When I returned from the session she said to me, "I am sure you have no

news that you are concealing from me?"

I could truthfully assure her that I had none, and after that she

seemed as tranquil as if she had been speaking of an indifferent

subject. And yet this grief preyed on her incessantly.

Annette received many letters; and, as she could have nothing to

do with any one without feeling a personal interest in him, she

would always have something to eat and drink ready for the country

letter-carrier. She soon knew all about the toil and trouble

inseparable from his work, and also inquired in regard to his family

circumstances, and assisted him as well as she could.

She ordered a sheep-skin coat for him, but he was obliged to decline

it, because in his walks over hill and dale the weight of it would have

been insupportable. She presented the skin to a poor old man; and,

indeed, tried to do good to every one in the village and neighborhood.

The oldest house in the neighborhood is yet standing down in the

valley. It is built of logs, and is known as _the hut_. The smoke fills

the whole house and forces its way out through the crevices.

Annette found this smoky atmosphere particularly grateful. She often

went down to the hut, and the people would come from the houses near by

and listen to her stories and her strange jokes. She was always in good

spirits on her return.

Annette had once encountered Rautenkron. She attempted to engage him in

conversation, but he rudely turned on his heel; and when she was

telling us of the manhater, my wife made a remark which I shall never

forget:

"This man must have come from a respected and well-to-do family, for

the child of poor parents can never become a misanthrope."

Although Annette kindly cared for the poor and did not permit herself

to be repelled by any rudeness or vulgarity on their part, she was both

severe and void of pity with the faults of those who were in better

circumstances.

Rimminger, who had taken his discharge and had married the only

daughter of the rich owner of the saw-mill, endeavored, as an old

comrade of her deceased husband, to bring about friendly relations

between Annette and his household. She kept him at a distance, however,

and expressed herself quite forcibly on the subject. She maintained

that the young wife always looked like an _ennuied_ duchess, and was

constantly trying to show that she had been educated in Paris.

My wife said that she disapproved of such personalities. Annette looked

at her with surprise and then cast her eyes to the ground.

Our days were full of work, our evenings all leisure; and Annette

called our attention to something that had never occurred to us. She

found it very strange that there were no playing-cards in our house.

She could not conceive how, living in the country, we could have

overlooked this pastime. But we had never felt the want of it.

Annette had a rich, musical voice, and would often read aloud to us.

Joseph and his wife would come and listen, while Martella would spin so

softly that one could not hear her wheel.

Rothfuss would sit on the bench near the stove, and would artfully

prevent us from noticing when he fell asleep. When the reading was

over, he was always wide-awake, and would insist on being permitted to

light the way to Joseph's house for Annette.

In her letters to Richard, my wife described our pleasant genial life;

and yet, for the first time, Richard did not visit us once during the

whole winter. He regretted that he had an extensive work in hand which

could not be laid aside, and believed that he was about to finish a

novel and important contribution to his favorite science.

Annette had procured various fugitive articles of Richard's that had

been published in scientific journals, and during the winter had read

all of his books, as well as an essay of his on the "Origin of

Language."

She once said: "I do not consider it vanity when a writer asks me,

'Have you read such and such work of mine?' How can he believe that one

faithfully listens to his words if one does not care to become

acquainted with the best that he has done--the fruit of the deepest

labors of his calmer hours?

"I read the Professor's writings, and find much in them that I cannot

understand; but he wrote them, and I read them for that reason, if for

no other. And then again, I often chance on passages which are quite

clear to me."

My wife looked at me with a significant glance, and for the first time

it occurred to me that it might be possible that Richard was in love

with Annette, and for that reason held himself aloof from her.

It was towards the end of February. There was grief among our nearest

friends. Joseph's father died. On the day that he was buried, Annette

received a letter informing her of the illness of her mother-in-law in

Paris.

I, of course, advised her to depart at once; and thus we were again

left to ourselves. We all felt the void that Annette's departure had

made, but soon after new and heavy troubles fell upon us.

CHAPTER XII.

Days have passed in which I did not once take my pen in hand; I could

not. Must I indeed write of this? What forces me to do so?

"Above all things, leave nothing unfinished that you have once begun,"

was a maxim of hers; and I must therefore tell of her death. When the

fogs of autumn and the frosts of winter scatter the foliage of the

trees, a branch may here and there be seen to which a few leaves are

still clinging. Why should those alone have remained?

My memory has remained true to me; but of that grief which seemed to

divide my life I have but little recollection. I constantly thought of

the saying of Carl's mother, "You are a good child: you cannot be so

cruel as to die before me." From the garret, I looked on while they

were filling up her grave. The spade shone in the sunshine. No one knew

that I was looking on. Shall I again renew the feelings that then

passed through my soul? Let it be so.

My wife was ill. She uttered no complaint, but she was feeble, and took

no interest in what was going on about her. During the day, she would

sleep for hours; and at night, when she awoke, would seem surprised by

the surrounding objects. During her sleeping hours, she may have dwelt

in quite a different region; but she never alluded to it. The physician

gave her but little medicine, and consoled us with the hope that the

return of summer, and a visit to a watering-place, with cheerful

companions, would help her.

Annette soon returned to us. She was followed by my daughter Johanna,

who had, in the meanwhile, lost her husband, and was accompanied by her

daughter Christiane. She took up her abode with us. Her only son was

living as a vicar in the Unterland.

Assisted by Balbina, Johanna took charge of our entire household. When

my wife told Martella that she had better submit to Johanna in all

things, she replied, "I shall gladly do so; this was her home before it

was mine; and I shall thus be better able to spend all of my time with

mother." My wife indeed preferred to have this stranger-child about

her; for Johanna could not help treating us in a patronizing, pitying

manner, because we were not as pious as she would have us be.

Spring returned, and my wife's health seemed to improve. I was quite

happy again. At that time, I did not understand what the prudent and

sensible physician meant, when he told me that it would be better for

me to moderate my joy.

All preparations for a journey to the springs had been made. Bertha had

promised to join us there, and bring her daughter with her.

Suddenly the physician decided that it would be better if my wife would

remain yet awhile among the surroundings she was accustomed to. He was

a young and kind-hearted man, constantly endeavoring to improve himself

by study; full of love for his calling, and beloved by all throughout

the valley. His visits now became longer than they had been. He would,

at times, acquaint me with the details of his own life, and tell me

that, although he had lost his wife while quite young, he endeavored to

console himself by the remembrance of the happy days he had passed in

her society. I listened to his words without giving them further

thought; but afterwards it became clear to me why he had spoken so

impressively on the subject.

The days passed on. I gradually accustomed myself to the thought of my

wife's illness; but when out in the fields, I would suddenly become

alarmed, and imagine that something terrible must have taken place at

the house. I would hurry home and find that all was going on as usual.

Back of my house, where the road makes a descent, the young teamsters

would crack their whips quite loudly. I observed that this startled

Gustava, and she overheard me telling Rothfuss to ask the young fellows

not to make so great a noise.

"Do not interfere with them," said she. "A man who saunters along the

road and has an instrument that is capable of making a noise, finds

pleasure in using it. Do not stop him."

I had never, before that, seen Rothfuss in tears; but when he heard

those words, he wept, and that evening he said to me, "The angels who

look down from heaven to see what we human beings on earth are doing,

must be just as she is. She is no longer human--she will not stay with

us. Pardon me: I am a stupid fellow to be talking this way. You know I

am a simpleton, and do not understand such things. She is right,

though; stupid people must always make a noise, be it with their mouths

or with their whips."

He had, however, in the meanwhile persuaded the youths not to crack

their whips.

My wife was determined that Annette and Bertha should go to the springs

without her; and, as she would listen to no refusal, they were obliged

to comply with her desire.

Several weeks had gone by, when, one evening, the physician told me

that she could last but a few days longer. I cannot describe my

feelings at that moment.

Joseph telegraphed for the children. They came.

Strangely enough, my wife was not surprised by their speedy return. She

conversed with them as if they had not been away more than an hour.

The physician said that perhaps there might still be a chance to save

my wife by injecting another's blood into her veins, and that, at all

events, the attempt should be made. Johanna immediately declared her

readiness, and though her offer was well meant, the manner in which it

was made jarred on my feelings. She said that, as a daughter, she had

the first right; but, if they did not want her blood her child must be

willing.

The physician declared that neither her blood nor that of her child

would serve the purpose.

The choice now lay between Martella and Annette, and when the physician

decided in favor of Martella, her face brightened, and she exclaimed:

"Take my blood--every drop of it--all that I have."

Some of Martella's blood was injected into my wife's veins, and during

the night, she gained in strength. But it was very sad to find that she

had almost lost her hearing, and that the only medium of pleasure yet

left her was the sense of sight.

Martha, the eldest daughter of the kreis-director, had painted a

picture of the view from our balcony, looking towards the woods down by

the stone wall, and now brought it to my wife, who was delighted with

it. The only figure was a hunter coming out of the woods.

Martha told us that she could not draw figures, and that Annette had

been kind enough to sketch the huntsman for her; and she kissed my

wife's hands on hearing her say, "I think the hunter looks like our

grandson, Julius."

It was on the 22d of July, when she said, "Have a little pine-tree

brought for me, from my woods, and placed here beside my bed."

I sent Rothfuss out to the woods; he brought a little pine, placed it

in a flower-pot, and I observed, while he was leaning over it, how his

tears dropped upon the branches.

He turned around to me and said, "I hope that will not harm the little

tree."

When I placed the tree at her bedside, she smiled and moved her left

hand among its branches, but the hand soon fell down by her side.

What wonderful powers of memory lie in a mother's heart! She would tell

us of a thousand and one little stories and sayings of Ernst, and of

his bright, clever freaks, with as much detail as if they had happened

but the moment before; but, strangely enough, she did all this without

mentioning his name. She praised his flaxen hair, and moved her hand as

if passing it through his locks.

"Do you not recollect how he once said, 'Mother, I cannot imagine how

you could have been in the world without me: of course I have never

been in the world without you'?"

She repeated the words, "without you--without me," perhaps a hundred

times during the night: and she was almost constantly humming snatches

of old songs.

In the morning, just as day was breaking, she turned around to me, and

said with a smile, "This is his birthday." And that was her last smile.

"This is Ernst's birthday."

And when the lost son returned, there was no mother to receive him.

Her silent thoughts had always been of him, but now they were deeper

than ever.

She had lost her hearing. Suddenly she exclaimed in a loud voice, "God

be praised; Richard will marry her after all!" and then--I cannot go on

with the story--I must stop.

It was eleven o'clock (I do not know why I was always looking towards

the clock that day) when she said, "Water from my spring."

Richard hurried to bring it.

What must his thoughts have been while on his way there and back!

He soon returned, bringing the water with him, but she seemed to have

forgotten that she had asked for it. When Richard lifted her up in bed,

and placed the glass to her lips, she motioned him away.

I heard a voice from without the house. A cold shudder came over me; my

hair stood on end.

It is the voice of our son Ernst!

If Ernst were to come at this time! Could he have been drawn here by a

presentiment of what is happening? And if he were here, what power

could dare take him away from us, at this moment--and how will he enter

his mother's presence?

I hurried out. It was Julius--his voice is just like Ernst's. He

brought a letter that Edward Levi had handed to him. It was from Ernst,

and was dated at Algiers.

I could not stop to read the letter. I could not remain away from the

bedside--every moment was yet a drop of blood to me, and everything

glimmered before my eyes. I hurried back to the sick-room; my wife

looked at me with strangely bright eyes.

"There is a letter here from Ernst!" I called out.

I do not know whether she understood me, but she reached for the sheet

that was in my hand, and held it with a convulsive grasp.

I lifted her head, and moved it towards the cooler side of the pillow;

she opened her eyes, and tried to raise her arms; I bent towards her

and she kissed me.

It was just striking the hour of noon, when she breathed her last.

I tottered to her room at last; it seemed to me as if I must still find

her alive; and when I was in her chair, I could not realize that I was

seated there, and that she lay so near me, while I could do nothing for

her.

