

"I can assure you that I asked no one, and I am so glad that my

intuitions did not deceive me."

While Annette was paying a visit to the school-mistress, Richard gave

vent to his anger at her; but my wife pacified him. Annette could not

enjoy the quiet possession of anything, and was always anxious to

impart what she knew and felt to others. She was evidently of a very

hospitable nature, and would, in good time, acquire repose of manner.

During the first few days, while we were yet without news of any kind,

and before the journals had given us any information as to the

movements of the troops, Annette did not allow us to get a moment's

rest.

The way she worried us all, and Richard in particular, was quite

provoking; and yet this lesser trouble made us forget the greater one.

My father-in-law had converted the large corner room on the ground

floor of our house into a veritable temple of beauty. He had, from time

to time, purchased casts of the best antique statues, and had carefully

arranged them along the walls and on pedestals, placing beautiful

engravings between them.

He had thus brought the immortal types of beauty into the depths of the

forest. The room in which he had placed the statues, and which Richard

jokingly entitled "Athens," was a favorite haunt of ours.

Annette was greatly surprised to find such treasures with us, and said

to Richard, "These undying types of a past great civilization are at

home everywhere. It is because they no longer have, and indeed never

did have, anything in common with the life of fashion, that they are

thus immortal. Do you not agree with me?"

She always insisted on having an answer to her questions. Then she

would briskly add: "Now I understand the meaning of the Niobe; she is

the old spinner who lives out on the rock." When we laughed at this

conceit of hers, she told us, "Oh! I beg your pardon, I mean that she

is the embodiment of a mother's grief in time of war."

Pointing to a statue of Iphigenia, she inquired, "Herr Professor, can

you tell me how the Grecian priestesses spent their time? Do you think

it possible to be constantly offering sacrifices and uttering lofty

thoughts?"

Richard admitted that he could not give her the desired information;

and Annette was quite delighted that she had posed the professor. She

did not give up troubling him, however.

All her notions of life in the country had been derived from books, and

she was quite shocked to find that the mere money value or utility of

trees was the only point of view in which they were regarded.

Notwithstanding her overflowing, emotional temperament, she had quite a

taste for details, and even for figures. At the first sight of a

prettily situated village, she would always make inquiries in regard to

the number of its inhabitants, their means, and manner of living. I was

obliged to tell her all about my own household--how many acres of

timber there were ready to cut, and how much was young timber; the

amount of our annual production, how much live-stock my meadows would

support, how much fruit my orchards gave me, and also how the work was

divided amongst the four men-servants and three maids that we employed.

She examined the whole establishment, from the stable to the loft. She

seemed to take especial delight in the happy combination we had

effected between the fruits of culture and the pursuit of husbandry.

There was a certain air of solid comfort and good taste in our home. It

had descended from the times of my father-in-law, and had been kept up

by us.

With good judgment, Annette thought that the very best site had been

selected for our house. The hill beyond the hollow at the back of the

house protected us on three sides, but was not near enough to deprive

us of fresh air, or to keep out the gentle breezes that would come up

from the valley after sunset and carry away the miasmatic vapors, thus

affording us healthful and refreshing sleep during the night. A barn,

which the meadow farmer had so placed that it destroyed part of the

view down the valley, was a great eyesore to Annette.

She asked Richard why the air with us was so cool and invigorating, and

was very grateful when he explained the theory of the dew-fall to her.

She was full of charming ingenuousness, for she once said. "I do not

doubt that you enjoy the singing of the birds, but I honestly confess

that I do not. It is pleasant to know that the little animal up in the

trees is so joyful; but, nevertheless, there is no beauty in tones

without connection or expression. I find that there are no more tones

in the scale of the finch than in that of the barn-yard rooster; and

why do we prefer the notes of the finch?"

Richard often felt annoyed that Annette was constantly keeping every

one about her on pins and needles, and seemed to desire his special

approval of all that she did. He maintained that she was entirely

deficient in mental balance.

The temperaments of Annette and Bertha were in marked contrast to each

other.

When they were seated opposite each other and engaged in conversation,

Bertha would bend forward, while Annette would lean back in her chair,

as if immovable.

Bertha's mere presence exerted a grateful influence, while Annette felt

that she must always be doing something, in order to inspire others

with an interest in her.

Bertha, with all her affection for Martella, remained somewhat reserved

towards her, while Annette was open and confiding, as with a sister.

She was incapable of any other relations than those of perfect intimacy

or absolute indifference.

Richard noticed all these peculiarities, and when he mentioned them to

me, I was almost startled to find how carefully he had been observing

Annette.

He was obliged, however, to agree with my wife when she said,

"Annette's habit of requiring her friends to interest themselves in

whatever engages her attention, is both innocent and childlike. A child

will always think that its whip or its ball is of as much importance to

others as to itself. Bear in mind, moreover, that Annette takes a

lively interest in all that others do, and naturally enough supposes

that they resemble her in that respect."

Annette had gone from the school-house one day, to pay a visit to my

nephew Joseph, who was a friend of her brother, the lawyer, who resided

in the capital. She found that there were well-furnished rooms in his

house, and a few days later removed there. She frankly admitted that

she was too noisy for our home, and that it were better that she should

visit us for a few hours at a time, instead of living with us.

She at once set about rearranging the furniture and removing

unnecessary decorations in her new quarters; and, on the next day,

while the carpenters were busily engaged in making the changes she

had ordered, she drove over to the city to visit the family of the

kreis-director, with whom she had formerly been intimate.

She returned in the evening, bringing their eldest daughter, whom she

intended to keep with her as a companion. A large wagon carrying sofas,

rocking-chairs, and all sorts of furniture followed.

Although Annette had intended to lead a quiet and contemplative life,

she might have been seen in the village at any hour of the day. She

speedily acquainted herself with all of its features. She had, by

rearranging the furniture in her own rooms, made them habitable and

tasteful, and she now desired to effect a corresponding transformation

in the houses of the wood-cutters; but the wives of the well-to-do

farmers looked askance. Whenever she met one of the villagers, she

would greet him or her politely, and would ask both old and young what

they had had for dinner. She insisted that this was the most important

of all questions. The people, however, found it great sport to answer

her with lies.

She had speedily become attached to the wife of the school-master, but

disliked to go to the clergyman's house.

CHAPTER II.

Our clergyman was the son of poor parents. His father had been a

beadle. He is without a single spark of genius, but is said to have

distinguished himself by great application. He attends to his duties

methodically, but in a cold and perfunctory manner. During the summer,

he spends much of his time fishing; in the winter, he is almost always

at home. He is well-skilled in that game of chess which requires but

one player. He lost his father while he was quite young, and in order

to be able to aid his mother and his many brothers and sisters, he

married a wealthy, but half-witted girl, whom he never cared to take

into society. Politics had no attractions for him.

Formerly, if a beggar applied to him for alms he would have him sent up

into his room, and would ask him, "What good will it do if I give you

that which will only help you for a moment or so? Come and listen"--and

he would then read the beggar a sermon, or a chapter out of the Bible.

But, of late years, the beggars had piously avoided his house.

Our school-master, on the other hand, is a clever and wide-awake man.

He, too, had taken part in the political movements of 1848, but when

placed on trial was acquitted. Ever since that time, he has held aloof

from political affairs. He married a woman who is exceedingly clever,

and who brought him some money besides.

The clergyman has no children: the school-master has three--two sons,

one of whom is a merchant down by the fortress; the other is a

machinist, and resides in America. He is said to have quite a large

business. The daughter is the wife of the inspector of roads. The

school-master is quite proud that he can say, "If I were to give up my

position to-morrow, I could afford to live without work"--a state of

affairs to which the skill and economy of his wife has greatly

contributed. The couple lead a loving and tranquil life. They are hale

and hearty, and, as it often happens when two persons have lived

together many years, they have grown to look very much alike. Their

garden was filled with teeming flower-beds. Florists from the

neighboring watering-places would come daily to purchase flowers, and

thus the garden had become a source of considerable profit.

But now that the war had emptied the watering-places, the flowers were

left to perish for want of purchasers.

Annette instructed the school-master's wife in the art of drying

flowers, and making pretty bouquets of them.

Carl's mother, who lived in a little house out by the rock, worked

every day in the garden of the school-master's wife.

Annette was attracted by the woman. She was short and thin, old and

stooping, but had wonderfully clear and sparkling eyes, and Annette

felt quite happy to think that this old woman, who was almost deaf,

could by means of her eyes still have so much enjoyment.

During the summer, the spinner, as had been her wont every year, would

scrape off the bark from the branches of the elderberry tree, and

afterward tie up the branches in bundles. Annette did great damage by

explaining to her--she had only learned it herself the day before--that

they would be used to make gunpowder. When the old woman heard that,

she felt as if she could not bear to touch the wood; but, as she had

undertaken the task, she was obliged to finish it, and so went on with

her work, although it was not without murmuring.

Through Annette's insinuating herself into the intimacy of others, much

that happened in our village acquired clearer colors, and greater

importance in my eyes.

I told her the history of the spinner. She had had a husband, a tall,

handsome man. He had been employed as a laborer on the road, but had

wasted all his earnings at the tavern.

Besides that, he had been a sportsman, and had loved, above all things,

to roam through the woods with the forester and his attendants, in

search of game.

While these things were going on, the wife had, with her own earnings,

reared four children, who were always among the tidiest in the village.

Whenever anyone expressed pity that she had so thoughtless and

inconsiderate a husband, she would say, "Oh, that's all right. If he

were not so shiftless a fellow, he would never have married me; he

would have gone and married some woman better, handsomer, and richer

than I was."

When the building of the railway was begun, he gave up his situation

and went to work in the valley; but he would never bring home a

groschen of money. Indeed, on one occasion, when he received a larger

sum than usual, he drove up in a carriage with two comrades, and the

three were not content until the last kreutzer had been spent.

But yet with all this no word of complaint ever fell from the lips of

his wife; and when, at last, her husband lost his life while blasting a

rock, she bewailed his death, saying that he was the best man in the

world.

