in a holy and just cause, and its consequences must therefore be calmly
accepted. And things, too, have changed with my husband; for now
fortune smiles upon him."
She told us that an association had been formed under the auspices of
the Princess, for the purpose of aiding the families of those who were
obliged to go to the war, and to prepare aid for the sick and wounded.
"I shall be one of you," exclaimed Annette. "I, too, wish to do my
share in the good work. And, Professor, I shall remember your words,
'It is braver to persevere in small services and sacrifices.'"
Richard soon left for the university town, where he had yet to make
some preparations before starting with the army. He grasped Annette's
hand, and it seemed to me as if he held it longer than usual; but he
only said, "We shall meet again."
His long face, with its large, full brown beard, bright blue eyes, and
arched forehead, seemed more beautiful than ever, and his splendid,
powerful form seemed almost heroic.
In the evening I was crossing our principal street, and met Annette
carrying several packages under her arm.
War kills one weakness which in men is insufferable, and in women
difficult to bear; namely, false pride.
In such times, who can stop to think how he may appear to others? You
are nothing more than a wonderfully small fraction of a great and
complete whole. And it is this idea which makes you great, and lifts
you above all petty thoughts.
How absurd we had grown to be. It had come to be regarded as improper
for a well-dressed man or woman to carry a package while in the street;
the dress of the ladies was so fashioned that they were obliged to use
their hands to prevent it from dragging, and thus it was impossible for
them to carry even the smallest package; but now all that was changed.
Annette told me that she and some other ladies were about to take a
course of instruction from a surgeon, in the art of dressing wounds.
She said this simply and unostentatiously.
CHAPTER VIII.
While Martella and I were on our way to the depot, in order to return
to our home, we were encountered by a dense and impenetrable crowd.
What could be the matter?
"The Crown-Prince of Prussia is coming."
We stopped.
The sounds of distant music were heard mingling with the joyous shouts
of thousands of voices. It was the cry with which a race welcomed its
brothers from whom it had long been estranged, and who were now
advancing to save it. How this must have stirred the heart of the
Crown-Prince!
I was so wedged in by the crowd, that I could see nothing. Martella had
ascended some steps back of me, and called me to follow her; but it was
impossible to do so.
I heard a carriage approach; the men who were in front of me spoke of
the splendid appearance, and the calm, yet determined expression of the
Prince.
"Father!" exclaimed Martella, "he looks just like him--indeed, more
like Richard."
The crowd at last scattered, and cheers were still heard in the
distance.
We started for home. The railway on the other side, which for some
distance ran into our valley, was obstructed. They were momentarily
expecting an invasion of the French, and, after that day, the other
line was only to be used for military trains.
We rode on for a part of the way, and, at the intersection, met a large
crowd of persons from the watering-places. They had suddenly been
obliged to give up the springs and the amusements that had there been
at their disposal.
The gambling banks are closed, it was said. I hoped that they might
never again be reopened.
Ludwig and his servants were there awaiting me. I also met Carl, who
had been conscripted, and with him were two of the meadow-farmer's
servants.
Carl laughed while he told us how the meadow-farmer grumbled that he
was now obliged to harness and feed his oxen himself. He cheerfully
added that Marie could do the service of two laborers.
His joyous face made it plain that before leaving home he had come to
an understanding with Marie. When he spoke of her he pressed his left
hand to his heart. I think he must have had a keepsake there.
When Carl saw Ikwarte, he went up to him and extended his hand saying:
"I forgive you. I cannot remain at enmity with any one whom I leave
behind when I go forth to battle. Forgive me, too."
Ludwig asked Ikwarte, "Willem, would you like to go?"
"I am waiting until the Colonel gives me leave."
"You have never asked my permission."
"I have waited until the Colonel would speak of it himself."
"Pray speak a few kind words to my mother, for my sake," said Carl; and
I saw the old spinner sitting on the lower step of the depot. She gazed
into vacancy as if she were dreaming with open eyes.
"This gentleman will take you home with him," said Carl to his mother.