I do not know how it was, but I felt awed by the very silence of the

place.

Martella said, "I have stopped the clock; it, too, shall stand still."

They had withdrawn the letter from her convulsively closed hand, and I

read it. It has since disappeared--whither, I know not. I remember only

this--that it contained news from Algiers, and that Ernst said in it

that if Martella and Richard were fond of one another, he was quite

ready to release her from any promise to him.

With the exception of Ernst and Ludwig, all of my children were

present. Many friends, too, were there. I recollect that I grasped the

hands of many of them; but what avails that? They all have their own

life left them--I have none.

All arose to attend to the funeral. They set down the coffin in front

of the house, and not far from the spring. They told me that my

grandson, the vicar, delivered an impressive address in the name of the

family. I heard nothing but the rushing of the water.

How I reached her grave, or who led me, I know not.

This alone do I know. I saw how Martella kissed the handful of earth

that she threw into the empty grave, and when I returned homeward, the

waters were still roaring in our fountain. It roars and roars.

I felt borne down as if by a load of lead. Tears were not vouchsafed

me. I could not realize that my hands could move, my eyes see--in fact

that I was still alive.

When I looked out again over the valley and towards the hills, it

suddenly seemed as if my eyes had become covered with a film, and then

all--the forest, the meadows, and the houses seemed of a blood-red

color, as if steeped in the dark glow of evening.

I closed my eyes for a long while, and when I opened them again, I saw

that the meadows and the woods were green, and everything had its

natural color.

The water flows over the weir and bubbles and rushes and sparkles

to-day, just as it did yesterday, and as it will tomorrow. How can it

be possible that all continues to live on, and she not here. Do not

tell me that nature can comfort us against real grief. Against a loss

for aye she availeth nothing.

If, in your closet, you have grieved because of insult and falsehood

and meanness, do but go out into the fields or woods. While gazing upon

the bright and kindly face of nature, or inhaling the sweet perfume of

the trees and flowers, you will soon learn to forget such troubles. How

weak is all the world's wickedness, when compared with such undying

grandeur? That which is best on earth is still yours, if these things

but preserve their sway over you. But, if your wife has been torn away

from you, neither tree, nor stream, nor the blue heavens, nor the

flowers, nor the singing birds will help you. All nature lives a life

of its own, and unto itself, and of what avail is it all, when she no

longer shares it with me?

The first thing that recalled me to myself, was hearing the old spinner

say to Carl, "Why am I yet here? She was so good and so useful, and I

am nothing but a burden to you and to the world. Why must I stay

behind? I would so gladly have gone in her stead."

The poor people were gathered all about the house, and one old woman

cried out, through her tears, "The bread she gave us was doubly

welcome, for it was given cheerfully."

I felt that my energies would never again arouse themselves. I cannot

say that the thought alarmed me; I merely felt conscious that my mental

powers were either failing or torpid. For days I could not collect my

thoughts, and led a dull, listless, inanimate life. My children were

about me, but their sympathy did not help me. Ernst's evil letter was

the only thing that had any effect on me.

I could not realize that what had once been life, was now nothing more

than a thought, a memory.

When I heard some one coming up the steps, I always thought it must be

she returning and saying, "I could not stay away; I must return to you,

you are so lonely. The children are good and kind, but we two cannot

remain apart." And then I would start with affright, when I noticed how

my thoughts had been wandering.

When I walked in the street, I felt as if I were but half of myself. As

long as she was with me I had always felt myself rich, for my home

contained her who was best of all.

No one can know what a wealth of soul had been mine; through her, and

with her, I had felt myself moving in a higher spiritual sphere. But

now I felt so broken, so bereft, as if my entire intellectual

possessions had gone to naught. The children are yet here; but they are

for themselves. My wife alone was here for me--was indeed my other

self.

Before that, when I awakened of a morning it was always a pleasure to

feel conscious of life itself; but now with every morrow I had to begin

anew and try to learn how to reconcile myself to my loss. But that is a

lesson I shall never learn. My sun had gone down; I did not care to

live any longer, because all that I experienced seemed to come in

between her and me, and I did not wish to live but in thoughts of her.

I looked at her lamp, her table, her work-basket--all these had

survived her, are still here, and will remain. The one clock was never

wound up afterward. From that day, there was but one clock heard in our

room.

I can now understand why the ancients buried the working implements

with their dead.

I looked out of the window. The neighbors' children were in the street;

their noise grated on my ears. I could not but think how she once said

to me, "Why should it annoy us? Is it anything more than the singing of

the birds? The children are like so many innocent birds."

All things remind me of her. I could sit by the window for hours and

look at the chickens running back and forth, picking up crumbs, and

watching the strutting cock.

I must have been like a little child that, for the first time, begins

to take notice of the objects that surround it.

I seemed as if awaking from darkness, as if dreaming with my eyes

open. Everything seemed new and strangely mysterious to me, although I

had nearly attained my seventieth year.

When, after many weeks, I again saw my face in the mirror, I was

surprised at the saddened, sunken features of the old man. Could that

be I!

I had gone to the neighboring village to order a gravestone. On my way

home, night overtook me. Suddenly a storm burst upon the valley. Like a

child, I counted the interval between the lightning and the thunder. At

first I could count up to thirty-two, afterwards only to seven; and

then I stopped counting. I saw the houses by the roadside, and knew who

lived in them here and there, I might have found shelter, but what

should I do in a strange house, wet to the skin as I was? I kept in the

middle of the road, on the broken stone. When I came to where the

little bridge was, I had to wade through the water.

I noticed that I was in the midst of the storm-cloud. How glorious it

would have been to die at that moment--to be struck dead by lightning!

"But my children, my children!" I uttered the words in a loud voice,

but the thunder drowned my cries.

The flashes of lightning succeeded each other so rapidly that they

blinded me; I could see nothing more. I closed my eyes and held fast to

a rock by the wayside. I had never heard such fearful roaring of the

thunder, or seen such uninterrupted flashes of lightning. I stood still

and concluded to wait there, while I thought of the many other beings

who were also exposed to this storm; and at last, I could weep. I had

not wept since her death, and now it did me good. The hail beat into my

face, already wet with tears.

Suddenly Rothfuss appears and exclaims: "Martella sends me. Oh, God be

praised! there is a good bed waiting for you at home."

Guided by Rothfuss, I reached the house. Although my family were

greatly concerned as to the effect it might have, the shock that I had

undergone had really benefited me. I slept until noon, and when I arose

I felt as if breathing a new life.

I must stop here. I cannot go on. I was obliged to learn how to begin

life anew. When one has buried his dearest love in the earth, the earth

itself becomes a changed world, and one's step upon it a different one.

I trust that I shall not be obliged hereafter to repeat my lamentations

for my own life. The first tranquillizing influence I found was in the

statue gallery, with its figures from another world, so silent, so

unchanging. We can offer them nothing, and yet they give us so much:

they are without life or color, but they represent life in its

imperishable beauty.

Rothfuss offered me a strange solace. He said, "Master, there must be

another woman somewhere in this world just as she was."

"Why?"

"I always thought that God only suffered the sun to shine because she

was here, but I see that the sun still shines, and so there must be

others like her."

Martella, however, could not realize that she was dead.

"It cannot be: it is not true: she is not dead. She is surely coming up

the steps now. How is it possible that a being can remain away from

those who love her so? I have one request to make. I wish you would

give the pretty dresses to Madame Johanna and Fraulein Christiane; a

few of the work-day clothes you can give to me, and the good woollen

dress you can give to Carl's mother. Let no one else have any of her

clothes. It would grieve me to the heart to know that a strange person

was wearing anything that she had worn. Whoever wears a dress of hers

can neither think an evil thought nor do an evil deed."

My son Ludwig wrote a letter, in which he lamented my wife's death with

all the feeling of which a son is capable, and yet spoke of death as a

wise man should. My daughter Johanna lost the letter. I think she must

have destroyed it on account of the heresies it contained.

My consolation is that I have been found worthy of the perfect love of

so pure a being; that, of itself, is worth all the troubles of life.

Let what may come hereafter, what I have experienced cannot be taken

from me.

I have had a tomb-stone placed at her grave. It has two tablets on one

are the words:

"HERE LIES

IPHIGENIA GUSTAVA WALDFRIED,

_Born December 15th, 1807_,

_Died July 23d, 1867_."

On the other, my name shall one day be placed.

BOOK THIRD.

CHAPTER I.

Life is indeed a sacred trust. I now began to feel that great and noble

duties yet claimed me.

I had become dull and listless. I had taken life as it came, resigning

my will to outer influences, just as one without appetite sits down to

a meal, merely to gain nourishment.

I had become morbidly sensitive; every effort that was made to

alleviate my sufferings and restore my accustomed spirits only served

to pain me anew.

I was now experiencing the worst effect of grief--indifference to the

world.

My path seemed to lie through dismal darkness; but at last I stepped

out into the bright light of day and into the busy haunts of men.

The village street leads into the highway; the forest-brooks flow on

until they reach the river that empties itself into the ocean.

Thus too has it been with my life.

Yielding to Joseph's earnest wishes, I had made a collection of

specimens illustrating every stage in the cultivation and growth of the

white pine. When the collection was complete, I sent it to the great

Paris Exposition.

I received a medal of honor. I did not really deserve it; it should in

justice have gone to Ernst, who had acquainted me with the results of

his careful study of the subject.

I have the diploma, and the medal bearing the effigy of Napoleon. I

looked at them but once, and then enclosed them under seal. They will

be found in the little casket that contains my discharge from the

fortress and other strange mementoes of the past.

Joseph asked me to accompany him to Paris, and would listen to no

refusal. He wanted to acquaint himself with the new methods of

kyanizing railroad ties, and insisted that he could not get along

without my aid.

I had not yet escaped from that condition in which it is well to resign

one's self to the guidance of others.

I saw Paris for the second time. My first visit was in 1832 or 1833,

and was undertaken with the object of making the acquaintance of La

Fayette. In those days we fondly believed that Paris was to save the

world.

Compared with what I now saw, all that had been done in the Parliament

that was held in the High street of our little capital seemed petty and

trifling.

Though storms were gathering, Jupiter Napoleon sat enthroned over all

Europe, and ruled the thunder and the lightning.

I saw him surrounded by all the European monarchs, and often asked

myself whether the world's life is, after all, anything but mummery.

One day, while I was sitting on a bench in the Champs Elysees, and

gazing at the lively, bustling throng that passed before me, I was

approached by a Turco, who said to me:

"Are you not Herr Waldfried?"

My heart trembled with emotion.

Was it not Ernst's voice? Before I could collect my thoughts, the

stranger had vanished in the great crowd that followed in the wake of

the Emperor, who was just passing by.

I caught another glimpse of the man with the red fez and called out to

him; but he had vanished.

Had I been awake or dreaming?

It could not have been Ernst. He would not have left me after thus

addressing me. And if it were he after all! I felt sure that he would

return; so I waited in the hope of again seeing the stranger. The

people who passed me seemed like so many shadows, and I felt as if

withdrawn from the world.

Night approached, and I was obliged to go to my lodgings. I told Joseph

of all that had happened. He stoutly maintained that I must have been

dreaming; but nevertheless went with me the next day to the Champs

Elysees where, seated on a bench, we waited for hours without seeing

any sign of the stranger.

On my journey homeward, I spent a whole week with my sister who lives

in the forest of Hagenau. She can cheer me up better than any of my

children can. Her excellent memory enabled her to remind me of many

little incidents connected with our childhood and our parental home. In

her house, I was, for the first time since my affliction, able to

indulge in a hearty laugh.

In the eyes of my brother-in-law, the medal awarded me at the

Exposition invested me with new importance; he never omitted to allude

to this mark of distinction, when introducing me to his acquaintances.

On the 15th of August, Napoleon's _fete_ day, he actually wanted me to

wear the medal on my coat. He could not understand why I would not

carry it about with me constantly, so as to make a show of my medal of

honor, notwithstanding the fact that the French consider their whole

nation as the world's legion of honor. Every individual among them

seems anxious to thrust himself forward at the expense of the rest.