Two of her sons and one daughter were employed at Mulhausen; but they

would not help the mother. Carl, who had been Joseph's servant, and was

now with the troops, gave all his earnings to her, and would not suffer

her to accept a gift from any one.

When Annette knew this, she was all attention to the spinner; but it

required much clever management to be able to do her a service. Besides

that, it was awkward that the spinner was so indistinct of speech, that

with the exception of her son Carl and the school-master's wife, there

was hardly any one who could understand her.

Richard and Bertha shook their heads while watching Annette's

movements, and could not refrain from commenting on them. But my wife

would always tell them that Annette was of an active temperament, and

was only happy when assisting others. She also told them that Annette

had interested herself for the baker Lerz's victim and her child, and

that she had given the clergymen of the neighboring villages

considerable sums to be distributed among the poor. And, further, that

it was much to her credit that she would not allow herself to be driven

away from her work by rudeness on the part of those whom she was trying

to benefit.

We soon had an amusing instance of this.

One Sunday afternoon, while we were up in the arbor, Annette had seated

herself with Rothfuss and Martella on a bench in front of the house.

She was trying to find out from Rothfuss how much he loved his horses

and cattle.

Rothfuss knew nothing about loving them. All he said was, "Feed them

well, and they will work for you."

She was quite provoked that the tinkling of the bells of the cows that

were grazing on the mountain patches was inharmonious. She said that

she would buy bells that were in accord with each other, and present

them to the owners of the cows.

She conversed quite familiarly with Rothfuss and Martella, and asked

them to look upon her as their companion.

To which Rothfuss replied, "I have nothing against the Jews--they are

all the same to me. In the place where I was born, there were lots of

Jews, and I was on good terms with all of them. Two of them served in

the same regiment with me; and in my village there was a splendid girl

whom they called 'the little beauty;' she was strong and healthy and

jolly. She loved to dance with me; and, if I could only have afforded

to marry, I would have been bound to have her. And you may take my word

for it, she would not have refused me.

"You are a sensible woman; one can talk to you about all sorts of

things. You are not like Baroness Arven, who once ordered me to take my

cap in my hand while I was speaking to her. You are better than she is.

"Yes, indeed; my first love was a Jewess.

"And then there was Myerle the horse-dealer, who often came to see us.

He looks just like you;--are you related to him? I know him intimately;

he is a sharp fellow, and a man of his word, and always gives two crown

thalers drink-money. Of late he has been trying to make it Prussian

thalers, but that won't go down.

"The Jews are just like us in everything. There is only one thing that

they cannot do--they don't know how to drink; and they don't try it,

either. But in all other respects they are just like us. 'He who is wet

to the skin need not dread the rain.'"

"And you, Martella," asked Annette, "what do you think of the Jews?"

"I? I don't think of them at all. I want nothing to do with them. In

the forest they always told me that my mother must have been a Jewess;

but it is not true."

"Who is your mother, then?"

"Who? Why, Madame Cuckoo;--just ask her."

Martella walked away.

Annette joined us and told us all that had happened, adding: "One is

always getting new and interesting ideas. Rothfuss and Martella,

comparing their religion with mine, look upon themselves as nobles who

vouchsafe me their favor. I accept it with thanks."

My wife, however, looked over to us with a significant glance that

seemed quite distinctly to say, "There, you can see now that she is

free from prejudice, and full of imperturbable kindness."

Notwithstanding her love and respect for us, Annette found great

pleasure in her intimate relations with the neighboring family of Baron

Arven. This may have been the result of her having formerly been kept

in the background.

Her constant journeyings to and fro were the occasion of our making

some delightful acquaintances.

Just beyond the boundary line, where I owned a large piece of woodland,

there resided a young forester, who was of noble birth, and a relative

of Annette's husband. We had before that been strangers to each other;

but Annette knew how to draw him and his wife into our circle, and we

were charmed by the simple manners of these highly cultivated people.

Our family was so widely extended that we found it quite easy to trace

a distant relationship to our newly discovered friends. The young wife

was the daughter of a high official. Though living in the woods, she

did not neglect her intellectual life, and found good music of great

assistance in that regard. She had also been able to bring up sturdy

boys; and we were quite pleased to learn that her only rule with them

had been _truthfulness and obedience_. These two requisites had been

firmly and inexorably insisted upon, and as a result the boys did their

parents great credit.

The new element that Annette had thus introduced into our circle often

caused us to forget that the very next hour might bring us the saddest

news.

CHAPTER III.

It was eventide. The clear tones of the village bell filled the valley

and were echoed back from the mountains opposite. The young woods down

by the stone wall seemed transparent with the reflection of the rosy

sunset, and all looked as if bathed in golden clouds.

We were sitting in the arbor, and every one was probably thinking to

himself, "Perhaps at this very moment men of the same nation--yea,

brothers--may be murdering one another on the battle-field."

In a low voice, and with an absence of all that resembled her usual

excessive excitability, Annette remarked that my wife ought to feel

very happy to think that she had planted yonder wood.

At that moment we saw a carriage coming up the hill.

"It is father!" exclaimed the daughter of the kreis-director, and ran

to meet him.

We observed that he opened the carriage door for her, and that she

entered it and remained with him.

Annette remarked that she had given orders that all telegrams should be

sent to Herr Von Rontheim, who would forward them to us as speedily as

possible. This must be a matter of importance, however, as he had come

in person. But let his tidings be what they may, we would stand by and

support one another.

Rontheim entered.

He brought us the news of a great victory gained by the Austrians, who

were said to have penetrated into Silesia. His manner of imparting this

was in accord with our feelings, and was quite free from any spirit of

rejoicing. A brief telegram had brought the news.

Rontheim seemed quite ill at ease and soon left, taking his daughter

and Annette with him. A little while after that, Joseph arrived, and

told me privately that he wished that Richard and I would come over to

his house.

I was struck with fear, and felt that there was bad news in store for

me.

Without knowing why, I felt alarmed.

When I entered Annette's apartment, Rontheim was seated at a table on

which there was a lighted lamp. In his hand there was a newspaper. He

did not rise to receive me, but requested me to be seated.

He grasped my hand firmly while he said, "You are a strong man, a just

father--no father can be blamed for what his child may do.--Your son

Ernst has deserted."

Those were his words: I have written them down with my own hand. Could

I, at that time, have believed that I would ever be able to do this!

But to this day, I cannot tell what rent my heart and crazed my brain.

All that I can recollect is that I felt as if a bullet were piercing my

brain, and found it strange that I knew even that much of what was

going on. I remember Richard's throwing his arms about my neck, and

crying, "Father! Dear father!" and all was over.

When I recovered consciousness my first thought was, "Why live again?

Death has been conquered."

The next thought that flashed upon me was, "But my wife!--She foresaw

it all, yet how will she bear this burden?"

Annette came up to me and seemed to guess at my thoughts, for with a

voice choked with tears she said:

"Do not tell your wife of this to-night. In the morning, when day

approaches, if you wish me to tell her of this, I am at your service.

But how cold your hands are!"

She knelt down and kissed my hands.

The director handed the newspaper to Richard. I noticed how his hand

trembled while he held it. I asked to have it handed to me, and read

the proclamation of my son's dishonor and the order for his arrest.

When I at last started to return home, I was obliged, for the first

time in my life, to lean on my son Richard for support. Annette had

asked permission to accompany me. We declined her proffered aid. The

kind-hearted, impulsive creature was all gentleness and desire to

assist me.

I arrived in front of the house. There stands the large and

well-ordered house,--but no joy will ever enter there again.

The wind from the valley was swaying the red beech to and fro; the

fountain swelled and roared while its waters glistened in the broad

moonlight. All this to be seen again and again, and yet--"daily

suicide"--

"What are you saying, father? What do you mean by those words?" asked

Richard.

It was not until then that I became aware of my having uttered them.

For Ernst, for my poor child, no day would ever more begin with the

love of life. "Daily suicide"--in this phrase his deed and its

consequences seemed to concentrate themselves. I was obliged to sit

clown on the steps, and not until then was I able to shed tears.

How often Ernst had run up and down there! I could yet remember the

first time that he climbed those steps on all fours, turning his pretty

head with its light curls towards me when I called out to him, and

waiting quietly until I would come and take him up in my arms!

But now he had conjured up a restless demon whom no cry or supplication

could exorcise.

At this very moment I can distinctly remember how I wished that all the

sorrow and pain might descend on my own head and be gathered up into my

own heart, in order that I might bear them for others.

"Master, why are you sitting at your own threshold like a strange

beggar?" were the words with which Rothfuss surprised me. "I have

already heard what our madcap Ernst has done; do not let that grieve

you to death--that will do you no good. In this world, every one must

carry his own hide to market. It is bad enough in all conscience, but

there is courage in it for all. There are hundreds and thousands of

them who would like to do what he has done; but they follow the drum

with its rat-tat-tat, and put on airs into the bargain. Do you know

what I think of this matter?--Do not interrupt me, Heir Professor; I

know what I am talking about--I say that every large family must

have its black sheep, and I would rather a thousand times have a

good-for-nothing than an idiot, the very sight of whom makes one's hair

stand on end.

"Yes, indeed; my mother was right. Her favorite maxim was: 'Better sour

than rotten,' and 'To be hard of hearing is not half so bad as to have

poor eyes.'

"In every family there is something; or, as the poor woman once said:

'There is something everywhere,--except in my lard-pot, where there is

nothing at all.'"

Rothfuss would not rest until I got up again.

I went up the steps with him and into the room. He drew off my boots,

and was full of kind attentions.

Addressing me in a whisper, he offered to tell the news to his mistress

in the morning, as he thought that he was best fitted for the task.

He meant to speak of it in such a way that she would take it as his

stupid talk and give him a thorough scolding, and thus wreak her anger

on him. He thought that would be the best way, because that would help

to break the first shock of the news, and then it would be easier to

endure the rest.

The only other thing that troubled Rothfuss was how he might stop

Funk's evil tongue. He felt sure that with the exception of Funk,

others would be as much grieved as we were.

That was the trouble. The news would enlist the attention of the busy

world, those who pitied as well as those who rejoiced in the sufferings

of others.