"Then you will not take me along? I must go home--home--home," said the
old woman; and Carl told me that Rothfuss had brought the conscripts to
this spot, and was in a neighboring inn where he was feeding the
horses.
I endeavored to persuade the spinner to control her feelings. She
murmured a few words that I could not understand, and which Carl
explained to me. She had, by hard savings, gotten seven thalers
together, and wanted Carl to take them with him, because he would need
them while away; and that now she was quite inconsolable, because he
wanted to leave the money at home with her.
I took the money from her, and promised to send it to Carl whenever he
should need it, through my son-in-law the Colonel.
"And how is the great lady?" said the old spinner. "She ought to have
married my Carl--she always looked at him with so much favor; and if he
were now married, he would not have to go to war."
His mother's words were unintelligible to me, and it was with a sad
smile that Carl interpreted them.
"Why have you not told her about Marie?"
"I have done so, but she wishes to know nothing about her."
Ludwig, accompanied by Ikwarte, started towards the Rhine. He said that
he did not yet know how he could take part in the war, as he was an
American citizen; but he was resolved not to remain a quiet spectator.
Carl's parting from his mother was heart-rending. She refused to get on
our wagon, and Carl, with tears in his eyes, lifted her in his arms and
placed her there. During the greater part of our journey home, she
bewailed the loss of her son, and we drove on in silence, for we felt
so sad that we could not utter a word.
Martella was the first to speak, saying, "It is, after all, the
greatest happiness to have a mother."
I could well understand what it was that agitated her.
Up at the top of the mountain, where we always stopped to rest our
horses, there is a large and shady beech-tree, to which was fastened
the image of a saint.
While at a distance I could see a white object on the tree, and when I
drew near, I recognized it. It was the proclamation of the King of
Prussia, in which, in simple but well-considered words, he declared
that he was forced into waging this war.
Soon after that, I met Joseph, who was delighted to see me again. He
had engaged the guard of the stage-coach that passed by there every day
to fasten the "extra" papers to the tree, so that the forest laborers,
who at this point separated in order to repair to their different
villages, could know what was going on.
On the following day, the young Catholic pastor of the village had the
words of the heretical king removed from the tree on which the holy
image had been placed, and was about to lodge a complaint against
Joseph for his sacrilegious conduct. But, on the advice of a lawyer who
belonged to his own party, he desisted, and the tree, to this day, is
known as "the newspaper tree."
I crossed the boundary line and was in our own territory. The people
were busily employed in changing the bed of the stream; and the newly
married stone-mason asked me whether work would be continued during the
war. I told him that it would be, and that we intended to give
employment to the people as long as possible.
Shortly after that, I even employed the old spinner's two sons who had
been ordered out of Muehlhausen; and it was a very happy thought to do
so, as the younger of the two was an excellent cabinet-maker.
I walked on. All along the roadside I had planted pear-trees; they were
laden with fruit. Will the enemy pluck the fruit or destroy the trees?
I saw the young meadow-farmer. He was setting his water-gates, and
appeared as unconcerned as if we were living in peaceful times. When I
passed, he looked up from his work, and said, "The war does not affect
me, thank God. None of my kindred are in it."
The first house in the village belongs to the meadow-farmer. He had
relinquished the farm to his son, and was now living on a pension which
the latter had settled on him. When he saw me, he called out, "Now you
have it! The accursed Prussian is at the root of the whole affair; but
the Frenchman will give him a beating, for he has caught hold of the
wrong fellow this time."
At home all were in good spirits, and for the first time in a long
while, I found myself in some sort of sympathy with Johanna.
"It will soon be seen," she said, "whether the godless Frenchmen are as
willing to sacrifice themselves for their country as we are."
She praised the King as a God-fearing man; but to me he was simply a
righteous German.
A happy change had taken place with Johanna's daughter. She had always
been sickly, and had thought herself of no use in this world; but now
she knew nothing more of sickness. She had determined to join a society
which had just been organized by the wife of the Privy Councillor, in
order to obtain instruction in the art of nursing the sick and wounded.