My sister privately informed me that the young sergeant whom I met at

her house was a suitor for the hand of her eldest daughter, and was

only awaiting the satisfactory settlement of the proper dowry on his

future wife. He was a young man of limited information, but was very

polite and respectful towards me. He hoped to win his epaulets in an

early war with Prussia, which had been so bold as to gain Sadowa and

conclude a peace without paying France the tribute of a portion of her

territory.

The young man evidently thought himself vastly my superior, and spoke

of the future of the South German States in a patronizing and pitying

tone. As I did not think it worth while to contradict him, he fondly

thought that he was instructing me.

As a German, I found the Hagenau Forest of especial interest, from the

fact that a part of it had been presented to the town of Hagenau by the

Emperor Frederick Barbarossa.

I gave my brother-in-law many councils in regard to arboriculture; but,

as the new ideas entailed work, he declined making use of them. He was

very proud of his epaulets which were displayed in a little frame that

hung on the wall; but he was devoid of all love for the forest, and

indifferent to anything that helped the State without at the same time

contributing to his personal advancement.

I passed a delightful day with my brother-in-law the pastor.

I accompanied him to church, and was greatly moved to once again hear

German preaching and German hymns. The organist was one of the most

respected men of the neighborhood, and was the owner of a large forge.

I was introduced to him after the service. In the presence of others,

he was quite reserved towards me; but during the afternoon, he visited

the pastor, and, while we were seated in the arbor under the

walnut-tree, we conversed freely in regard to the dangers that, in

Alsace, menaced the last remnant of German institutions and the

Evangelical Church.

"France was happiest under Louis Philippe," said the pastor; and when

the manufacturer ventured to inveigh against the Emperor, he replied

that Napoleon was not so bad a man after all, but that the Empress was

spoiling everything; that she was a friend of the Pope, and was

endeavoring, at one and the same time, to destroy Protestantism and

increase luxury.

I returned home. Johanna superintended my household affairs, and also

the farm, with great judgment.

During the whole winter I was in delicate health, and in the following

year I was obliged to visit the springs of Tarasp. Richard accompanied

me.

I was indeed unwell, for when I rode through the Prattigau and the wild

waters of the Land-quart roared at the side of the road, it seemed to

me as if the stream were a living monster that was climbing up and

seeking to devour me.

When on Fluella, I plucked the first Alpine rose. I wept. There was no

one left to whom I could carry the flower that bloomed by the wayside.

Richard regarded me for a long while in silence, and at last said,

"Father, I know what it is that moves your soul. Let it content you

that you did so much to make her life a lovely one."

On those heights, where no plant can live, where no bird sings, where

nothing can be heard but the rushing of the snow currents, where the

fragments of rocks lay bare and bleak, and eternal snows fill the

ravines, I felt as if I were floating in eternity--released from all

that belonged to earth--and I called out her name--"Gustava!"

Ah, if one could wait until death should overtake him in this cold,

bleak region, where naught that has life can endure.

I went on, and met people who had pitched their dwellings in lofty

spots, in order to shelter and entertain tourists. My heart seemed

congealed; but I can yet remember where I was when it again thawed into

life. Neither the lofty mountains nor the mighty landscape helped me. I

sat by the roadside and saw a little bush growing from among the

rubble-stones and bearing the blue flowers called snakeweed. And it was

there that I became myself again.

But look! A bee comes flying towards the bush. She bends down into the

open blossoms; she overlooks none of them, from the top to the bottom

of the bush, but seems to find nothing, and flies off to another

flower. On the next branch she sucks for a long while from every

flower-cup.

A second bee, apparently a younger one, approaches. She, too, tries

flower after flower, and does not know that some one has been there

before her. At last, however, she seems to become aware of the fact,

and skips two or three of the blossoms until she at last finds one that

contains nourishment for her.

Here by the wayside, just as up above where human footsteps do not

reach, there grows a flower that blooms for itself, and yet bears

within it nourishment for another.

I do not know how long I may have been seated there, but when I arose I

felt that life had returned to me, and that I was in full sympathy with

all that was firmly rooted in the earth or freely moving upon its

surface.

My soul had been closed to the world, but was now again open to the air

and the sunshine of existence. From that moment, I felt the spell of

the lofty peaks and lovely scenery, and, yielding to it, at last became

absorbed in self-communion.

I was again living in unconstrained and cheerful intercourse with human

beings; and indeed I could not, at times, refrain from showing some of

the well-informed Swiss that I met how carelessly and sinfully their

countrymen were treating the forests. They complained that the

independence of the cantons and the unrestrained liberty of individuals

rendered it useless to make any attempt to protect the forests.

I made the acquaintance of many worthy men, and that, after all, is

always the greatest acquisition.

We met the widow of our cousin who had fallen at Koeniggratz. She was

exceedingly gay, was surrounded by a train of admirers, and flaunted in

elegant attire. She nodded to us formally and seemed to take no pride

in her citizen relatives.

I must report another occurrence.

On the very last morning, Richard had succeeded in plucking a large

bunch of edelweiss. He was coming down the mountain where the wagon was

waiting for us. Just then another wagon arrived, and in it was Annette

with her maid.

Richard offered the flowers to Annette.

"Were you thinking of me when you plucked them?" she asked.

"To be truthful, I was not."

"Thanks for the flowers--and for your honesty."

"I did not know, when plucking them, for whom they were; but I am glad

to know that now they are yours."

"Thanks; you are always candid."

We continued our journey. On the way, Richard said, "Our cousin, the

Baroness, is quite a new character; she ought to be called 'the

watering-place widow.' She travels from one watering-place to another,

wears mourning or half-mourning, is quite interesting, and always has a

crowd buzzing around her. It were a great pity if Annette were to turn

out in the same way."

I replied, "If she were to marry, which indeed, were greatly to be

desired, she would no longer be 'the watering-place widow.'"

He made no answer, but bit off the end of a cigar which he had been

holding in his hand for some time.

On our way home, we rested in the shadow of a rock on a high Alpine

peak, and there I found a symbol of what was passing between Annette

and Richard--a forget-me-not growing among nettles.

CHAPTER II.

I reached home refreshed and invigorated. The china-asters that she had

planted were blooming. Martella had decorated her grave with the

loveliest flowers, and maintained that the wild bees affected that spot

more than any other. Her memory gradually began to present itself to me

as overgrown with flowers.

I went to attend the winter session of the Parliament, and Martella

accompanied me. We lived with Annette--she would take no refusal, and

we were both at ease in her beautiful house.

Annette always wanted to have Martella about her, but Martella had an

unconquerable--I cannot say aversion, but, rather, dread of Annette;

for Annette had an unpleasant habit of calling attention to every

remark of Martella's, and had even quoted several of them in society.

Richard, who, as the representative of the University, had become a

member of the Upper Chamber, seemed provoked; not on account of my

having brought Martella with me, but because I had allowed myself to be

induced to stay at Annette's house.

He hinted that Annette's marked hospitality was not caused by regard

for me; and it really seemed as if she desired to see much of Richard

at her house, although he had been cold and distant, and, at times,

even scornful towards her. Nevertheless, he often visited us and

allowed Annette to draw him into all sorts of discussions.

One evening when we three were alone,--Annette had been invited to the

house of a friend,--Martella said:

"Richard, do you know what Madame Annette admires most in you?"

"No."

"Your fine teeth. She lets you use your good teeth to crack her hard

nuts."

Richard jumped up from his seat embraced Martella, and kissed her.

Martella blushed crimson and called out, "Richard, you are so polite

and yet so rude! Is that proper?"

But Richard was quite happy to know that Martella had guessed at what

had so often displeased him.

Martella, who never wanted to leave me, one day suddenly expressed a

wish to return home. Annette had on the previous evening taken her to

the theatre, where a ballet had been produced in addition to the drama.

A little child, representing a winged spirit, had descended from above,

and Martella had called out in a loud voice, "That hurts!"

All eyes were turned to Annette's box, in which Martella sat with her

eyes wide open and looking towards the stage as if oblivious of aught

else.

Annette left the theatre with her. Martella could not be induced to

utter a single word in explanation of her sudden fright. I was

surprised to find how Annette bore this mishap, in which she herself

had been subjected to the unkind glances of all the audience. "How

strange," said she; "we are all, unconsciously, slaves of ceremony.

There seems to be a tacit understanding that every member of a theatre

audience or art-gathering must either remain silent or confine himself

to one of two childish expressions--clapping the hands and hissing. And

here this child is perfectly innocent, and I thank her for having

solved another problem for me."

In the morning, Martella wanted to go home. We accompanied her to the

depot, and I telegraphed to Rothfuss to meet her at the station.

My active labors for the Fatherland had restored me. In my solitary

walks, my mind was now occupied by something besides constant thoughts

of myself.

Spring was with us again, and the wondrous power that revives the human

soul had its influence on me.

I was often invited to consultations in regard to matters affecting the

common weal, and it seemed as if my little world was extending its

area, when I made the acquaintance of many brave men, who lived in a

neighboring district, and who kept alive their hopes for the future of

our Fatherland.

During the summer holidays, Richard paid us a visit. He and Baron Arven

had stocked the forest-streams with choice varieties of fish. In some

instances they had not succeeded in getting a pure breed; there were

pikes among their fish.

He was fortunate enough with several of the streams, but was greatly

provoked to find that the farmers of the neighboring villages would not

wait until the young brood had grown, and had already begun to catch

the fish. He induced the authorities to threaten the farmers with a

fine, but on the next day found the notice floating on the stream.

He appointed a forester as watchman, and spent the night in a log cabin

hastily built near by. Once they were fortunate enough to catch the

thief.

Richard and the forester brought the culprit before the authorities,

and he was sentenced to six weeks' imprisonment. While we were seated

at table, Richard expressed his satisfaction at the punishment which

had been meted out to the offender. This made Martella as angry as I

have ever seen her, and she became the more provoked when Richard

quickly took down the mirror and held it up to her, saying:

"Here, look at yourself; you are prettiest when you are angry."

"It is nothing to you, how I look!" cried Martella. "Tell such things

to your Madame Annette, but not to me."

The color left Richard's cheeks.

Annette had for several weeks been living in the neighborhood, with

Baroness Arven, and Martella had hardly finished speaking, when we

heard the clatter of horses' hoofs in front of the house. Annette and

Baron Arven came riding up the road. The Baron congratulated Richard on

having caught the first of the pirates, and Annette was in quite a

merry mood.

The Baron also brought us a piece of news that he had just received

from his brother, the forester-in-chief, to the effect that my grandson

Julius had been appointed assistant forester, and that the next

official gazette would announce the appointment.

We sent for Joseph. We were all very happy at the news, and Martella

exclaimed, "That is the position Ernst wished for. But I congratulate

Miss Martha with all my heart she will make a handsome young wife for

the town forester."

We had always avoided alluding to this connection, but now that it had

been openly mentioned, we made no concealment of our joy.

CHAPTER III.

Richard and the Baron rode over to the Wild Lake which they had

intended to stock. Annette accompanied them.

It was already night, but Richard had not returned; I was seated alone

at the table, and waiting for him. It had always been his habit to tell

us when he intended to remain out longer than the usual time.

Martella entered. Her cheeks were flushed, and she said, "Father, send

me away--wherever it be. I cannot remain here. It shall not be my fault

if any one is bad."

Trembling, and covering her face with her hands, she declared that

Richard had told her that Ernst was unworthy of her, even if he were

yet living, and that he would never return again. And after that he

said--it was some time before she would tell what it was, and at last

she exclaimed: "that he loves me with all his heart, and wanted to make

me his wife! He! His brother! I would rather he should tie a stone

about my neck, and throw me into the lake where his young fishes are! I

could hardly believe at first, that he had said it, and answered him:

'That is a poor joke: just think of how your mother would feel if she

knew that you would joke in this way!' and then he swore that mother

had said Ernst was untrue to me, and had for that very reason gone out

into the wide world. Can mother have said that? My eyes would start

from their sockets, before Ernst would forsake me. But let me never see

Richard again. Never! Let me go away. You can send me away, but Richard

cannot cease to be your son. Nor can I cease to be your child, but I

can go away."