But what matters the world: it can neither help nor hinder our griefs.

I have experienced much bitter suffering:--I have gazed into the grave

that had received all that had been dearest to me on earth, but no pain

can be compared to that of grief for a son, who, though living, is

lost.

Morning had already dawned. The birds were singing in the trees; the

sun had returned; all life seemed to awake anew; and at last I found an

hour's sleep.

"Destroyer of sleep!" were the first words I uttered when I awoke.

How can he enjoy a moment's rest, or swallow a morsel of food while he

knows that his parents are sorrowing for him.

I have often been advised--it is easy enough to say the words--"Make up

your mind to blot his name from your memory." But it is not so easy to

follow such counsel.

My wife softly slumbered through the whole night. Will she ever again

have so refreshing a sleep?

CHAPTER IV.

The morning was bright and clear. We were seated around the breakfast

table, every one of us doubly oppressed. We were grieved on our own

account, and troubled by the thought that the mother's heart was soon

to become rent by the sad tidings.

Richard had told the news to Bertha.

My wife seemed to be watching Bertha, and at last reproved her for

having been weeping again. "It is our duty," said she, "to accept the

inevitable with resignation. Mankind might well be likened to the

plants in the field, which are obliged quietly to submit to the storm

that descends on their heads."

We exchanged hurried glances, but Bertha did not reply.

"Will my wife be as strong in a few moments from now?" was the question

I inwardly asked myself.

Rothfuss was heard cracking his whip in front of the house. He was

about to drive out into the fields, taking Martella with him.

His intention was to tell her all that had happened as soon as he

reached the fields, so that she might there spend her rage, and not

annoy the household by her noise.

Victor rode along with them.

My wife inquired whether the newspaper had not yet come, or why I was

not reading it, and wished to know what was the matter.

The moment had arrived. I gathered up all the courage that was yet left

me, and said, "We will take you at your word--'It is our duty to accept

the inevitable with resignation.'"

"What is it? Tell me."

"Our son Ernst has--deserted!"

"After all!" exclaimed my wife, while she laid her clinched fists on

her heart, as if to prevent it from bursting, and with compressed lips

stared into vacancy.

Fearing that she would faint, the children and I rushed to her

assistance.

"Never mind; all will be over in a moment. I can now breathe again. And

now, I beg of you all, be silent." She closed her eyes. We remained

standing around her in silence. Not a sound was heard, save the rapid

ticking of the clocks and the innocent singing of the thistle-finch.

At last, she removed her hands from her face and gave way to a torrent

of tears. With her hands folded on her breast, and softly, without a

loud sign of pain, she thus lamented:

"O my son! My poor son! My poor, unhappy child! You are now a fugitive

in the wide world, and without a home--lost and distracted--a wandering

proof of the confusion of our broken household, now rent in twain and

bereft of peace. His heart is a wayward one. It is easier to spoil a

human being than to improve one. Let him who believes that this war is

just before God rise up and plunge his sword into my son's heart!"

She had raised herself while uttering the last sentence; when she

finished, she fell back in her seat again. She then suddenly and

energetically sat up again, and asked, "Does Martella know of this?"

I replied that Rothfuss had taken her out into the fields with him in

order to tell her all.

"It is well," she answered. "Give me the newspaper, that I may read the

letter of arrest. This was the reason the director came to us yesterday

and departed without saying good-by. Give me the advertisement which

thousands are now reading--I am his mother."

I was obliged to tell her that I had given the paper to Rothfuss, who

had asked for it in order that he might show it as a proof to Martella.

My wife nodded approvingly, and said, "Yes, Martella. Listen to what I

am about to say. Ernst has run away because he was unwilling to fight

in this fratricidal war. That is true enough, as far as it goes; I

feel assured of that. But let me tell you something more--he is

unfaithful--unfaithful to his parents, his brothers and sisters, and

his betrothed. I beg of you, Henry, do not contradict me! Promise me

one thing."

"Whatever you wish."

"You, my husband, and you, my children, faithfully promise me that,

when I am no longer with you, you will firmly and inviolably cherish

Martella as a child of the house and as one of the family."

We promised all that she asked.

"I have one other request to make. Whatever may happen, do not for a

moment conceal aught from me; do no violence to yourselves for my sake.

I can support everything as long as I know all."

Her next wish was that we should all go out into the fields, for she

felt sure that Rothfuss would not be able to control Martella, who, she

feared, might run away and rush into suffering or death.

Richard said that he would be able to assist Rothfuss, and that he knew

the direction in which they had gone.

He hurried away to meet them.

"You had better go in and join them," we heard Richard say as he left

the house, and then he ran off on his errand.

A moment later, Annette joined us. Although usually quite courtly in

her manner, she was now diffident and timid, and in heartfelt tones

begged us to consider her as one of us, and permit her to assist in

bearing our affliction.

My wife extended her arms towards her, and for the first time embraced

and kissed Annette.

"I have brought smelling-salts and other restoratives," said Annette in

a cheerful tone, while the thick tears were running down her cheeks.

"But, dear Madame Gustava, you need nothing of that kind; you are as

firm as a forest-tree."

"Ernst will never again return to his forest," complained my wife.

Neither Bertha nor I were able to utter a word, but Annette said to my

wife, "You have a right to indulge in the deepest grief. I shall never

attempt to persuade you otherwise. I know how galling it is when

friends come and imagine that they can console us by smoothing over or

belittling our griefs. It is well, after all, that I am with you. It is

indeed true that I only feel your sorrows through sympathy, while the

blow itself has descended on your heads. With all my sincere sympathy,

there are hours when I can forget your sorrows, and am thus better able

to be of use to you."

My wife again took Annette's hand and pressed it to her own forehead.

"Do you believe," said my wife, addressing Annette; "do you believe

that Ernst sees his actions in their true colors?"

"I do not."

"I hope that it is so. Indeed, I really trust that my child does not

reason clearly on this subject. I would rather have him think himself

right in what he is doing; for he will then be able to endure his days,

and to sleep peacefully at night."

"How happy one is to watch the growth of bright, youthful memories in a

child's soul; but after such a deed, it were kindest to wish that he

might forget everything." And then turning towards me, she added, "I

feel so badly to think that my favorite maxim is now dead."

"Which?"

"When I was asked how one could best bring up children, I would always

answer, 'Let your married life be pure, for thus alone can you have

good, righteous children.' But it seems that even this is no longer the

case."

No one replied. Annette told us that she had just received a dispatch.

The tidings of victory were false, and the very reverse of the first

news was the true report, for the Prussians had penetrated into

Bohemia.

"Ah, how soon there will be more grieving mothers! If the woful cries

of all these mothers could be concentrated into one utterance, who is

there that could hear it, and still live?"

Thus lamented my wife. We sat in silence.

Richard entered, saying, "Mother is right; she looks far ahead." He

told us that Martella had shouted with joy when Rothfuss had told her

of Ernst's flight; she had praised his adroitness.

And Victor called out, "For shame! Uncle Ernst is a coward! For shame!

Uncle Ernst is a bad man!"

Martella raised the scythe and was about to hurl it at Victor, but

Rothfuss fortunately parried the stroke. Martella now wrestled with

Rothfuss, and called out to Victor, "You soldier's child! Keep quiet,

you soldier's child!" She seemed to use the words reproachfully.

Suddenly she exclaimed, "I know where Ernst is! I am going to

him--away, away from all of you!"

She started on a brisk run, but was caught in the arms of Richard, who

was just coming up.

When Richard told us all this, his voice seemed broken, and, for some

time, he stood with his eyes cast on the ground. Then he went on to

tell us that Martella had become quiet and gentle, and had willingly

consented to ride home again, when he told her that mother wanted to

see her; and that now she was down in the barn, and was sitting on the

clover, waiting until she was sent for.

Martella was called up to the house. When she entered the room, my wife

requested us to leave. I have never learned what passed between them.

I was quite surprised at what Rothfuss told me.

When Richard caught Martella in his arms, she cried out, "No, no; you

shall not kiss me!" and pushed him from her with such force, that he

would have been thrown to the ground if Rothfuss had not come to his

assistance.

Richard had told us nothing of that.

CHAPTER V.

When Edward Levi, the iron merchant, came to out village, he cautiously

went, first of all, to my nephew Joseph; he then sent for me, and

handed me a letter from Ernst. It was written in a firm hand, and read

as follows:

"To my parents I say farewell. I leave my so-called Fatherland forever.

"It grieves me to know that I must grieve you, but I cannot help it.

"If thousands had done what I did, it would have been praised as a

noble deed. Must we sacrifice ourselves to this degenerate Fatherland?

"I cannot murder my compatriots, nor do I care to allow them to murder

me.

"Take care of Martella for my sake. I will write to her myself.

"YOUR LOST SON."

"You must pluck such a child from your heart--you must forget him

entirely."

These were Joseph's words after he had read the letter. Many others

spoke just as he did. But he who has ever heard the word "father" from

the lips of his child, knows that this is impossible. From that time I

always said to myself, "No day without sorrow." Do you know what it

means never to have a pure, bright, happy day?--"no day without

sorrow?" And yet, I admit it, I was not without hope. I felt a quiet

assurance that Ernst would be all right in the end. How it was to be

brought about, I did not know; but I felt that the seeds of

indestructible virtue and purity were yet lurking amidst this mass of

ruin and rottenness. There might yet be a turn in the tide of affairs,

that would draw the current of my son's life into the proper channel.

My wife mentioned his name only once after that. But her love for the

child was stronger and firmer than her resolution.

She took pains to be about and to keep up an interest in all that was

going on: but, from the moment that she was shocked by the news of

Ernst's desertion, it was evident that it cost her an effort to control

her will.

She seemed constantly tired. She rarely went out--hardly ever as far as

the garden, where she would walk but a short distance before sitting

down on a bench. She would often sit in an absent manner, gazing into

vacancy, and when addressed would seem as if hurriedly collecting her

thoughts.

Martella had also received a letter. It contained a ring; but she would

not show any one, not even my wife, what Ernst had written. Edward

Levi, the iron merchant, acted with great good sense and delicacy. He

attempted neither to explain things nor to console us; but gave us the

simple account of how the affair had happened. If it had not related to

my own son, and had not been so full of sadness, Ernst's ingenuity in

the matter would even have afforded us amusement.

It was late in the evening when he arrived at the town in which Levi

resided. He went to the police-office at once, and ordered a forester

whom he found there to produce Edward Levi, who arrived shortly

afterward, and to whom Ernst used these words:

"You have been a soldier and can be trusted. I shall confide my secret

to you."

He then informed him, with an air of great secrecy, that he had been

ordered to enter the Prussian lines as a spy, and requested him to

provide him at once with some French money and the dress of a Jewish

cattle-dealer; and also to bring to him a cattle-dealer provided with a

correct passport.

After all this had been successfully accomplished, Ernst wrote the two

letters and handed them to Levi, with instructions not to deliver them

until three days had elapsed.

He started off with his companion. On the way, he asked him to show him

his passport: it was handed to him but not returned. He carefully

instructed the cattle-dealer to address him by the name of Rothfuss.

"Why, that is the name of the old servant that your father thinks so

much of!"

"That is the very reason I have chosen it; you will have no difficulty

in remembering it. What is my name?

"The same as the servant's."

"No--but what is it?"

"Rothfuss. Why, every child knows the name. Might I inquire--"

"No; you need ask no questions."

They journeyed on together as far as Kehl, where Ernst suddenly

disappeared. The drover waited all day, in the vain hope of seeing him

again, and at last returned home.

Ernst had in all likelihood gone to my sister, who lives in the Hagenau

forest, or to my brother-in-law, the director of the water-works on the

Upper Rhine. Before leaving, he handed a bag of money that belonged to

the state to Edward Levi, for safe-keeping.

Joseph, who was always ready to assist others, at once offered to

journey after Ernst, in the hope of overtaking him and consulting with

him as to his future.

I had instructed Rothfuss to make up a package of the clothes that

Ernst had left behind him, and I was at Joseph's house when he brought

the bundle there.

Martella wanted to accompany Joseph; but, finding that he would not

consent, she turned around to her dog, and said: "Pincher, go with

Joseph and hunt your master!"

The dog looked up at her, as if knowing what she said, and then ran

after Joseph.

While I was yet with Joseph, a copy of our newspaper came to hand; it

had been sent to me marked.

The marked passages read as follows:

"Father Noah, the Prussian lickspittle"--I recognized Funk by these

very words--"has allowed a dove to desert from his ark.

"We cannot but regard the rumor that the father had urged his son to

take this step, because of his own aversion to fighting against the

beloved Prussians, as a malicious invention.

"We do not believe the party of these beggarly Prussians, or this

weak-minded old gray-beard, endowed with the requisite firmness.

"But the noble Caffre's pride in his virtue must have received a

fearful blow."

I must admit that this low personal attack gave me much pain. I was,

however, more grieved to think that party hatred could induce men to

indulge in such abuse.

Joseph remarked, "One should indeed always have an enemy, in order to

find out what criticism and explanation our deeds may be subjected to."

Joseph was a burgomaster. The game-keeper came to report to him.

My very heart trembled with fear, and I felt ashamed of myself in the

presence of the game-keeper.

He had the description and order of arrest for my son in his pocket.

One does not find how far and how deep honor has spread its roots,

until it is lost.

Unrest, the most hateful demon in the world, had been conjured up in

our house.

Now that our pride was broken, we at last noticed how proud we had

been.

One day, when walking through the village, I met the perjured baker,

Lerz of Hollerberg. He extended his hand to me in a friendly manner.

Did he regard me as one of his equals? I withdrew my hand.

He shrugged his shoulders contemptuously and went on his way.

The first neighbor who visited me was Baron Arven, who lives about a

mile and a half from our house.

I believe I have not yet referred to this man. His dignified and quiet

demeanor betokened a really brave and noble character. He was just what

he seemed to be--free from all pretence or deceit.

I must add a few words in regard to his family. Following the bent of

most of the dwellers in our part of the country, he had gone down the

Danube and had entered the Austrian army. He afterward left the service

and returned to the family estate, bringing with him a wife who was a

native of Bohemia, and who held but little intercourse with the

neighborhood. Her only familiar companions were the clergy.

The Bishop had stopped there on two occasions while making his pastoral

journeys.

She led a life of seclusion in the castle, or rather the convent; for

the estate on which they lived had, at one time, belonged to a

religious order.

The Baron had two sons, splendid fellows, who were serving in the

cavalry. He is a member of our upper chamber. He is a man of but few

words, but always votes with the moderate liberals.

He has no respect for the people; their coarse morals and manners are

repugnant to him. He does not deny that mankind in general have equal

rights; but, as individuals, he would only accord them such

consideration as their education, their means, or their social position

would entitle them to. In this respect he is a thorough aristocrat.

The farmers speak of him with love and veneration, although he is never

friendly towards them. He is very active as the President of our

Agricultural Association. He has the finest cattle and the best

machines, and his special hobby is to stock the many woodland streams

and lakes of our vicinity with fish.

He is passionately fond of the chase and of fishing, and possesses the

art of getting through with his day in the most approved and knightly

manner. Rautenkron acts as his forest-keeper.

That very day, the Baron came riding along, followed by his two fine,

large dogs. He alighted at Joseph's house and saluted Annette, with

whom he had become acquainted at the capital, for he spent several

months there with his family every winter. The family of Von Arven

owned an old mansion in the city.

He came up to me, offered me his hand in silence, and seated himself.

I could not help thinking of some words from the Book of Job, that had

always so deeply affected me: "And none spake a word unto him, for they

saw that his grief was very great."

"My dear neighbor," he at last said, "I see that you, too, have been

highly assessed in the impost of misfortune that every one of us must

pay. I shall spare you any words of attempted consolation, and only add

that there are thousands who would like to do just as your son has

done."

And then, in his calm and collected tone, he spoke of this horrid war,

in which Germans were fighting against each other. Napoleon's darling

hope was that Austria and Prussia might mutually weaken each other, so

that he might be the master and the arbiter of peace, and could then

dictate his own terms. Arven had at one time been an Austrian officer,

and was naturally not partial to Prussia. He had an inborn aversion to

Northern harshness; but with his knowledge of the organization of the

Austrian armies, he felt free to say that Prussia would be victorious.

Although both of his sons were in our army, he said this with great

calmness.

The Baron's presence exerted a gentle, soothing influence on our

household. When I told my wife that he had expressed a wish to speak

with her, she came into the room; and when the two were conversing with

each other, it was like a beautiful song of mourning.

The Baron's presence always produced a subdued tone, an atmosphere of

quiet refinement--an influence like a subtile, pleasing perfume

lingered in the room long after he had taken his departure.

And now, when he was conversing with my wife, she gave utterance to

thoughts that otherwise we might never have become acquainted with.

When conversing with strangers, she revealed far more of her pure and

elevated views of the world than when she was with us alone.

Shortly after the Baron's departure, we were visited by Counsellor

Reckingen, who came over from the city to see us. He usually lived in

strict seclusion from the world. While sailing on Lake Constance, he

had lost his young wife. He had plunged in after her, and had succeeded

in reaching the bank with her, only to find that life had fled. Since

that time, he had lived in solitude, devoting himself to the education

of the little daughter who was left to him.

Under these circumstances, I could not but appreciate his kindness in

paying me this visit.

He seemed to have become quite unused to conversation. He said but

little, and soon went out into the garden in front of our house, in

order to plant some rose-slips that he had brought with him.

I was greatly gratified by the visit of a deputation of my

constituents. It consisted of three esteemed farmer-burgomasters of the

neighborhood. They made no allusion to the grief which had befallen me;

our conversation referred only to the war; and when Martella brought in

wine, they looked at the child with curious eyes.

CHAPTER VI.

Ought we to bear the blame of our son Ernst's having wandered from the

right path?

By our example and precept we have guided our children in the path of

virtue, but who can control their souls? I have caused many a fallow

soil to bear fruit, and up on the bleak hills have raised sturdy trees.

Nature's law is unchanging; but if not even a tree can mature without

harm coming to it, how much less can a human soul be expected to do so.

We have lived to see naught but what is good and proper in our son

Richard. His development is so natural and consistent. In his earliest

youth, he decided to devote himself to science. He has steadily

advanced, swerving neither to the right nor the left, and has always

been full of the conscious power of the clear and temperate mind that

grasps the laws underlying the phenomena presented by the world of

thought and of action.

We can neither take credit to ourselves, in the one instance, nor

acknowledge that we were in fault in the other.

My wife had been true to herself, and yet full of resignation in the

first shock of this bitter grief; but now there came an insurmountable

desire to quarrel with her lot, and the puzzling question, "Why should

this happen just to us?" was again awakened.

I dislike to admit it, but truth forces me to say that this was brought

about by the arrival of my daughter Johanna.

Johanna also had her troubles. Her husband was sickly, her son was in

the army, and she seemed chosen for suffering; but chosen by reason of

a higher faith. With inconsiderate zeal, she attempted to awaken the

same faith in us. At that very moment, she thought, when we were

crushed and bowed down by sorrow, our redemption should take place. She

assigned the impiety of our household as the cause of our son's

disobedience.

The education which my wife had received from her father was, as some

would call it, a heathen one; for she had received more instruction

from the classics than from the Bible.

We were seated in our statue gallery. The door that led to the garden

was open; my wife had been eagerly reading from a book, which she now

laid aside with the remark, "That does one good."

"What were you reading?" inquired Johanna.

My wife made no answer, and Johanna repeated her question, when she

said, "I have been reading the Antigone of Sophocles, and I find that I

am right."

"In what respect?"

"It has renewed my recollection of an idea of my father's. When I was

reading the Antigone aloud to him for the first time, he said, If a

woman acted in this way, she would be doing right; but a brother should

not have done so. With a sister, or with a mother, the natural law of

love of kindred is above that of the state, which would have treated

the brother as a traitor to his country. And in this lies the deeply

tragic element--that innocence and guilt are so closely interwoven, and

that two considerations are battling with each other. You men may pass

judgment on Ernst; you require unconditional submission to the lawful

authorities. You are right, because you are men of the law. But, with

Antigone, I rest myself upon that higher law which is far above all

laws that states may frame!