It is impossible to find words for all that bubbled forth from

Martella's soul. I pacified her, and she promised to remain until the

next day.

I sat up alone to await Richard's return. He did not come until near

midnight.

He wanted to bid me a short "good-night," but I detained him. He sat

down and told me that the Baron and Annette had met Rautenkron down by

the lake, and that he had ridiculed their undertaking. He had said, and

rightly too: "Where there are no frogs, there is no stork; where there

are no flies and worms, there are no birds or fishes. In what was

called 'all-bountiful nature' one beast used the other for its blessed

meal; and, besides that, the lake was entirely frozen over every

winter, and had no outlet that was open through the whole year. If

fishes were in it, they would become suffocated for want of air."

Rautenkron had displayed much knowledge in the matter, but he would not

consent to assist them. He was delighted, moreover, that nature

contained much that was egotistic and was of no use to mankind. Thus

spoke Richard.

I was indignant. I could hardly conceive how Richard could talk about

such subjects, and not make the slightest allusion to what had happened

between him and Martella. I thought of Ernst's letter that I had

received on the day of my wife's death. No one had seen it but I; for

why should I have cared to spread the knowledge of Ernst's wickedness

in offering his betrothed to another? Could it be that an open rupture

with Annette had urged Richard to this unheard-of deed?

I endeavored to stifle my indignation, and said, "You talk of the Wild

Lake--Wild Lake, indeed; you have an unfathomable one in yourself."

He looked at me with surprise.

"What do you mean, father?"

"How can you ask? You dare to touch that which should be holy in your

eyes--the betrothed of your brother!"

"Father, did she tell you herself?" he said hesitatingly.

And I replied:

"What matters that? Until now, I had always thought that you were even

a better man than I was at your age; do not undeceive me."

I said nothing more, and that was enough.

On the following morning, Richard announced that he was about to

depart, and it cost me a great effort to induce Martella to permit him

to take leave of her. At last she came, on condition that I would

remain present while Richard bade her farewell.

Richard said:

"Martella, you have a right to be angry with me, but I am angrier at

myself than you can possibly be. I make no protestations, no oaths; but

I pledge my honor as a man, that you will nevermore hear a wrong word

or receive a wrong glance from me. Farewell."

Thus, this trouble was arranged; but it seemed as if there could be

nothing perfect in this world.

I do not know whether Johanna had been eavesdropping, or how she

happened to find it out; but, at dinner, she spitefully hinted at what

had happened, for when we were talking of the imprisoned fish poacher,

she said, "People who are without religion are capable of anything, and

the irreligious ones who catch a thief are no better than the thief

himself. They stretch forth their hands to grasp things that ought to

be sacred in their eyes."

During the whole of that winter I saw nothing of Richard, and received

but one letter from him, in which he informed me that he had been

offered an appointment at a distant university, and that, for many

reasons, he would gladly have accepted it, but that the Prince had

requested him to remain in the country. He added that he was now again

able to say that his only happiness lay in the pursuit of science.

It was a great pleasure to me to have Julius stationed in our

neighborhood. He was so pure, so fresh, and so bright, that whenever he

came to our house, his presence seemed like the odor of flowers.

I am indebted to Julius for joys which even transcend those my children

have given me, and my pride in my eldest grandson was now about to be

mingled with that I cherished for my eldest son.

My joy was fully shared by Rothfuss. He counted how many days it would

be before Ludwig arrived, and said:

"There are but seven steps yet--right foot, sleep; left foot, get up;

or, taking it the other way, the two together make one step."

The last days of waiting seemed long, even to me. Ludwig had

particularly requested that I should not go to meet him.

On the night before his arrival, I suddenly felt so oppressed that I

thought I should die.

I heard footsteps on the stairs, and, afterward, the breathing of some

one in front of my door. Assuredly, he has wished to prevent my

worrying--he is here already.

"Who is there?"

"It is I,--Rothfuss. I thought to myself that you would not be able to

sleep, and then it suddenly occurred to me that everybody says I am so

entertaining that I can put any one to sleep, and so I thought--"

Rothfuss' allusion to this peculiar art made me laugh so heartily that

I felt quite well again. After he left the room, I was obliged to laugh

again at the thought of what he had said; and then I fell asleep, and

did not awake until the bright daylight shone into my room.

CHAPTER IV.

_May_ 28, 1870.

"Good-morning, dear Henry," she said to herself, this day forty-six

years ago, when she awoke on the last morning she spent in her own

chamber.

"Good-morning, Gustava," said I, opening my eyes. It was the

anniversary of our wedding-day, and every year while we were together,

these were the first accents from her lips and mine--in joy and in

sorrow, always the same.

And this very morning, when awakening, I heard her quite distinctly in

my dream saying, "Good-morning, Henry." But I am alone. She has been

snatched away from me.

On this day our first-born returns from the new world. I am writing

these words in the early dawn, as it will be a long while before I

again have a chance quietly to set down my recollections. I will now

prepare myself to go forth and meet my son.

_June_, 1870.

Ludwig and Richard have gone to the capital, and I have at last quiet

and time to note down his arrival and his presence with us.

I had just finished writing the above lines, on the twenty-eighth of

May, when I heard Rothfuss drawing the chaise up from the barn to the

front of the house. He then placed the jack-screw under the frame and

took off one wheel after the other and greased the axles, singing and

whistling while at his work.

He saw me seated at the window, and called out in a joyful voice:

"One waits ever so long for the Kirchweih,[4] but it comes at last.

Martella is up already, and has been fixing up the beehives with red

ribbons; the bees, too, are to know that joy comes to this house

to-day. While busy at her work, she called out Ernst's name, as if she

could drag him here that way. But to-day we must not let ourselves

remember that any one is missing."

There it was again. No cup of joy without its drop of gall.

But the mind has great power, and one can force himself to forget

things.

It would be wrong towards my son Ludwig, if I were to mix other

feelings with joy at his return; and it is also wrong towards myself

not to permit a single pleasure to be without alloy.

My spirits were, however, not a little checked on my being reminded of

Ernst. Every nerve in me trembled, so that I began to believe that I

would not be able to survive the hour in which I should again see

Ludwig. But now the sad thought that had floated across my mental

horizon soothed my excited nerves.

Ludwig had sent me his photograph from Paris, in order that I might

recognize him at once.

He had placed the pictures of his wife and of his son in the same

package.

I read over his last two letters again.

In a letter from Paris, dated Sunday, April 24th, he wrote:

"Here I am in the midst of the hubbub in which the 'saviour of the

world' is permitting the people to vote. It is truly a demoniac art,

this power of counterfeiting the last word of truthfulness. In order

that nothing may remain uncorrupted, the ministers declare that the

question of the day is to secure tranquillity to the land for the

future, so that, both on the throne and in the cottage, the son may

peacefully succeed his father. The last lingering traces of modesty and

purity are being destroyed; the last remnant of piety is appealed to in

order to carry out the deceit.

"How glad I should be, on the other hand, to bathe my soul in the pure

waves of great harmonies. The thought that I shall enter my Fatherland

in time to assist in celebrating the Centennary of Beethoven's birth is

an inspiring and an impressive one to me."

Joseph was at Bonn, awaiting the expected guests. He was again

successful in combining high objects with business profits; he

concluded a contract to build the festival building out of trees from

the Black Forest.

I looked at Ludwig's picture, and it seemed to me, indeed, as if I were

looking at my father in his youth. All generations seemed to be

combined in one, as if there were no such thing as time.

Martella came into the room, dressed in her Sunday attire.

"Good-morning, father," said she. "To-day you will hear somebody else

say, 'Good-morning, father.'"

I could not help wondering how Martella would appear to Ludwig. She

seemed new to me. It seemed as if during the four years that she had

been with us she had become taller and more slender. She wore the

pearl-colored silk dress that had been my wife's, and had about her

throat the red coral necklace that Bertha had sent her. Her

unmanageable brown hair was arranged in the form of a coronet; and her

walk and carriage were full of grace and refinement. Her face seemed

lengthened, instead of being as round as it had once been; and her old

defiant expression had given way to one of gentleness. Indeed, since

the death of Gustava, a certain look of pain seemed to have impressed

itself on her features, her large eyes had become more lustrous, and

seemed full of unsatisfied longing.

Johanna and her daughter had also arrayed themselves in their best

clothes; at least, as far as that was possible with Johanna, for, since

the death of her husband, she had always worn mourning.

I rode off in the chaise with Rothfuss; Julius, with Johanna and her

daughter, followed us.

Martella remained in the house with Carl; and the schoolmaster's wife

had come to assist in baking and cooking.

When we reached the saw-mill, the miller said, "I have heard the news

already--this is Ludwig's day."

We drove on, and after a while Rothfuss said, "It seems to me that the

trees are stretching and straightening themselves in order to appear at

their best when our Ludwig goes by."

When we arrived at the top of the last hill, Gaudens, who was breaking

stones on the road, said: "Ludwig will have to own that the roads are

not kept better in America than here." It was strange how the news of

his return had been noised about.

At the last village before reaching the station, Funk came out of the

tavern and called out, "Rothfuss! Stop!"

Rothfuss turned towards me with an inquiring look, and I told him to

stop.

Funk now informed me that he had succeeded in inducing the members of

Ludwig's party to refrain from receiving him at the railroad station

with a festive procession. He did not wish to interfere with the family

festivities; but on the following Sunday, the friends of freedom would

take the liberty of greeting Ludwig as one who belonged to mankind.

I could only reply that I could decide nothing for my son,--that he was

free and would act for himself.

Funk went back into the tavern. We drove on. Rothfuss remarked, "That

fellow is like a salamander; when he tries to climb a rock and falls on

his back, he turns about and is on his feet again quicker than

thought."

We were much too early when we got into town, and I walked about the

streets as if I had never been there before, and as if there were

nowhere a chair on which one might rest.

It suddenly occurred to me that I ought to have sent my picture to

Ludwig, so that he might know me; I had grown a full beard since his

departure, and it would grieve me if he did not at once recognize me.

I decided at once. There was yet time enough to have my beard removed;

and when I returned, Johanna and Rothfuss were greatly astonished by

the change in my appearance. But I did not tell them my reason for

removing my beard.

I had a presentiment that Ludwig would bring Ernst with him. I note

this down, because we frequently speak of fulfilled presentiments, but

never of those which are not fulfilled.

At the depot, there were numbers of emigrants who were about to leave

the valley. I knew many of them, and they guessed at my innermost

thought; for now one, and then another, would come to me and say, "If I

learn anything about Ernst, I will write to you immediately."

The locksmith's widow was there, with her three children. The children

had bouquets in their hands, and I begged them to stand aside until the

first meeting was over.

A young stone-cutter who lived at a village in our neighborhood, and

was employed in the shops at the depot, greeted the locksmith's widow

in the most friendly manner. He held her hand in his for some time, and

she seemed pleased thereat. How strange that at such moments one can

see more than is transpiring about him! It suddenly occurred to me,

"Who knows--they may yet be a couple."

The Inspector invited me to his dwelling; I accompanied him. A short

time afterward, he returned and told me that the train had been

signalled. He led me down the steps and remained at my side. Now we

hear the whistle;--now the train is coming round the curve; now it is

slacking its speed. No one is beckoning to me from the car windows. Can

he have failed to come? Many passengers alight; but I see no sign of my

son.

Suddenly a guard calls out to me, "Herr Waldfried, you are to come this

way!" He opens the door of the car and I am lifted up into it.

I hear a voice exclaim, "Father!" and I know nothing of what happened

for some time afterward.

"Grandfather, give me your hand," says another voice. But, before that,

I am embraced by a lovely woman, who sheds tears of joy.

Leading my son with my right hand and my grandson with the left, I

walked out as if marching in triumph. My daughter-in-law was escorted

by Johanna and her daughter.

Suddenly Ludwig dropped my hand and called out, "You here, Ernst?"