"'It lives neither for to-day nor for yesterday, but for all time,

And none can know since when.'

"This book is to me a sacred one."

"Mother!" cried Johanna, with a voice trembling with emotion, "mother,

how can you say that, while I here have the only sacred book in my

hand?"

"In its own sense, that, too, is sacred; but it teaches me nothing of

the deep struggles between the human heart and the laws of the state."

"Mother," cried Johanna, kneeling before her; "here is the Bible. I

implore you to give up those profane books; they cannot help you.

Listen to the Word of God!"

"To me he speaks through these books," answered my wife.

"Mother, we are mourning for the lost son."

"Our son is not lost; he is a sad sacrifice."

Richard entered. Mother said to him, "Read me the story from the

Gospel."

"What do you refer to?" inquired Richard.

"Mother means the Parable of the Prodigal Son," interrupted Johanna;

and holding the Bible on high, she continued: "Here it is: Gospel of

St. Luke, fifteenth chapter, eleventh verse."

"Not you, but Richard, shall read it."

"But, mother--"

"Richard, I wish you to read it."

He had just taken the book, when Annette entered. She asked whether she

was disturbing them.

My wife said that she was not, and requested her to sit down at her

side.

In a calm and full voice Richard read:

"'And he said, A certain man had two sons:

"'And the younger of them said to his father, Father, give me the

portion of goods that falleth to me. And he divided unto them his

living.

"'And not many days after, the younger son gathered all together, and

took his journey into a far country, and there wasted his substance

with riotous living.

"'And when he had spent all, there arose a mighty famine in that land;

and he began to be in want.

"'And he went and joined himself to a citizen of that country; and he

sent him into his fields to feed swine.

"'And he would fain have filled his belly with the husks that the swine

did eat; and no man gave unto him.

"'And when he came to himself, he said, How many hired servants of my

father's have bread enough and to spare, and I perish with hunger!

"'I will arise and go to my father, and will say unto him, Father, I

have sinned against heaven, and before thee.

"'And am no more worthy to be called thy son: make me as one of thy

hired servants.

"'And he arose, and came to his father. But when he was yet a great way

off, his father saw him, and had compassion, and ran, and fell on his

neck, and kissed him.

"'And the son said unto him, Father, I have sinned against heaven, and

in thy sight, and am no more worthy to be called thy son.

"'But the father said to his servants, Bring forth the best robe, and

put it on him; and put a ring on his hand, and shoes on his feet:

"'And bring hither the fatted calf, and kill it; and let us eat, and be

merry:

"'For this my son was dead, and is alive again; he was lost, and is

found. And they began to be merry.

"'Now his elder son was in the field: and as he came and drew nigh to

the house, he heard music and dancing.

"'And he called one of the servants, and asked what these things meant.

"'And he said unto him, Thy brother is come; and thy father hath killed

the fatted calf, because he hath received him safe and sound.

"'And he was angry, and would not go in: therefore came his father out

and entreated him.

"'And he answering said to his father, Lo, these many years do I serve

thee, neither transgressed I at any time thy commandments; and yet thou

never gavest me a kid, that I might make merry with my friends.

"'But as soon as this thy son was come, which hath devoured thy living

with harlots, thou hast killed for him the fatted calf.

"'And he said unto him, Son, thou art ever with me, and all that I have

is thine.

"'It was meet that we should make merry, and be glad: for this thy

brother was dead, and is alive again; and was lost, and is found.'"

When Richard had finished, he placed his hand on the open book and

said, "This story has much dramatic interest. The father, the two sons,

the servant, are clearly and strikingly drawn; and with correct

judgment; the mother is not mentioned, for here it would not do to have

double notes--a variation of emotion on the part of the father and one

on the part of the mother. I might, indeed, say that a mother would

have dwelt on the appearance her son presented on his return; while

here it is left unnoticed. Further--"

"What do you mean? You are not among your students," angrily

interrupted Johanna.

"You are right," continued Richard, with a quiet smile; "my students

are polite enough to permit me to finish a sentence without

interrupting me. I will also state, first of all, that this ingenious

parable makes no mention of the sister. I do not know what a sister

would have said in that affair."

Johanna jumped from her seat in anger; her features seemed distorted

with passion. She opened her mouth to answer him, but could not utter a

word.

"Shall I go on, mother?" asked Richard.

"Of course; speak on."

"In the first place, the pure spirit which here reveals itself is as

fully acknowledged by us as by the pious believers.

"To me the all-important point is, that it illustrates a view of the

relation between parents and children, which is completely the reverse

of that fostered by the ancient civilization, in which the children

suffer for the sins of their parents. Just think of the curse of the

Atrides. In our days, it is quite different, and the fate of the

parents--their happiness as well as their sorrow--depends upon the

conduct of their children.

"The individual to whom such affliction comes is subject to the great

and universal law of the newer life."

"Is there anything else you would like to say?" inquired Johanna, in an

angry voice. She had some time before that snatched the Bible out of

Richard's hands, and had been reading in it ever since, as if she

thought that the best way to counteract the influence of the heresies

he had been uttering. With all that, she seemed to hear every word that

was said.

"I certainly have, if you will permit me. To me this story seems a

repetition, in a new shape, of a subject already treated in the same

book. The story of Joseph in Egypt is a family history that borders on

the region of fable, narrated without any regard to the moral that

underlies it, and yet representing to us the reward of innocence. This

story which tells of a son who had been a real sinner, and for that

reason was not permitted to return as a viceroy amid joy and splendor,

but in the garb of a beggar, has another lesson for us. Viewed from the

stand-point of the Old or New Testament, or even by our own feelings,

it tells the story of redemption. Yes, every human being who falls into

sinful ways, shall be obliged to eat the husks;.... but he is not lost.

When through self-knowledge his soul has been humbled in the dust, He

who never fails will lift him up again, for it is far easier to avoid

sin than, before God and one's own soul, to confess having sinned."

After a pause of a few moments, Richard continued: "There is an

excellent painting of the Prodigal's Return. It is by Fuehrich. The

artist has chosen the moment when the father is embracing his long-lost

son, now kneeling at his feet; the son, however, dares not venture to

embrace his father; bent down towards the earth, he folds his hands

upon his breast in humble, silent gratitude."

Johanna seemed to think that she might as well abandon all attempts to

change our views of religious matters. She arose from her seat and,

pressing the Bible to her bosom, left the room without uttering another

word.

"Come into the garden with me," said my wife to Richard. I was left

alone with Annette. Great tears were rolling down her cheeks. After a

little while she said that now she was at last really converted, but

not in the way that the church would wish her to be. She could at last

understand that the best consolation and the most elevating reflection,

in time of sorrow, is to consider individual suffering a part of a

great whole, and as a phase of the soul-experience of advancing

humanity.

She regretted that Bertha had not been with us. She felt sure, also,

that her husband would have been a delighted listener. He had always

felt attracted to Richard, although he had never become intimate with

him.

She hurried home in order, as I fancy, to write out for her husband's

benefit her impressions of what she had just heard.

Johanna left us that very day. She said that she now felt as a stranger

in our home, and consoled herself with the thought that she could feel

at home in the house of a Father whom we, alas! did not know.

We were neither anxious nor able to prevent her departure. And why

should I not confess it?--we felt more at our ease without her.

CHAPTER VII.

As far as she could, Bertha led a self-contained and secluded life. She

frankly admitted that she was not in the mood to worry about her lost

brother; her heart was filled with thoughts of her husband, the father

of her children.

When haymaking began on the mountain meadows, Bertha would go out and

assist in scattering the newly mown grass. She hoped that physical

exercise would enable her again to enjoy the refreshing sleep of her

childhood, and was quite happy when, in the morning, she found herself

able to tell us that she had passed a night in dreamless sleep.

Annette suffered greatly from the heat. Bertha, however, said that it

was best to expose one's self to the sun, because the heat would then

be less oppressive. She was quite delighted to see how the sun browned

her own children.

Annette again introduced the subject of the parable of the Prodigal

Son, when Richard, with an ironical smile, replied, "I am glad to see

that you can dwell on a subject and again return to it; and I shall

only add, that in the Old Testament the history of a nation is

conceived in a popular manner, while the New Testament is a history in

which one exalted and idealized man serves as the sole and central

figure. The real life of the family, the relations of parents and

kindred, is not emphasized in the latter. Life, there, is isolated, and

looks only towards heaven.

"In the Old Testament, the life of the family is in constant action,

and superfluous figures which serve no moral in themselves are also

introduced.

"To express myself symbolically, I should say Moses has a brother and a

sister who are also important figures. Jesus, on the other hand, stands

alone against the golden background, and no relationship of His is

mentioned except that to His mother, which was afterward poetically

invested with a higher significance."

"Accept my thanks; I believe I understand you. If one were able always

to regard individual suffering as merely part of the world's

development, one would be saved from all pain," said Annette.

Richard's look was one of surprise, almost of anger, at these words.

When we were together, most of his attentions were for the daughter of

the kreis-director. Her calm and gentle manner seemed to him the very

opposite of Annette's; and it may have been his desire to let Annette

see that cultivated womanhood consists of something more than

incessantly propounding questions, or in keeping a man in a constant

trot to prove his gallantry by providing for the intellectual

requirements of the ladies.

"I greatly fear," said Richard to my wife, "that Annette is one of that

class of beings with whom everything resolves itself into talk, and of

whom one might well say that what to us is a church, is to them a

concert." And he went on to complain that, in the strict sense of the

word, Annette did not have a nice ear; that where she thought she fully

understood one's meaning, she usually misconceived it. When he had

finished, my wife answered with a quiet smile:

"Be careful: the professor is again showing himself in you. It seems to

me that the professor finds it annoying to have listeners who are not

all attention."

Richard was a severe judge of his own motives and actions, and frankly

confessed that he deserved the reproach. Nevertheless ne could not

accustom himself to Annette's presence.

He had much knowledge of men, and constantly lived in a certain equable

atmosphere of his own; and the impulsive, changeable traits of Annette

were therefore repugnant to him.

She, too, felt the antagonism, and one day said to him, quite

roguishly, "The forester is the type of many men. I had always thought

that he found it refreshing to breathe the pure air of the woods; but I

find that he is constantly smoking his vile tobacco."

The petty war between Richard and Annette enabled us, for many an hour,

to forget the greater war that was raging out of doors. Annette was

quite anxious in her care for my wife, and could never fully gratify

her desire to be with her always.

Although Richard attempted to conceal it, it was quite evident that he

had a decided aversion to Annette.

He would sometimes spend whole days with Rautenkron the forester, and

was more frequent in his visits to Baron Arven than he had formerly

been.

But in the evenings, when we were all together, Annette seemed to

possess the art of drawing him out in spite of himself.

And thus we led a simple and yet intellectual life, while, without

doors, armies speaking the same language were arrayed against each

other with deadly intent.

CHAPTER VIII.

"Pincher is here again; he could not find him," said Martella one

morning. Her dog had returned during the night.

At noon, Joseph returned from Alsace. He had not succeeded in finding

Ernst, who had remained at my sister's house but one day, and had

seemed excited and troubled while there.

He had understood that Ernst had met some one at the railway station,

as if by appointment.

Joseph, who was always so cool and collected, seemed remarkably nervous

and excited.

I thought that he had perhaps seen Ernst after all, and was not telling

us all that he knew; but he assured me, in a somewhat confused manner,

that he had concealed nothing. He told me that he was out of sorts,

simply because of the triumphant and malicious airs that the Alsatians

had displayed. Business friends of his, among whom there was a deputy

who seemed to be well posted, insisted upon it as a fact that the

Prussian statesman had offered the French Emperor a considerable

portion, if not all, of the left bank of the Rhine, on condition that

the Emperor would not prevent him from using his own pleasure towards

Germany, if conquered.

The left bank of the Rhine! How often I, too, while in Alsace had heard

it said that France must take possession of this left bank, as a matter

of course; for the Frenchmen thought themselves the lords of creation,

with whom it was only necessary to express a wish in order to have it

gratified.

Would I yet live to see the ruin of my Fatherland? At that very moment,

Germans were battling against Germans, in order that the aims of France

might be served.

I asked Joseph and Richard whether they could conceive of such a thing

as a German selling and betraying his Fatherland.

We had no assurance of this, and thought it best to encourage each

other's faith in humanity.

The failure of Joseph's mission had only served to arouse my own deep

sorrow anew.

My son lost! When night came, I could not make up my mind to retire.

For a long while, I sat gazing at the starry heavens, and the dark

forest-covered mountains. Where is he now? Can it be possible that he

is not thinking of us? He is in danger, and may work his own ruin. How

gladly would I fly to his help, if I only knew how!

At last one goes to his couch, thinking: "To-morrow something definite

must be done." But the morning comes, and the deed is left undone. Thou

hast waited this long, and shalt wait still longer. And thus the days

pass by, while naught is accomplished. When I lay awake at nights,

thinking of my son, I felt as if with him; and when, by chance, other

thoughts arose in my mind, the one great grief would thrust them aside.

It seemed as if my soul had for a time left the body and had now

returned to it again.

The fear of sleeplessness is almost worse than the reality; but one

falls asleep at last without knowing how, and so it shall some day be

with our final sleep.

And, often, when the tired body had fallen asleep, the troubled soul

would awaken it again.

At these moments I would say to myself, "Life is a solemn charge." It

went hard with me to renounce perfect happiness.

One morning, when I was just about to go out into the fields, Martella

came running towards me. She was almost out of breath, and told me that

the captain's wife was over in the garden of the school-master's wife,

and had fainted. She had received a letter with bad news. Her husband

had been shot in the forehead, and was dead.

My wife hurried on ahead of me, and stepped as quickly as in the days

of her youth.

When I reached the garden gate, Annette was already sitting on a bench.

She had her arms around Gustava's neck, and had buried her face in my

wife's bosom.

She raised her head and said, "The flowers still bloom." Then she

covered her face with her hands, and sobbed bitterly.

My wife placed her hand on Annette's head, and said, "Weep on. You have

a right to lament. Let them not dare come and say, 'Conquer your pain,

for hundreds suffer just as you do.' Were there thousands to suffer

this same grief, every one must suffer it for himself, and through life

carry a wounded heart. You are very, very unhappy. You were life and

joy itself: you must now know what it is to be sad. It is a hard

lesson, and although I bear my burden, that will not lighten yours.

That you must bear for yourself, as none besides you can."

Annette raised her head, and when she saw me, extended her hand, saying

at the same time:

"You knew him well; but no one knew him as I did. He was a hero, with a

soul as pure as a child's. Can it be? Can it be possible that he lives

no more? Can a mere bullet put in end to so much beauty, so much

happiness? Surely it cannot be! Why should it have been he? Why should

this stroke fall on me? Forgive me, Bertha, you were stronger and more

determined than I. And how your husband will mourn him! Victor, do you

know what has happened? Uncle Hugo is dead! And in the very hour of his

death I may have been laughing. Alas, alas! Forgive me for making you

all so sad. I cannot help myself."

We had not yet left the garden, when the kreis-director entered. He was

accompanied by a tall gentleman who was a stranger to us.

"Max, you here!" exclaimed Annette. "While I was happy, you did not

come to me, but now you do come. How kind!"

She threw her arms around his neck, and I then learned that he was her

brother.

We retired, leaving them together.

I had known that Annette was an orphan. I now learned that her brother,

who was a lawyer of renown, had given up all intercourse with his

sister, because of her having embraced Christianity. He had wished her

to remain true to the faith of her ancestors, and to contract only a

civil marriage. For her husband's sake, however, she had embraced the

Catholic religion. This was the first intimation I had of her being a

Catholic.

A sudden shower forced us to withdraw into the house.

It is depressing to think that while we were absorbed by the deepest

despair, a petty annoyance could cause us to flee. We entered the

school-room.

"There it is!" exclaimed Annette, pointing to the blackboard; "there it

stands!"

On the blackboard were the words, "War, Victory, Fatherland, Germany,"

as a writing-copy for the children.

"Children are taught to write it," said Annette, "but where is it? All

life is a blackboard, and on it are written the words, '_Death_,

_Grief_, _Tears_.'"

The old spinner entered. She walked up to Annette, took her by the

hand, and uttered a few words which none of us could understand.

Annette called upon us all to bear witness, that from that very hour

she would give the spinner a considerable annuity in case her son

should lose his life; but that, even if he were to return in safety,

she would nevertheless make her a yearly allowance.

Her brother objected that at such a time it were wrong to make a vow.

She could, from year to year, give the old woman as much as she thought

proper; but that she ought not, at this moment, to make a promise which

would be irrevocable, and for life.

We all looked at him with surprise.

He added that he, too would be happy to contribute a generous sum to

the annuity.

Annette returned to her dwelling, in order to prepare for her

departure. Her orders were, that her rooms should remain in the same

condition as she left them, as it was her intention to return.

"Your master is dead," she said to the brown spaniel; "your eye tells

me that you understand my words. You must remain here; I shall return

again. He loved you, too; but rest quiet: we can neither of us die yet.

You are well off--you can neither wish for death for yourself, nor seek

it: you cannot think of these things. Yes, you are well off."

I can hardly find room to mention all the strange images that were

called up by Annette's words. Her richly endowed and many-sided mind

was in unwonted commotion.

The shower had passed away; the grass and the trees were radiant with

the sunlight, and the lines of the opposite hills were clear and

distinct.

Annette stood at her window gazing into the distance, while she uttered

the words:

"While the earth decks itself with verdure and brings forth new life,

it receives the dead. Let no one dare come to me again and say that he

understands the world and life!

"Where is the professor?"

My wife was the only one who could quiet Annette, and she said, "If I

could only go with you!"

"You will be with me in spirit, I am sure," replied Annette.

She extended her hand to my wife, saying, "I can assure you of this: I

will so conduct myself, that you could at any moment say to me, 'This

is right.'--I have been wild and wayward; I am so no longer; hereafter,

I will be strong and gentle."

The carriage drove up and we accompanied Annette down the hill as far

as the saw-mill.

There was a rainbow over our heads; it reached from our mountains to

the Vosges.

Annette held a handkerchief to her eyes. My wife and Bertha were

walking on either side of her.

The only time I heard her speak was when she said to Bertha:

"Your husband has lost his best comrade. The Major will live; there

shall yet be some happy ones on earth. I shall write you from the

camp."

Rothfuss was ploughing the potato field. He was walking with his back

towards us.

Annette called to him. He came out into the road and inquired what was

the matter.

"My husband is dead. I am going to bring him and lay him in the earth

which you are now ploughing," said Annette in a firm voice.

Rothfuss extended his hand to her. He seemed unable to utter a word,

and was excitedly swinging his cap about with his left hand.

At last, in a loud voice, and stopping after every word, he exclaimed:

"I would--rather--not--be--King--or Emperor--than have--that--rest--on

me."

He returned to the field and continued his work.

When we reached the valley, Annette said, "I shall not say 'good by;' I

shall need all my strength for the other sad affair."

She quickly stepped into the carriage; her brother, Rontheim, and the

daughter of the latter following her.

The carriage rolled away.

On our way back to the house, my wife was several times obliged to sit

down by the roadside. The sad events of this day had deeply affected

her.

We were seated under an apple-tree, when my wife, taking me by the

hand, said, "Yes, Henry, how full of blossoms that tree once was; but

May-bugs and caterpillars and frost and hail have destroyed it. And

thus it is with him, too."

She was not as demonstrative as I was; she could bear her sorrow

silently; but the thought of Ernst did not leave her for a moment.

When we got back to the house she fell asleep in the armchair, and did

not awaken until sunset, when Richard, whom we had not seen all day,

returned.

He admitted that he had heard of Annette's bereavement, but had kept

out in the woods to be out of the way, as he thought there were enough

sympathizers without him, and that he could not have been of any

service.