"I am not your brother Ernst; I am Julius, the son of your sister

Martina."

"Where is Rothfuss?" inquired Joseph, who had also come on the train

with Ludwig.

I had already seen him. He stood aside, lighting one match after

another, and seemed to be waiting for Ludwig to come to him to get a

light for his cigar.

At last he threw the match away and called out, "Hurrah! Shout till you

burst your throats!"

They all shouted "hurrah," and when Ludwig and his son had shaken hands

with Rothfuss, and the wife had taken him by the hand, Rothfuss said,

"She has a firm hand; you have done this thing well, Ludwig."

A middle-aged man, erect in figure, and with a red mustache, was

looking after Ludwig's luggage. Ludwig now called to him, "Willem, just

leave those things and come here. Here, Rothfuss, let me recommend to

you my servant and friend, Willem. Shake hands with each other, and be

good friends."

Rothfuss extended his hand, and asked, with an air of doubt:

"He speaks German, of course--does he not?"

"Yours to command; I know nothing else."

It was on a Saturday, and the Jews of the little town were accustomed

on that day to loiter about the station. We were just about to leave,

when the Jewish teacher came up to me and said, "Herr Waldfried, the

verse in the Bible which tells of Jacob again seeing his son Joseph,

applies to you. It says, 'And Israel said unto Joseph, Now let me die,

since I have seen thy face, because thou art yet alive.'"

The words of the little old man did me much good.

CHAPTER V.

Funk had been unable to deny himself the pleasure of being on hand.

When we passed the garden of the "Wild Man" tavern he stood at the

fence, surrounded by several of his companions. They lifted their

foaming beer-glasses on high, and cried, "Long live Ludwig, the

republican!" Ludwig merely nodded his thanks, and then said to me:

"Father, let us get in and ride home."

The carriages were awaiting us.

I wanted my daughter-in-law to sit with me, but she insisted that

Ludwig and Wolfgang should do so, while she joined Johanna and the rest

of the party.

Rothfuss, who at other times took so great a pleasure in cracking his

whip, now sounded it but lightly.

"Rothfuss, how long have you been with us?" asked Ludwig.

"Longer than you have been in this world," was the answer.

My grandson, Wolfgang, laughed out loud, and told us that his father

had prophesied that very answer.

As we drove through the village, every one came to the windows to greet

us.

We were passing the house of the kreis-director. The family were seated

in the garden, and we were obliged to stop with them for a little

while. The roses were lovely, and the faces of our friends were bright

with kindness.

The husband, the wife, and the daughters welcomed the new-comers most

cordially, and the wife handed my daughter-in-law a bouquet of roses.

Their son was also present. He had become a lieutenant, and his

countenance seemed to combine the clear, bright expression of the

mother, with the sternness of the father.

Julius and Martha were standing a little way off, beside a blooming

rose-bush, and when I said to Ludwig, "Behold your future niece," they

were both so suffused with blushes, that they resembled the roses. My

daughter-in-law embraced Martha, and was afterward embraced by the

Privy Councillor's wife.

Ludwig urged our departure for home, and the charming woman thanked us

heartily for the short visit we had paid her. In the meantime, Rontheim

had opened a bottle of wine and filled our glasses.

Our glasses clinked; we emptied them, and started on our way; and

Rothfuss said, "The Privy Councillor did the right thing in pouring out

some wine; eating and drinking is the best half of nourishment." Ludwig

laughed heartily.

Ludwig held me by the hand while we drove along the valley road.

"The houses have been rebuilt," he said, pointing towards the right

bank of the stream. It was there that, during the uprising of 1848, he

had been in command, and where the houses had been burned to the

ground.

"We have him in a sack; if we could only keep him there for ourselves

for a couple of weeks," called out Rothfuss.

My grandson did not understand him, and I was obliged to explain how

Rothfuss always managed to catch my very thought.

I had wished to be able to have Ludwig's society for myself, and to

give no one a part of him, except of course his brothers and sisters.

From a few remarks of Ludwig's, I gathered that he was aware of my

thoughts, and the first thing he said to me was a text for all that

followed.

"I have not forgotten mother's saying, and it has often been a guide

for me: 'We have part in the world, and the world ought to have part in

us.'"

It seemed to me that Rothfuss was laughing to himself. I had been

mistaken, however, for Wolfgang, who was seated on the box with

Rothfuss, now called out, "Father, Rothfuss is crying!"

"Is there anything that such an American wouldn't notice?" replied

Rothfuss, sitting upright on the box, and cracking his whip with all

his might.

"And so the new road through the valley is finished," said Ludwig; "I

suppose Antonin built that. It would have been better, though, if they

had carried it along the other bank."

The new road had, however, only been laid out as far as the boundary

line; from there unto my dwelling, which was fully two hours distant,

there was only the old road, which was in a horrible condition.

"Father," exclaimed Wolfgang, "here are the boundary posts that you

told me of."

"Yes," said Ludwig; "this is yet old Germany. Here, there is still

separation."

I believe that I have not yet mentioned that I live near the border.

Our village is the last point in our territory, and further down the

valley is the beginning of the neighboring principality.

How strange! There was so much that we wished to speak of to one

another, and the first subject of conversation was the laying out of

the new road.

And it is well that it is so; for this helps one over the heart-throbs

that otherwise would be almost insupportable.

Ludwig had mentioned mother, and for the present she was not referred

to again.

He had a quick glance, and always thought of what might benefit the

community; and when Wolfgang expressed his delight at the wild, rushing

valley stream, Ludwig said to me, "That stream could do much more work.

There is a fortune floating there, thrown into the water, as it were,

and flowing away from our valley out into the ocean."

"To whom does water-power belong?" inquired Wolfgang.

We gave him the desired information, and this question was a happy

proof of his active, inquiring mind.

"Over yonder," said Rothfuss, "there is a miller who has his

water-power direct from the heavens." He pointed to the house of the

so-called "thunder miller," who had built his mill in such a way that

its wheel would only go after there had been a storm.

The ground for some distance before we reached the tunnel, was covered

with cherry-trees with straight trunks, the branches of which looked

like a well-arranged bouquet; and on the heights were the beech-trees

with their red buds, and one could follow the gradual development of

the foliage.

"Look, Wolfgang," said Ludwig, "you can see here how spring gradually

climbs up the mountain side."

"Father," exclaimed Wolfgang, "the people in the fields are all looking

up at us."

"They all know grandfather," replied Ludwig; and, turning to me, he

explained: "It seems strange to the boy, for the American never looks

up from his work, even if seven trains of cars rush by within ten paces

of him."

At the boundary line, Gaudens greeted us.

We halted there for a while. He came up to the carriage, stretched out

his hand, and exclaimed, "Do you know me yet?"

"Certainly I do; you are Gaudens."

"Yes, it is easy to find me; from here around the corner, down to the

Maiengrund is my district. I was in the revolution too, but I lied my

way out. Yes, Ludwig, you have wandered about a great deal in the wide

world. It is best at home, after all; isn't it? Is this your son?"

"It is."

"God bless him. And what a splendid wife you have!--What a pity about

Ernst; he has such a good heart and is such a sensible fellow, and yet

commits such wicked and foolish tricks. All I wish for is to have a

place where I might have some little extra profits from fruit and grass

by the road; nothing ripens here but pine cones."

When Wolfgang shook hands with him at parting, he said, "He has a soft

hand; he cannot swing the pickaxe as you did when you were building

your first road."

"How lovely it is here," said Wolfgang. "Here you know every one, and

every one knows you; you cannot meet a stranger."

He was right; it is so; and this makes a full life, but a hard one too.

We left the forester's house, where the forester's pretty wife, holding

a child on her arm, greeted us. Our way lay along the crest of the

mountain, and looked down into the valley, where the haystacks were

scattered about the meadow, in the hollow, and along the hillside.

Ludwig said:

"Whenever I thought of home, this view of the valley always came back

to me. I was walking here once with Ernst, while he was yet quite a

little fellow, and he said to me, 'Ludwig, look at the haystacks. Don't

they look like a scattered herd of cows on the meadow?'"

He must have noticed that his allusion to Ernst had agitated me, and he

added, "Father, we must be strong enough to think calmly of the dead

and of the lost ones."

When we passed the woods that belonged to Uncle Linker and me, Ludwig

was delighted to find how nicely they had been kept.

He then inquired about Martella, and when I said that she had a strange

aversion to America, and disliked to hear it mentioned, he replied:

"Do you not believe, father, that she has an unexplained, and perhaps

sad, past, which is in some way associated with America?" I was

startled;--the case seemed to present new and puzzling difficulties.

Ludwig was pleased with the meadow-valley where he had arranged the

trench with sluices. In very good seasons, there were four crops; but

one was always sure of at least three. The value of the meadow-farmer's

property had in this way been doubled.

Down by the saw-mill, we met Carl, who was just using the windlass to

drag a large beam from the wagon.

He turned around as we approached and saluted us, and Ludwig's wife

said, "What a handsome fellow! He is just as I have imagined all your

countrymen to be."

We alighted, and walked up the hill and on towards the village.

When Ludwig saw the churchyard, he removed his hat from his head,

remained standing for a moment in silence, and then walked on briskly.

At the steps of the house he extended his hand to his wife and said,

"Welcome to the house of my parents!"

Martella was standing on the piazza: she stood there immovable, holding

herself by the railing.

"That pretty girl there, with large staring eyes, is Ernst's betrothed,

I presume?" said Ludwig.

I said, "Yes."

We went up the steps and entered the room. Without speaking a word,

Martella offered her hand to every one of the new arrivals. She seemed

absent minded and was silent.

My daughter-in-law and Wolfgang were surprised to find that we still

had fires in our stoves.

A little pleasantry at once made us all feel at home with one another.

I told my new daughter-in-law how happily I had lived with my wife, but

that even we had been obliged to adapt ourselves to each other's ways.

From the earliest days in autumn until far into the summer, it had been

our custom to have our sitting-room heated every morning and evening.

At first it went hard with me, but after a while we accustomed

ourselves to the same outer temperature, and the nicely warmed room at

last became a great comfort to me, whenever I returned from the fields.

"I understand perfectly, and thank you for telling me of mother first

of all," said my daughter-in-law.

Martella remained silent and reserved towards the newcomers, and, for

the rest of the evening, we did not see her again. She remained in the

kitchen and instructed one of the servants to serve the meal. With the

help of the schoolmaster's wife she had prepared us a fine feast.

Wolfgang suddenly asked to see the family woods, and as it was still

broad daylight, Ludwig took him out to gratify his curiosity.

I was left alone with my daughter-in-law, and when I conducted her

through the house and showed her, above all things, the apartment with

the plaster casts, her pure and tranquil nature became revealed to me

for the first time.

When Ludwig returned, he expressed great pleasure with the fountain

that mother had ordered to be repaired at the time the new forest path

was laid out. He promised to send to the iron foundry at once, and

order a pretty column with a pipe through it.

"Mother inspired me with an affection for this spring," said he. "While

building the aqueduct, I thought of her almost every day; and along the

space where the pipes were running under ground, I planted pines, in

order that pretty woods might grow there, and the temperature of the

water always remain the same. Of all the great and impressive things I

beheld in America, one little monument impressed me most of all; it was

that to Fredrick Graff, who built the waterworks of Philadelphia."

Night approached. We were seated in the arbor, and Wolfgang exclaimed,

"The stars shine more brightly here than elsewhere."

"The dark woods make it appear so," said Ludwig. And just over the

family woods, seeming to touch the tops of the trees as if fixed there,

a star glistened and shone with a brightness that was marvellous even

to me.

Ludwig conducted himself with great self-control and moderation. He

spoke slowly and in a low voice, in order to keep down all agitation.

Long after the new-comers had retired to rest, Rothfuss and I were

still sitting in front of the house.

Rothfuss could not come to an understanding with himself. He said, "Our

Ludwig is still the same, and is changed for all; he has not grown, and

yet he is larger."