My wife looked at him with surprise.

Richard told us that during the rain-storm, which had been quite heavy

in the woods, he had been with Rautenkron.

The gloomy man had spoken of Ernst with great interest, and had

incidentally inquired in regard to Martella. He was quite enraged that

he, who never read a newspaper and did not want to have anything to do

with the world, was obliged to know of this war, as one of his

assistants and a forest laborer had been conscripted. He felt quite

convinced, too, that Prussia would be victorious.

For a long while there was no news from the seat of war, except reports

of marching and countermarching.

After that, there came a letter from the Major, who lamented the death

of the Captain, and wrote in terms of admiration of the noble and

composed bearing of Annette.

Richard, who, during Annette's presence, had, as far as possible,

affected solitude, was now again with us almost constantly.

He spoke quite harshly of Annette, and said that she was always

expressing a desire for repose and a quiet life, while at the same time

she was constantly disturbing every one. She would allow no one to live

in his own thoughts; her only desire was, that the thoughts and

feelings of others should be the reflection of her evanescent emotions.

He thought it likely, however, that she might emerge from the refining

fire of a great grief, purer and firmer than she had ever been.

"I know now," said my wife to me one evening, "why Richard went out

into the woods. It was well of him."

I did not understand it, and she, in order to tease me, refused to

explain. She seemed quite pleased with her secret, and I was only too

happy to see her smile once again.

CHAPTER IX.

"Thank God, they have beaten us!" were the words with which Joseph

entered our house the next morning, carrying an extra paper in his

hand. In those words was concentrated the whole misery of those days.

"If Prussia would only march into the South German palaces! That is the

only way to bring about a proper understanding."

This was the second idea that Joseph expressed.

An armistice was concluded. Bertha wished to return home at once. A

letter from her husband was received, requesting her to remain at our

house, and informing her that he would join her there immediately after

the return of the troops.

He also informed us that he had received a letter from the widow of our

Austrian cousin; her husband had lost his life at Koeniggratz.

We also received news from Annette. In a few short words she informed

us of her wretched journey with the corpse of him who had been all her

joy, and had been sacrificed to no purpose.

The postscript contained special greetings for Richard, both from her

and from his friend, a medical professor, who had introduced himself to

Annette as a friend of ours, and had been of great service to her.

Sad tidings threw the village into excitement.

Carl, who had been the favorite of the whole village, had fallen. It

was both sad and gratifying to hear how every one praised him. Even the

taciturn meadow farmer stopped me on my way to the spinner's cottage,

and said, "He was a steady young fellow."

If I had replied by asking him to contribute a stated sum for the

support of the destitute widow, he would have looked at me as if I were

crazy, to think of making such a suggestion to him. According to his

views of life, poor people were sent into the world to starve, and the

rich in order that they might eat to their heart's content and fill

their iron cooking-pots with gold.

The meadow farmer was accompanied by a peasant-prince from the valley

on the other side of the mountains, where the succession falls to the

minor, the youngest son inheriting the estate.

It was said that the only daughter of the meadow farmer had been

determined on as the wife of this young peasant. He had inherited a

considerable sum in securities, and now sought a wife. Love did not

enter into the question; all that was required was to keep up the name

and the honor of the peasant-court; and, while a noble life cannot

result from such a union, it generally proves a respectable and

contented marriage.

I remembered that there had been a rumor in the village that Marie, the

daughter of the meadow farmer, loved Carl.

When I drew near to the house of the spinner, I saw Funk coming out,

Lerz the baker following him. I think Funk must have seen me; otherwise

there could have been no reason for his remarking to his companion in

quite a loud voice, "What do you think of your beggarly Prussians now?

This is their work--to kill the son of a poor widow. If he had been a

prince, they would have gone into mourning, and for seven weeks would

have eaten out of black bowls and with black spoons!"

It went hard with me to enter the widow's cottage, after hearing those

words. The old woman, who had always been so quiet and contented, and

who had never left her dwelling, unless it was to go earn her daily

bread, was now quite urgent in her demands. She asked for money, so

that she might go and witness the burial of her son, and know where

they laid his body. She also wanted to go to the Prince, for whom her

son had lost his life. She knew that she, a poor woman, had a better

right to a good pension than the Captain's widow, who was a great lady.

When my wife came, the old woman said, "You are better off than I am.

Your son still lives, but mine is dead. They told me that you once said

your son was more than dead. But, tell me, what does it mean to be more

than dead? Ah, you do not know. The Prussian sought out the best heart

of them all. He knew what he was about. Of all the thousands who say

'mother,' there was no better child than my Carl. Your Ernst is also a

good lad. They were born on the same day. Don't you remember? My

husband was quite tipsy when he came home that evening. He was

gloriously full, and so jolly! He must have known that he was soon to

be the father of such a splendid boy.

"Oh, my poor Carl! You may hunt the land through, but you will never

find so handsome a lad as my Carl. He did not get his good looks from

me; but his father was just as good-looking as he--nay, almost more so.

"Ah, it will be a long while before you find so pretty a fellow as

Carl--one who will sit down beside his mother of a Sunday afternoon and

tell her merry jokes, so that her heart may be gladdened, although his

own be sad.

"Yes, go and seek another such as he!

"Don't go away, Waldfried! There is no one left with whom I can talk.

Or send Martella--to me she will do."

On our way home, my wife gently said, "His regiment was not once in

battle."

This was the first intimation I had received of her careful reading of

the newspapers. Ernst's regiment had not fired a single shot, and all

our suffering had been to no purpose.

We sent Martella over to the spinner's cottage, where she remained all

night.

On the following morning, Martella returned. She was quite joyful, and

maintained that Ernst had been saved and would soon return to us.

She had arranged everything with the old spinner. The two of them would

go to the Prince, and the spinner would say to him, "My son is dead!

but give me the one who was born on the same day, and wipe out all that

stands against him!" Or else the spinner would say, "My tears shall

wash away all the charges that stand written against him on the slate."

It went hard to make Martella understand that this plan was nothing

more than an idle dream.

The battle was over, and peace had been concluded.

Although Austria was separated from Germany, there was, as yet, no real

Germany. While the high contracting parties were framing the chief

clauses of their treaty, the Frenchman who was looking over their

shoulders took the pen in his own hand and drew a black mark across the

page, and called it "the line of the Main."

The Major came home, and the joy of Bertha and her children knew no

bounds. The Major, however, seemed unable to shake off a deep fit of

melancholy.

He was a strict disciplinarian. He never allowed himself to say aught

against his superiors or their orders; but now, he could not keep down

his indignation at the manner in which the war had been conducted. When

a nation really goes to war it should be in greater earnest about its

work.

There was much distrust, both as to the courage and the loyalty and

firmness of the leaders. While the Major's feelings as a soldier had

been outraged, there were many other thoughts which suggested

themselves to him as a lover of his country, and in regard to which he

maintained silence.

He told us that Annette had behaved with dignity and composure when she

went to receive the body of her husband. But now it was evident that

she had attempted too much; that she was unwell, and would be obliged

until autumn to repair to the sea-side, where her mother-in-law would

be with her.

When the Major remarked that he had heard it said that in this war even

slight wounds might prove fatal, because every one was so filled with

mortification, on account of this unholy strife, that the very idea

itself would serve to aggravate even the slightest wound, my wife

exclaimed, "Yes, it is indeed so. There are wounds which are made fatal

by the thoughts of those who receive them."

We all felt that she was thinking of Ernst, and remained silent.

The Major did not mention Ernst's name, nor did he inquire whether we

had heard from him.

He had heard of the death of Carl, and was just about to pay a visit to

his mother, when Rothfuss came rushing into the room in breathless

haste, and told us that Carl was down in the stable, and begged that we

would go to his mother and gently break the news of his safe return to

her.

We had Carl come up to us, and learned from him that he had been cut

off from his companions during a reconnoissance, and taken prisoner,

and had thus by mistake been entered in the list of the killed.

When he heard this, the Major inveighed furiously at the want of system

that obtained everywhere.

I decided that I would go to his mother, and that Carl and the Major

should follow me a little while later.

I went to the spinner's cottage. She sat at her spinning-wheel; and I

could not help believing myself the witness of a miracle, for as soon

as she saw me, the old woman called out, "Will he come soon?"

She then told me that she had awakened during the night--she was quite

sure it was not a dream--and had heard the voice of her son saying

quite distinctly, "Mother, I am not dead--I will soon be with you. I am

coming--I am coming!" And she had heard his very footsteps.

"I went to the pastor's," she said, taking off one spindle and putting

on a new one; "the pastor had given orders to have the church-bell

tolled on account of Carl's death; but I will not allow it--my Carl is

alive, and I do not want to hear the bells tolling for his death."

I told her that in time of war there was necessarily much confusion,

and that I, too, believed that her son was still alive, and would

return again. I was just about to say that I had already seen Carl,

when he stepped out from behind the wood-pile, and called out,

"Mother!"

The spinner remained seated, but threw her spindle to the far end of

the room.

Carl fell on his knees before her and wept.

"You need not weep--I have done enough of it myself, already," said

she. "But I knew it--you are a good child, and you would not be so

cruel as to die before me. Get up and pick up my spindle. Have you

eaten anything, Carl? You must be hungry."

When Carl told her that he did not wish for anything, she replied,

"Indeed, I have nothing but cold boiled potatoes. Now, do tell me, how

did it seem when you were dead? You surely thought of me at the last

moment? Tell me, did you not last night at three o'clock, wherever you

were, say to yourself, 'Mother, I am not dead: I shall soon be with

you--I will come soon--I will come soon?"

Carl answered that he had really uttered those very words at the time

mentioned.

"That is right," said the old woman.

She arose from her seat, took her son by the hand, and went on to say,

"Now, come up into the village with me. Let us go with these gentlemen.

Major, I thank you for the honor of your visit. I suppose I may go

along with you?"

We returned homewards.

It was already known through the whole village, that the young man who

had been lost and so sincerely deplored had returned. Friends poured

forth from every doorway, while from the windows cries of "Welcome

Carl!" were heard.