He told me that Ludwig had come out into the stable to him, and when he

had told Ludwig that the sorrel horse was the son of our gray stud, he

had taken the horse firmly by the mane and said, "Rothfuss, you have

been faithful to my father; I cannot fully recompense you for it, but

express a wish and I will do what I can for you."

Rothfuss had heard no more of what was said.

He could not help crying like a child; and now he would like to know

what he ought to wish for. He said that he wanted no one to advise him;

he must find it out himself. For a long while, neither of us spoke a

word. There was not a sound to be heard, save the bubbling of the

fountain in front of the house.

I retired to my room, but could find no rest, and sat by the window for

a long while.

It seemed to me as if an invisible and inaudible spirit was wandering

through the house and bestowing upon it peace and quiet, above all

other spots upon this earth.

Just then the watchman called the hour of midnight; the window of

Ludwig's chamber opened, and Ludwig called out, "Tobias, come and see

me to-morrow: I have something for you."

"Are you still awake?" cried I.

"Yes, father; and when I heard the watchman I knew for sure that I am

at home. Now I understand the proverb, 'He who does not wander, does

not return.' It is only among strangers that one learns to appreciate

his home.

"But now go to sleep. Good-night, father."

CHAPTER VI.

"The Herr Professor has arrived," were the words with which Martella

greeted me early the next morning. I must observe that Martella now

always spoke of Richard as "Herr Professor." The meeting of the

brothers was a most affectionate one.

Ludwig's wife and Richard were friends at once. She introduced herself

to him as the daughter of a professor, and Richard's impressive manner

seemed to please her greatly.

Wolfgang was greatly moved, and whispered to me:

"I can now for the first time, say the best words: 'grandfather,'

'uncle;' and"--turning quickly to Johanna--"'aunt;' to Julius I have

already said 'cousin,' and I shall soon have more cousins."

The brothers were soon involved in a most zealous discussion of the

great questions of the day. Richard warned Ludwig against permitting

the demagogues to make use of him, as their only aim was to foment

disturbance, and to abuse all existing institutions. They were wholly

without lofty or honest aims of their own. When he warned him to be on

his guard and not to permit this or that one to influence his views of

affairs in the Fatherland, Ludwig replied: "With your permission, I

shall begin with you." Richard observed that, just as time helps to

correct our judgments, in regard to past events, so does distance aid

us in criticising contemporary history. It may take ten years before we

can see the Europe of the present in the light in which it appears to

the unprejudiced American of to-day; and when he asked Ludwig whether

we might not cherish the hope that he would now remain in the old

world, Ludwig answered that, with all his love of home, he did not

believe he would be able to give up the perfect independence of

American life.

"And what do you think on the subject, my dear sister-in-law?"

"I am of the same opinion as my husband."

Richard expressed a wish that Ludwig might, at some future day, take

charge of the family estate, as there was no one else who could do it.

It seemed to me, indeed, that, in all that he said, Richard was trying

to determine Ludwig to unite his fortunes with those of the Fatherland.

Ludwig, who had come by way of France, could tell us much of the great

excitement that had been produced there by the _plebiscite_.

The brothers were agreed that the expression of the popular will had

been accompanied by fearful deceit on the part of the authorities; but

they did not agree as to the object contemplated by that deceit.

"I was often obliged," said Ludwig, "to think of our old schoolmaster,

who explained the philosophic beauty of the Latin language to us by the

fact that _volo_ has no imperative; but the author of the 'Life of

Caesar' has shown us, by means of the _plebiscite_, that _volo_ has an

imperative."

Ludwig asserted that the majority of educated Frenchmen hated and

despised Napoleon; for all the large cities, with the exception of

Strasburg, which gave a small majority on the other side, had voted

_no_. At the same time, what they hated and despised in him was just

what they themselves were; for every individual Frenchman really

desires to be a Napoleon; and the _no_ that a portion of the army had

voted, simply meant, "We want war." Napoleon had undermined every sense

of duty, and the misfortune of France was that no one there believed in

the honesty or the unselfishness of another creature.

"I have also made the acquaintance of French emigrants in America. It

is, of course, unfair to judge of a nation by its emigrants; but I

could not help being struck by the fact that those whom I met had no

confidence in any one."

Richard, on the other hand, had a very good opinion of the French. He

told us that about the time he was working in the library at Paris, he

had travelled much through France, and had made the acquaintance of

Frenchmen of every station in life.

"The French are industrious and temperate, and a people of whom that

can be said, has a noble destiny awaiting it. They have a great desire

to please, which makes them agreeable, and gives all their work the

impress of good taste. They are fond of all that partakes of the

decorative, whether it be a glittering phrase or a badge. If that

which, from its very nature, ought to be general, could gain

distinction for them--if there could be an aristocracy in republican

virtue, I cannot help believing that the Frenchmen would be unbending

republicans."

"Yes," said Ludwig; "and they are humane, also. The vain and conceited

man is usually generous and communicative: he thinks he has so many

advantages that he is glad to bestow a share on others, and is annoyed

and almost angry if they do not care to accept his bounty; for he

considers their declining it as a want of belief in his superiority,

and is surprised to find that others do not hunger and thirst for the

things that he regards as delicacies."

The brothers became involved in all sorts of discussions, and, although

Richard was the younger of the two, he showed, in a certain patronizing

way, how pleased he was to find that the school of experience had

moderated Ludwig's views. For the brothers agreed on one point--that,

as there was no one church which could alone save mankind, so there was

no one form of government which could alone make all men free. After

all, everything depended on the honesty and the morality of the

citizen, and, for that reason, it could not be maintained that the

republican form of government was a guarantee of freedom, or that a

monarchy necessarily implied a condition of servitude.

The brothers now understood each other better than they had done in

former times.

Richard always occupied himself with general principles, while I can

only interest myself in particulars. The first question that I ask

myself is, How does the rule apply to this or that one? Richard is

different. He has no eye for isolated cases, but a far-seeing glance

where general principles are concerned. He looks upon everything from a

certain lofty historical point of view. He regards the hilly region in

which we live with the eye of an artist and a scientist, noticing the

elevations and the depressions, without giving a thought to the people

who dwell among them. He does not see the villages, much less a single

villager.

My experience with Richard solved a question which had always been a

riddle to me. He has no love for the people, and is, nevertheless, an

advocate of liberty. Until now, I could not understand how it was

possible; now it is clear to me.

Advocates of liberty are of two classes. The one class ask for it as a

logical necessity; the other are disappointed when the people, or

portions thereof, become obstinate or prove themselves unworthy of

freedom. The former have nothing to do with mankind, but simply busy

themselves with the idea of liberty, and are, for that reason, more

positive and exacting and less given to fine talk.

Formerly, Richard had been dissatisfied with all of Ludwig's actions

and opinions. He was opposed to all that was violent; but now Richard

had become the more liberal, and Ludwig the more conservative, of the

two. It was in America, where the tendency seemed towards a loosening

of all restraint, that Ludwig had for the first time learned to attach

importance to the preservation of established institutions. While they

were yet children under the instructions of Pastor Genser, who

afterward became my son-in-law, the two boys had given much of their

time to music. To listen to Richard playing the violincello and Ludwig

playing the piano, was one of the greatest pleasures that our household

afforded Gustava and myself.

Ludwig has given up music, and they can now no longer play together.

But when I heard them talking in unrestrained converse, and observed

how the one transposed the mood and the thoughts of the other into his

own key, and developed it, adding new combinations of ideas; and when I

noticed how the eye of either speaker would, from time to time, rest

upon the other with a joyful expression, it seemed yet more beautiful

and more grateful to my heart than any music could be. And withal, each

temperament preserved its own melody. Richard looked forward for some

event that would mark a turning-point in the affairs of men, or for the

advent of some great man, to utter the command, "Come, and follow me."

Ludwig added that liberation could only be brought about by one who

possessed a cool head and a firm hand, so that, without swerving a

hair's breadth to either side, he could put in the knife where it was

needed.

Richard, with more than his wonted animation, spoke joyfully of being

released from the opposition party, and when Ludwig approvingly said

that the time was now coming for Germany in which those who were

dissatisfied with its laws and institutions would not be the only free

ones, Richard again urged him to consider how hard it would be if no

one of us should take charge of the estate, and it should thus at some

day fall into the hands of strangers.

"That is no misfortune," replied Ludwig. "Our posterity may again

become poor, just as our ancestors were; all property must change hands

at some time or other. To encourage the fond desire of retaining

possession of a so called family estate, savors of aristocratic

feeling."

Richard was struck by this reply, and said: "You are more familiar with

the history of the Indians than I am; but do you recollect the reply of

the chief whom they were endeavoring to persuade to move off with those

who belonged to him, into another territory--'Give us the graves of our

ancestors to take with us?' And, Ludwig, over there is the grave of our

mother."

There was a long silence after that, and Ludwig merely replied, "You do

wrong to urge me so."

Martella had been sitting near by while the two had been carrying on

their familiar conversation. In all likelihood, she had understood but

little of what was said, for, while discussing the improvement of the

whole world, they indulged themselves in vistas of the distant future.

But Martella would look first at one and then at the other, and then at

me, nodding approval each time. And afterward, when she and I were

alone together, she said, "Father, your eyes told me how happy you

were, and you must have thought just as I did; did you not? Ah, if

Ernst only knew how his brothers are here talking with each other from

their very hearts! Indeed, if he were here he would be the most

sensible of all, for there is no one like Ernst."

CHAPTER VII.

Ludwig's servant entered and inquired whether he might accompany

"madame" (meaning Johanna) to church.

"You may go," replied Ludwig to the servant, who saluted in curt

military style and left the room.

Richard inquired where the man was from, for his pronunciation would

prove him a North German.

Ludwig replied, "Yes, he is a specimen of North German discipline and

reliability.

"Although he was willing to work at anything, he was almost perishing

with want when I made his acquaintance. I took him into my service, and

every order I gave was executed by him as implicitly as if he were

obeying an imperative law of nature.

"One evening I had an appointment to meet several persons at the town

hall; I took him with me, and said to him, 'Willem, wait here for me.'

"I entered and had a lengthy interview--forgot Willem, and left through

another door.

"The next morning I came back to the town hall, and there stood Willem.

"'What are you doing there?' I asked.

"'_Ik warte_.'[5] said he.

"He had waited there all night, and would probably have waited the

whole of that day, if I had not by chance come there.

"After that, we always called him 'Ik-warte.'"

We were so happy together. It was one of those moments that one wishes

might be prolonged forever, and in which one dreads to move from his

seat for fear of breaking the spell. Our happiness was, however, not to

be of long duration.

The locksmith's widow came, bringing her children with her. They

brought a pot of fine honey, and fresh garlands of daisies and violets.

Ludwig advised the children--they were two girls and a boy--above all

things not to consider themselves Americans; for if Germans would work

as they do in America, they could do just as well as the Americans.

The widow said that she would like to have a talk with Ludwig alone,

for she looked upon him as the guardian of her children. Ludwig

promised to pay her a visit at an early day.

She was about leaving when new guests arrived.

Funk called, but he had discreetly sent in advance his parade horse,

Schweitzer-Schmalz, who was attired in the national costume she was so

fond of, with large, round, silver buttons. He walked along with an air

of great importance, with his bull neck, his face shining with good

living, and his thick eyelids, from beneath which his little eyes cast

their contemptuous glances. He was followed by the village lawyer, a

man of pleasing appearance, and, indeed, a noble being who had but one

fixed idea, and that was that the world was to be protected against all

corporalism.

Funk followed after these two fit companions of his. He had not been in

my house for four years.

Schweitzer-Schmalz was the first to speak, and uttered a short, hearty,

"Welcome, Ludwig!"

For the first time, he avoided his haughty manner of treating every one

as "little fellow." The tall, commanding appearance of Ludwig awed him.

After that, the lawyer delivered a somewhat longer and quite fervent

speech, and I was obliged to beg Richard to keep quiet, for he

whispered to me, "All this so early in the morning, and without an

audience of empty bottles!"

Funk extended his hand in silence and nodded significantly, as if he

meant to say, "You know already what I mean."

Martella brought wine and glasses. It hurt me to feel that she was in

the presence of Funk, who had, years ago, so maliciously dragged her

name before the political meeting.

I had told Ludwig nothing of my rupture with Funk.

Funk inquired about several who had been their companions in revolution

and who had emigrated. Of many, Ludwig could give no information, while

of some he could give us good report, and of many others, sad news.

Ludwig disapproved of the emigration fever.

The turn that the conversation had taken did not seem to Funk's taste;

but Ludwig was able to direct it as he desired, and, addressing himself

more especially to the lawyer, he spoke of the intimate relations that

existed between our country--South Germany in particular--and America.

Owing to their innate energy, and in spite of want, misery and

ignorance of the language, the proportion who succeed in attaining

wealth, position, and honors is much larger with the first generation

of emigrants than with their children who are born in America.

Statistics had proven that, in spite of want and temptation, the first

generation offered far fewer objects for the jails than did the second.

On the other hand, the former were more largely represented in the

insane asylums.

Funk was evidently displeased, and emptied his glass at one draught.

Although he laughed, he seemed ill at ease when Schweitzer-Schmalz

said, "There you have it. I have always told you little folk may

emigrate; but the right sort of a man," he said, stroking his fat belly

at the same time, "knows where he is best off, and keeps at home."

"I believe that you are also one of the deceived ones," said Ludwig,

supplementing his remarks. "You cannot know, or, at all events, only

know it superficially, that the projectors of new railroads attempt to

help the price of their shares by encouraging emigration into the

territory traversed by their road, and that many who get gratuities by

them do not even know this."

Funk suggested that a festive gathering of people from the village and

surrounding country should take place on any Sunday that Ludwig might

fix upon. The meeting was to be in honor of his arrival. At this time

he was doubly welcome, for he would assist in dispelling the Prussian

pestilence.

"I see you are still fond of set phrases," replied Ludwig, and added:

"How strange it is since the congress of Vienna, all friends of the

Fatherland have been clamoring for a man who, with firm hand and shrewd

judgment, would, regardless of consequences, force Germany into unity;

and now that he is with us, they hurl stones at him. And do you know,

Professor, what it is that particularly pleases me in Bismarck?" he

exclaimed roguishly.

"How should I know?"

"He has fortunately one of those rare names that can be pronounced the

same in all languages."

"We had thought we should meet an old republican--an enemy of tyrants!"

exclaimed Funk.

"I have not changed in that respect," answered Ludwig. "The question

whether a republic or a monarchy should be preferred, is about the same

as if one were to ask which is better, meat or farinaceous food? All

depends upon the manner in which the food is prepared, and upon the

digestive powers of the stomach. But don't let us dispute now. I trust

we shall have a chance yet to discuss these matters more calmly."

"What day have you determined on?" inquired Funk.

Ludwig said that he desired no such compliment. He preferred to renew

his acquaintance with the people and their circumstances in a quiet,

unobtrusive manner.

The church bells began tolling, and Funk said: "Perhaps you wish to go

to church? You have probably grown religious, too?"

"Thanks for catechizing me," said Ludwig.

"Ah, I forgot to address you as 'Colonel,'" said Funk.

"That makes no difference, although my rank is that of colonel. I was

promoted at the front, and it is the greatest pride of my life that I

did my duty in the war for wiping out slavery."

I do not know whether it was shrewdness or arrogance towards his

companion or ourselves, that induced Schweitzer-Schmalz to assume his

wonderfully self-complacent air.

"Yes, Colonel," said he, "another American war would not be so

unpleasant to us after all?"

"What do you mean by that?"

"Why, that we gained one great advantage from it, or, as my student

says, 'pitch.'"

"I do not understand you."

"Yes," began Schweitzer-Schmalz, after emptying his glass, "your father

doesn't like rosin; but, for the little farmers, the pine-trees which

give rosin are just like so many milchcows. I have a piece of woodland

that I milked hard, because, so long as the war lasted, no rosin came

from America, and the price of ours went up very much."

Richard could not refrain from remarking on the wonderful connection

that made changes in one country affect the most distant portions of

the globe. And thus the visit, which had promised to be so

disagreeable, ended quite pleasantly.

Funk and his companions left, and when Richard was about to speak of

Funk's emptiness, Ludwig replied:

"You are deceived in him. He is full of what we, in America, call

'steam.' He has a restless spirit of enterprise."

My daughter-in-law and Johanna went to church together, and Ikwarte

followed after them.

The watchman came, and Ludwig gave him a considerable present.

After that, Ludwig requested me to accompany him to the statue gallery,

where he said: "Father, I have brought nothing for you; but I know that

your greatest pleasure is to do acts of beneficence; let me, therefore,

place this sum of money in your hands, so that you may distribute it

according to your best judgment. If I can do good through you, I shall

be doing good to myself; and, as mother is no longer living, I must ask

you to attend to this for me."

I doubt whether in yonder church there was one heart more piously

inclined than ours were on that day.

But it seems that nothing in life can remain perfectly pure and

undisturbed.

We were just about sitting down to dinner, when a wretched-looking

creature, called Wacker, entered. He lived in the neighboring valley,

and had once been a comrade of Ludwig's at the Polytechnic school. He

had left school at an early day, in order to take charge of a beer

brewery, and had become a drunkard. His place had been sold out, and he

now wandered about from one little tavern to another, where he would

spend the day between maudlin curses and drunken slumbers. When he

entered the house, it was only noon, and he was already intoxicated.

"Brother," he exclaimed, "give me one of your California lumps of gold;

or, if that is asking too much, see that I have free tap for one year

at the 'Lamb.' Here is my hand. If the war begins again, I will help.

Give me hand-money--throat-money--throat-money!"

He offered his hand to Ludwig, who declined it. I saw his indignation;

his glance fell on Ludwig's wife and on Wolfgang, for the latter seemed

surprised that the degraded creature should address his father in such

familiar terms. Wacker begged for a gift, but Ludwig refused it with

the words, "Get some employment, and then I will help you, but not

before."

Wacker replied in vile, abusive terms.

Ludwig instantly collared him and led him from the room.

We could hear him cursing, after he got out into the road; and then he

staggered down the hillside.

There was something cold and hard as iron in Ludwig's manner towards

all except his nearest kindred, to whom he was kind and gentle.

This interruption was a shrill dissonance in our Sunday's pleasure. We

soon forgot it, however.

CHAPTER VIII.

In the afternoon, Julius and his betrothed visited us, and, in a little

while, letters containing uniform messages were sent in all directions.

The Professor, my daughter-in-law, Wolfgang, Johanna and her daughter,

Julius and his intended, all wrote; for every one was to have a

separate invitation to the great family gathering on the following

Sunday. At Ludwig's request, all of our relatives were informed that he

insisted on their making the journey at his charge. Those who did not

need it should state the amount, nevertheless, and if they so wished

might give it to the poor. In this way, no one who could not afford the

expense would be prevented from undertaking the journey.

Rothfuss and Ikwarte walked off to town to mail the letters, of which

there were nearly fifty. To my sister who lived in the Hagenau forest,

I wrote in person.

Rothfuss had told Ikwarte all that he had done for Ludwig, and was not

a little surprised to receive, instead of praise, a nod of disapproval

and the reproach, "It was not right, after all." He told me of it, and

could not understand how that "up there in Prussia," they were not all

opposed to the government and glad to deceive it. He seemed to think

that Ikwarte, and all like him, were exceedingly simple.

Rothfuss was as jealous of Carl as a reigning prince of the heir

apparent. He noticed that Ikwarte was well inclined toward Carl, whose

good looks and military air were much in his favor, and he went so far

as to confide to Ikwarte that Carl had suffered himself to be taken

prisoner in order to avoid fighting.

After that Rothfuss was the sole favorite of Ikwarte, who hardly

bestowed a glance on Carl, and barely answered his questions.

A soldier who voluntarily allows himself to be captured! He could not

understand how such a man could walk erect, and on Sundays wear his

soldier's cap with the red pompon.

"He knows nothing about oxen, but he is a first-rate judge of horses,"

said Rothfuss, speaking of Ikwarte; "and he holds the plough as if he

were screwed fast to it. And he can work, too; that's certain. And he

is modest. Instead of saying 'No,' he always says, 'I am not sure;' and

instead of saying 'Yes,' he says, 'It is so.' He can't sing, nor even

_yodel_; and the greatest praise he gives any one is to say, 'He is a

steady fellow.' And when he wishes to say that you are right, he says,

'It agrees.' And he is not at all inquisitive; he never asks who any

one is."

Willem was just as sparing of words as Rothfuss was lavish of them; and

it was a droll sight to watch the two sitting together. I think that

each one considered himself the superior of the other and patronized

him accordingly. Rothfuss did it with words, Ikwarte with glances. He

evidently regarded Rothfuss as an old child; and Rothfuss, in turn,

looked upon him as a poor awkward being who had not learned how to

express himself properly. When they spoke to each other, they always

screamed at the top of their voices; each only understood about half of

what was said by the other, and they thought they might help matters by

screaming.

Rothfuss could hardly be brought to believe that Ikwarte had not

emigrated on account of his being unable to endure German oppression;

but Ikwarte was without a trace of political opinion. All that he knew

of the state was that one should serve it as a soldier and pay taxes.

Of Ludwig, he said, "My master is a man, and a man of his word at

that."

Towards his master, he had a certain feeling of implicit and dutiful

obedience; he was fond of saying, "Let everything be well grounded."

Rothfuss consoled him with the words: "Don't mind it, if they try to

tease and worry you here. If you plant a strange tree in the forest,

the stags will rub their horns against it and tear the bark, but the

tree is not harmed, after all."

Rothfuss was quite beside himself with laughter when Ikwarte asked him

what bodily infirmity had prevented my two servants, who had not been

soldiers, from entering the army. He could not understand that we still

drew lots in our neighborhood.

Ludwig had gone to the capital to make various arrangements for the

family meeting, and I remained at home working in the forest with Carl

and Ikwarte, whose clever ways and even temper greatly pleased me.

CHAPTER IX.

The schoolmaster's wife and Martella had decorated our steps and the

doorway with flowers and garlands, to the great delight of all of us,

and Ludwig in particular. But on the second day, Ludwig said to

Rothfuss:

"Take down the wreaths; nothing is uglier than to let flowers hang

until they wilt."

"He is right," said Rothfuss, smiling. "My mother always said that

Sunday clothes should not be worn on week days. Ludwig's mother had

good sense, and so had mine."

On the third day, Ludwig said, "Father, I shall now leave my wife and

son with you for a few days."

He sent his little trunk ahead, and, throwing his plaid over his

shoulder, took up his walk through the valley and over the mountains.

Richard, who was obliged to examine several candidates for the doctor's

degree, accompanied him.

I felt surprised that Ludwig should leave me so soon, but by noon it

was clear to me that he had acted wisely. His wife and son were much

more at their ease when they found themselves alone with me; for, with

all his kindness, there was something commanding in Ludwig's manner

which made every one feel as if under restraint while in his presence.

His wife was quiet and self-contained, and, seeing that I noticed this,

told me that she had been living on a lonely farm with her father, who

was very sparing of his words, and that she had thus acquired a habit

of silence. After her marriage and her father's death, which soon

followed it, Ludwig had been obliged, by his engagements as constructor

of water-works, to spend days and weeks away from home. It was not

until the last year, when they had moved into a city, that he was more

at home; but, even then, public affairs claimed a great share of his

time. During the war, he had been in the field with the army for at

least two years.

She had seen much trouble. She was but twelve years old when the family

emigrated to America. During the first few years, her parents employed

themselves as teachers; and when, in rapid succession, the mother and

her brother and sister died, she and her father moved to the farm.

Assisted by a couple of free negroes who helped in the field, she was

obliged to conduct the whole household. The two children she had lost

had died because medical assistance could not be obtained in time, and,

for that reason, they had moved to the city. Their eldest son had died

while Ludwig was in the army, fighting against the secessionists.