On our way we met Marie, carrying a bundle of clover on her head. She

threw her bundle away and hurried towards Carl; but when she came up to

him she suddenly stopped, as if frightened.

"Good-day, Marie. I am glad that you, too, have come to bid me

welcome," said Carl.

He extended both his hands to her, and she took hold of them, but did

not utter a word.

We walked on, and when I turned to look back, I saw Marie sitting on

the bundle of clover, with her face buried in her hands.

Rothfuss was the jolliest in the party.

"Now one can see how untruthful the world is," he exclaimed. "Did not

every one say how much he would give if only Carl were alive! He is

here, now, and is alive again, and what do they give? Nothing. One

ought not to do people the favor to die; anything in the world but

death."

We reached the house. Carl's mother walked up to my wife and said,

"Madame Waldfried, here he is--my son Carl. Just as he has come back to

all that is good, so will Ernst surely return. They were born on the

same day--do you remember? There was a great storm at the time; and the

nurse came directly from your house to mine. And at that very moment

the lightning struck the tree that stands behind my house and tore it

to pieces; and then the nurse said, 'This boy will see something of

war.'

"You did not believe in it, but it came to pass, nevertheless. Down in

the valley there is a spring, and a mother's heart is like a spring,

for it flows by day and night. Your Ernst--my Ernst--will return

again."

No one dared reply, but with Ernst everything was different.

The old woman now begged that we would inform "the great lady," as she

always called Annette, of Carl's return. The Major promised to do so;

and when he and I were alone together, he mentioned Ernst's name for

the first time, and informed me that the commander of his division had,

in the presence of the entire corps of officers, expressed his great

regret that his brother-in-law had deserted.

Ernst had brought pain and disgrace on us all; but there was still

another trouble in store for us.

A letter reached us from Johanna, in which she informed us in short,

hard sentences that her son Martin had died of the wound he had

received; and that her husband, who had been an invalid for many

months, could not long survive him. I told the Major of this, but kept

the news from the rest of the family.

On the day before the Major left us, we had received a letter from

Ludwig in America. He was delighted to know that the Diet had been

dissolved, and thought that he now saw the dawning of a great era for

our Fatherland. The Americans already spoke with great respect of

Germany, and of the power of Prussia and its leaders.

There was a bitter tone in the remarks of the Major when he said, "Ah,

yes; thus things seem to those who are far away, and get all their

information from newspaper reports. If I only knew how I could turn my

talents to use in the New World, I would ask for my discharge and

emigrate to America."

This man, who had never known anything of discord or dissension, was

now, like many others, torn by conflicting doubts.

The children had left; the house was quiet again, and winter

approached.

Martella seemed filled with new life, and was glad that she could be

alone with my wife again. When Annette wrote to us that she would spend

the whole or a part of the winter in the village, Martella said, "That

is well, too: she is so entertaining to mother."

CHAPTER X.

The Diet was again convoked; and I can hardly describe how hard I found

it to leave my home and resume the disagreeable and exhausting

occupations that now devolved on me.

In company with Joseph, I drove into town, on my way to the capital,

when Annette called to me from the warehouse of Edward Levi. Her

mourning attire invested her with an air of majestic gloom; but her

brilliant glance and her clear complexion prevented her black habit

from looking too sombre. She must have noticed that I was pleased with

this, for she said, "I am trying to recover my health, and avail myself

of the two greatest remedies; I have just left the ocean, and shall now

go into the woods. My mother-in-law has gone to Paris to join her

daughter, who is the wife of our minister. She has an idea that one

cannot exist, save in Paris. I shall come and see you; you and your

wife can do me much good, and I may perhaps be of some use to you. I

have never learned how to lead a life of repose. I shall now learn it;

in your house I shall find the best school, and your wife will have

patience with a sad, yet wayward pupil."

She bought an ingeniously constructed stove with all sorts of cooking

utensils belonging to it, and presented it to Carl's mother. Besides

this, she had bought all sorts of new furniture for herself, as she

intended to spend the winter at the village. She was so glad to see

Rothfuss again that she left her carriage and got into ours, so that he

might tell her of all that had happened during her absence. Her driver

had been instructed to take all her new purchases up to Joseph's house

and deliver them to her maid.

I went on towards the capital, and Annette towards the village.

On the way, Joseph told me that he had done very well by the war. The

South Germans, he told me, had been such violent partisans of Austria

because the greater portion of the proprietors in the neighborhood had

invested their money in Austrian securities.

Annette's brother had, however, in good season, called his attention to

the fact that a great change was taking place in financial affairs.

America had already successfully passed through a great war, and the

current of capital was now tending in the direction of the United

States, where its investment was both safe and profitable.

Joseph's object in visiting the city was to dispose of his American

bonds, which were then commanding a very high price.

It has always been, and will ever remain, a marvel to me how Joseph,

with all his real interest in public life, could at the same time

manage to reap a profit from the movements of capital.

I had the good fortune to travel in company with Baron Arven, who was a

member of the Upper Chamber, and was also on his way to the capital. He

seemed greatly depressed, and admitted that the realization of hopes

one could not help entertaining sometimes produced new and unforeseen

griefs.

Thus it had been, he said, with the separation of Austria from the rest

of Germany. It had long been recognized as necessary to the proper

development of our own political life, and as an advantage to Austria;

and yet, when it was brought about, it seemed more like a death that

one had felt it his duty to wish for.

From many hints that he threw out, I could not but feel assured that

the painful political dissensions had been deeply felt by the Arvens,

who were connected with the empire through so many family ties.

The Baron invited me to take up my quarters, while in the capital, in

his mansion, as his wife did not intend going there during that winter.

I declined with thanks, as I had promised Annette to make use of the

vacant dwelling that belonged to her.

CHAPTER XI.

The deputies were all in a state of great excitement. There is no

greater test of accord among a body of men than a sudden calamity. Just

as, with an individual, a lazy resignation will, in times of doubt and

indecision, alternate with vehement energy, and self-distrust succeed

overconfidence, so did it happen with this large assembly. All felt

that a bold operation was necessary, but who was to be the surgeon, and

whence was he to come. It was necessary to wait for the hour of danger,

and even then there was great reason to fear that when the treatment

had been decided on, our cousin on the other side of the Rhine, who had

been praised as the great saviour, might interpose his objections.

In a secret session, we were informed of the stipulations that had been

determined on by the North German Confederation in regard to a union of

German forces, in case of coming danger. We were sworn to secrecy, for

all were afraid of our neighbor in the west.

My son-in-law, the Major, left on a long furlough. I have never yet

been able to discover whether he passed his time in Paris or in Berlin.

The work and the angry debates in Parliament taxed our patience and

endurance to the utmost.

When I returned to my home, I was frightened by my wife's appearance;

her face showed the traces of great suffering. Although I took all

pains to prevent her from seeing that I noticed it, she discovered my

concern, and assured me that she was feeling quite well, but was

sometimes weak; and that all would be right again in the summer, when

she would accompany Annette to the springs. She was so active and

cheerful that I silenced my fears. She had already learned of the death

of our grandson Martin, and spoke of it with calmness.

She informed me of Martella's kind and considerate behavior. Rothfuss

had been sick again, and even now was only able, with great exertion,

to drag himself about the house. Martella took charge of all his

duties, and, what with this and her instructions from mother and

Annette, was kept quite busy; but she was never so happy and cheerful

as when full of work.

My wife took great pleasure in explaining to me what strange

counterparts Annette and Martella were.

Annette was endeavoring to free herself from the effects of overwrought

culture and to get back to simplicity. Martella, who had become

conscious of her own simplicity, was vexed thereat, and with iron

industry sought to acquire the rudiments of an education. Annette had

always lived out of herself; Martella had always lived within herself.

Annette had always tried to subject everything to critical analysis:

Martella was merely artless impressibility.

It was certainly a strange pair that my wife was teaching to keep step

with each other.

With great self-control Annette had accustomed herself to the quiet

winter life of the village. She often said that she would leave in a

few days. She seemed determined not to commit herself by any promise,

in order that she might from day to day make new resolutions. When I

told her that she was thus making both herself and us uncomfortable,

she promised to remain until I should advise her to leave. She admitted

that it was pleasant to her to be guided by another's will. She spun

assiduously, and, like a diligent child, showed me the result of her

labor.

The old spinner maintained that Annette was learning all the secrets of

her art. In spite of this, she was at times unable to control her

restless spirits. She had the snow cleared away from the pond, and went

skating on the ice, while half of the village stood around looking at

her. My sons had sometimes skated on this pond; but it was quite a

different sight to see the tall, handsome lady, with the black feather

in her hat and the closely fitting pelisse trimmed with fur. She

ordered a pair of skates for Martella, but could never induce the child

to try them.

Annette left us occasionally in order to spend a few days with Baroness

Arven. On her return it would always seem as if a wondrous change had

come over her.

One day she came back in great excitement and exclaimed:

"Oh, if I could only have faith! I think I shall have to administer

chloroform to my soul."

We could make no reply to this, and she soon again adapted herself to

the quiet tenor of our life.

I was obliged to introduce a change that gave me almost as much trouble

as my opponents in the House of Delegates had done. It was necessary to

engage some one to replace or assist Rothfuss. I could do nothing

without his consent; several whom I had proposed he had rejected, and

when I at last obtained Joseph's consent to engage Carl, Rothfuss was

scarcely pleased, although he interposed no objections.

Rothfuss always insisted that Carl, while a soldier, had behaved in the

same way as the girl who said, "Catch me: I'll hold still."

He had allowed himself to be caught. If Ernst had only been smart

enough to do likewise!

For the sake of his affection for Ernst, Carl submitted to this unjust

reproach. He was indeed a brave and daring soldier, and felt provoked

that during the whole war there had been nothing but marching hither

and thither, back and forth, without once meeting the foe.

Rothfuss and Martella had much to say to each other about Ernst, to

whom Martella clung with unshaken confidence.

Whenever the letter-carrier came, she was all anxious expectation, but

had enough self-control to conceal her feelings for my wife's sake.

My wife never mentioned Ernst's name, but ever since the day on which

news had come from him, her sleep had been restless.