She gently hinted that it was her wish to remain in Europe, but that

she would not urge this, as she feared Ludwig would not find a large

enough field for his energy. She said that he was accustomed to

constant and varied activity, and stood very high at home.

It was with some hesitation that she asked me whether I objected to the

fact of her having only been married by civil process, and that

Wolfgang belonged to no church. I reassured her, for I felt well

satisfied that Johanna had already made persistent attempts at

conversion in this quarter. My daughter-in-law became much attached to

Joseph's wife and the school-master's. She was very fond of raising

flowers, and determined to take many different kinds of seeds back to

America with her.

While the presence of my newly found daughter was a quiet pleasure, my

grandson was an incomparable joy to me. He was at my side from morning

till night. I think he must have asked Martella to tell him what

pleased me, for he seemed to anticipate my every wish.

I showed him our own saw-mill, and also the one that belonged to the

village. He readily understood the principle of the machinery, and

seemed to have quite a store of general information.

I had a little nursery of forest-trees; it was well situated. Martella

was always my best assistant: she knew all about planting and how to

care for the plants that had been raised from the seed, and, morever,

had a watchful eye for the grubworm. Since she came to us there had not

been one of these to destroy the seed.

I now went there with Wolfgang, and his first question, on seeing the

thriving bed, was whether it were still early enough in the year to sow

seeds of forest-trees.

We had some soaked one-year-old seeds. We marked his name in the

ground, and he laid the seeds in the furrow, after the subsoil had been

trodden down so that the seeds might at once have firm soil in which to

take root. After that, we placed loose and fertile earth on top.

I explained to him our manner of working: how we mixed lime with the

barren soil of the heath, and thus produced the best and most

nourishing soil for the young shoots; how the seed should be sown after

spring had fairly set in, and how, after the tender plants had reached

the age of two years, they should be transferred to the nursery, there

to remain until their fifth year, when they were to be set out in the

place they were finally to occupy; how the new nursery should not face

directly towards the north, on account of the absence of light, and

because the plants could not then be transplanted to land exposed to

direct rays of the sun, on account of their not being accustomed to

such intense light.

"Grandfather, how long does it take, after planting the seeds, before

the plant shows itself through the soil?"

"Two, or, at the most, three weeks; it generally shows before that

time."

I shall never forget the look that Wolfgang then gave me, and it moved

my heart to think that my grandson, who was born in America, had

planted his name in German soil.

I asked Wolfgang if he did not wish to accompany me up into the woods

where my wood-cutters were at work. He took my hand in silence.

I took my gun with me, for I was on the lookout for a fox which had its

cave a short distance from the road; but it had slipped out with its

young ones. I handed my second gun to Wolfgang; we shot wild pigeons,

and my setter brought them to us, laid them down before Wolfgang, and

looked up into his face.

I must be brief, however. I have always been fortunate enough to see

something more in the forest than merely so many cords of wood. But how

weakly words describe the sunshine, the forest-breezes, the singing of

the birds, or cheerful walks through shady groves, with resting-places

on heights where the lovely valley is spread before one's eyes. It had

never been so charming as on that very day.

We met Rautenkron, and he was carrying two young does whose mother had

been driven away by a strange hound. I introduced Wolfgang to him; but

he shook his head and made no reply.

"What a sullen, gloomy man," said Wolfgang. "Can one become so in these

lovely woods, so full of sunshine and the songs of birds? But yet he

must be good, for all that; he carried the does."

I felt obliged to explain how that might have come about. The roe lures

the dogs on false scents, in order to save its young ones.

We heard sounds of a church-bell coming up from the valley, and met

Rautenkron's laborers carrying their caps in their hands; they passed

us in silence.

I explained to Wolfgang that these were Catholics, and that they were

praying.

I grasped his hand, and said, "Since you confess no especial form of

religion, it is doubly your duty, both for your own sake and for that

of freedom, always to remain brave and steadfast, so that people shall

not be able to say--"

"I know already, grandfather, what you wish to say. You can depend upon

me."

We continued our walk up the mountain, which was known as Silvertop.

From its peak one can see far over the mountain-peaks, with their

dark-green mantle, in which the ravines form majestic folds. There were

remnants of a fire at which the forest-laborers had prepared their

noonday meal. I threw a few handfuls of brushwood on the fire; the

flames arose on high. Wolfgang exclaimed: "Grandfather, it was just

like this! It was just so that I saw you in my dreams. And now I can

remember what you said. It often annoyed me to think that I had

forgotten it; the voice was powerful, and said, 'The water nourishes

the tree, and the fire destroys it; the water roars, and the fire

gently sleeps.' Thus ... and so on."

Wolfgang's eye glowed with a strange expression, and I had just opened

my lips to address him, when he vehemently motioned me away with both

hands, and, gazing into the distance, said in an impressive tone, "Yes,

I hear the sound; it came from the blazing fire."

Far above us,

In the heavens,

Hovers now

The darkening cloud.

Still united,

Soon divided;

Now creating,

Now destroying:

Joined divinely,

Fire and water

In its bosom,

Peaceful, dwell.

The youth looked about him as if in ecstasy, and then grasping my hand

in both of his, he said: "Yes, grandfather; daring my illness I saw you

standing in the forest at such a fire. You can ask father--but you

believe me, don't you?"

"Of course."

The countenance of the youth seemed illumined with joy.

We seated ourselves on a bench, and silently gazed at the distant

prospect.

At last Wolfgang spoke. "Grandfather, now I have it. In your forest

garden are your grandson trees. The seed comes from the trees that you

planted. And now I know something. I know it quite positively, but I

can keep it to myself. Father always says that one should not be too

hasty in talking of important things that one intends to do; it is best

to sleep on them first. If one is of the same mind the next morning, it

is all right. I shall tell it you tomorrow, but not to-day. My idea is

a good one, and I think it will please you as much as it does me."

We took up our path, and stopped where some woodcutters were rolling

the trunk of a tree down the mountainside; it bounded over young trees

in its way, and Wolfgang said. "Won't it crush them?"

"Oh, pshaw!" said a wood-cutter, "They'll straighten themselves again.

We have to do the same thing ourselves."

We reached the spot where my woodmen were at work. Wolfgang at once

took hold of an axe and helped them lustily. But here, too, he showed

his good judgment. He was not hasty, as novices usually are, and soon

succeeded in copying the manner of the workmen.

We kept up our walk until we reached the mountain lake. The last time I

had been in this spot was twenty years ago, with Gustava; and now it

seemed as if I were there for the first time in my life.

There lay the lake, surrounded by steep, pine-covered walls; not a

sound was heard, save at times the roaring of the trees, and the solemn

beating of the waves against the shore. The sun shone on the water, and

its ripples sparkled like so many glittering diamonds.

"Do you come here often?" asked Wolfgang.

"No; the last time I was here was with grandmother, twenty years ago."

It went hard with me to leave the lake. Who knows whether I shall live

to return there again? It will ever remain unchanged; for generation

after generation shall come here, as to a shrine, and yield itself up

to the mysterious influence of the place.

When we at last started to leave, I was often obliged to turn and look

back. I constantly felt that now it must be full of its awful beauty,

and that I had seen it for the last time.

It was towards evening when I reached the house. I had not been so

tired for a long time; for climbing forest-clad mountains, while

excited by emotions, be they ever so joyous, is apt to exhaust one. But

I was looking forward into a happy future.

When I awoke on the following morning, Wolfgang stood at my bedside,

and said: "Grandfather, it has rained during the night; our plants are

thriving beautifully. Now I can tell you--I have determined to become a

forester."

I had, on the previous day, explained to Wolfgang a beautiful provision

of nature; how, when, through accident, the growth of the main trunk of

the pine-tree is interfered with, a side branch becomes converted into

the main trunk. None of my sons had become foresters, and now Julius

and Wolfgang were side-branches that made up for it.

I believe it was fortunate that Wolfgang's resolve to become a forester

sprang from his affection for the forest, and not from his love of the

hunting.

Unfortunately, the other motive had been Ernst's. I had often warned

him, but in vain.

CHAPTER X.

A few days after that, I was surprised by a newspaper article, which

had been written by my son Ludwig.

I have preserved it. It read as follows:

"THREE QUESTIONS AND THREE ANSWERS.

"All hail to the friends of my youth, and of my Fatherland!

"Every one has a right to address three questions to me; and, as it is

not one of the pleasures of life to repeat the same thing a hundred

times, I hope I may be permitted to answer in this public manner.

"_First_: How goes it with you, and do you intend to remain with us?

"It goes well with me. For the first few years I spent in America, I

had hard times; but I worked my way through. I am not rich, but have

enough. I married a German, the daughter of Professor Uhlenkemp. I lost

my eldest son during the war with the South, and have another son

sixteen years of age, who belongs to no religious denomination.

"As to my remaining here, or leaving, I am for the present, unable to

answer.

"_Second_: What do you think of emigration to America?

"_Answer_: The United States afford elbow-room and freedom, and are a

good refuge for people who are willing to work hard in order to achieve

independence. But he who emigrates must make up his mind to forego many

pleasures, with which we at home are so familiarized that we do not

know that we are enjoying them; just as we do not miss the drink of

fresh, pure water, until it can no longer be had, and do not think of

the pure air while it is ours to breathe.

"_Third_: How do you find Germany?

"I find only halves of Germany; but they must and will--who knows how

soon--become a whole Germany.

"The German people have become more practical and well-to-do than they

were formerly. As far as I have been able to observe, there is an

abundance of well-directed energy; great activity in all that pertains

to the trades, to science or to art, and enough liberty to achieve what

is still needed to make a complete whole. Let all remain strong and

firm, and, without faltering, faithfully labor for the common weal.

"These are my answers; and to every one whom I meet and find true to

the Fatherland and to liberty, I shall cordially extend the hand of

fellowship.

"LUDWIG WALDFRIED,

"Hydraulic and Civil Engineer,

"Chicago."

This explanation of Ludwig's naturally caused me some surprise. But it

was practical, at all events, although the reference to Wolfgang seemed

unnecessary, and calculated to provoke unpleasant comment.

I soon became aware of its effect, in a manner which, at first,

promised to be unpleasant, but afterward proved for the best.

Although Annette was still living in our neighborhood, I have not

mentioned her for some time. She would ride over to see us, but paid us

only short visits, and would occasionally inquire about the Professor,

as she, too, now termed Richard.

She seemed provoked at him, and probably felt resentment that the

friendship, and, perhaps, affection, which she had offered him were not

returned.

She visited the spinner and the schoolmaster's wife; she greeted

Martella and Rothfuss, but her whole manner seemed strange and

constrained. I soon knew the reason for this; for Johanna expressed her

satisfaction that Annette, who had been so worldly, had at last been

saved; "for," as she said, "safety can be found even in the Catholic

faith."

The Baroness and her clerical assistants had succeeded in drawing

Annette into their toils.

One day, Annette came to us looking pale and greatly excited. She said

that, although I had so many guests, she begged me to permit her to

stay with us for a few days. She frankly confessed that she had, now

and forever, broken with the Baroness and all her adherents. The

Baroness had endeavored to bind all who were in the faith to break off

intercourse with our family; for it is written, "woe to that man by

whom the offense cometh," and the worst offense had issued from our

house. The fact that my daughter-in-law considered herself a wife,

although her marriage had not been solemnized by a clergyman, might

have been passed over in silence; but the public proclamation of the

grandson's want of religion was exasperating.

Annette had determined to flee from such fanatical surroundings.

I told her of Wolfgang's power of self-control, and how he had held

back a resolution which illumined his whole being until he had quietly

matured it; and Annette exclaimed, "Yes; that is the best religion;

that is a holy spirit."

I was obliged to restrain her from expressing herself thus to Wolfgang.

On the following day, Ludwig returned; and this afforded her an

opportunity to unbosom herself to him. At their first meeting, he

conceived a great liking for her.

He told her of the great family gathering that was to be held.

As she was not related by ties of kindred, she did not wish to remain

with us.

But Ludwig induced her to stay; and when he and I were alone, he said,

"I cannot understand why Richard does not sue for her hand; she seems

to be made for him."