I was now again in my own calm and peaceful home. Rothfuss informed
me that during my absence parties had been there to buy up oats and
hay,--we still had a good supply left from last year,--and Rothfuss had
promised the refusal of it to Kuhherschel, whom he always favored.
The old hay was sent off, and the new was brought in. In Carl's place
we engaged a Tyrolese farmer. The early barley was harvested, the
ground was ploughed over again, and the potatoes were dug up. How long
would affairs remain thus? The enemy might break in on us the very next
day, as we were very near the border. Our enemies claimed that they
were fighting in the interests of civilization, but sent Asiatic hordes
against us.
The schoolmaster's wife told us that Baroness Arven had left for
Switzerland, taking a great amount of luggage with her.
I was determined to await the enemy in my own home, and when Johanna
asked me whether she, too, could go to the city and try to be of some
use, I consented.
"But you will remain with me, Martella, for you do not fear the
French?"
"Oh, I am not afraid of them," answered Martella.
She had only answered the latter portion of my question, but I did not
think of that until afterwards.
CHAPTER IX.
My solitude was soon broken in upon by a visit from Baron Arven. I was
astonished to find him looking so sad. "Is there still so much of the
old Austrian officer left in him?" I asked myself. He soon relieved me
of all doubts on that head, and, in a tone which showed how he had
struggled with and conquered his grief, told me that in many things,
and especially in religious matters, he and his wife had not agreed. He
had, at last, conquered himself, and had determined to let her have her
own way; but now--he said it with apparent reluctance--the long-impending
rupture had occurred, under circumstances almost too terrible to bear.
Although he knew that, as a Czech and a Catholic, his wife hated Prussia,
he could hardly believe his ears when she said, "All saints be praised!
The French are coming! Our deliverance is at hand!" Her words had
provoked him into unpardonable vehemence of language.
He hardly dared say it, but she had actually made a French flag, with
the intention of displaying it as soon as the enemy should arrive,--an
event of which she had felt perfectly assured. He never thought that
his wife had political opinions of any kind, because mere abuse of
Prussia does not argue the presence of political convictions. He had
carefully avoided affronting her feelings as a Czech; for he well knew
how the Czechs resent the fact of their being dependent on German
culture. But he could never have believed that her hatred of Germany
could have carried her so far as to allow her to connive at the
correspondence with France, which was carried on under cover of her
address, and with complete ignorance, on her part, of its origin.
The village clergyman had been to see her, and must have given her
strange information, for she now insisted on leaving for Switzerland at
once.
"God be praised!" said I, "let her go." I told him that her intended
departure was already the topic of common talk.
The Baron, however, feared that her course might be fraught with evil
consequences to the whole neighborhood, as he thought that her fleeing
to Switzerland might awaken a panic.
To me, it seemed as if he were trying to justify his course in allowing
her to leave. I assured him that no one doubted his patriotism, and he
begged me not to divulge what he had told me.
I succeeded in reassuring him, and he seemed to recover from his
depression. He felt that I fully sympathized with him. And can anything
be sadder than to find that one's love of country is opposed and
ridiculed in his own home? The antagonism which had so long been veiled
under courteous forms, now broke forth with redoubled venom and fury.
"Your hearty sympathy does me good," said the Baron; "and I feel like a
changed being since I have unbosomed myself to you--just as if I had
withdrawn my hand from a bleeding wound, which can now flow freely."
I understood him. Grief which has been long repressed, and at last
finds vent in words, renews itself while the sufferer speaks of it.
When I mentioned this to him, he took my hand and held it in his for a
long while.
"But we must not think of our own little lives," he added; "great
questions now claim us. If France should fail of success, she is still
France; but if we meet with defeat, we shall become the prey of
others."
I learned from him, for the first time, that the opposing bishops had
handed in a protest against the promulgation of the doctrine of Papal
infallibility, and that, as the measure had been determined on, in
spite of their protest, they had left Rome.
When I told him of what had happened in the city--omitting, of course,
all mention of my interviews with the Prince--his features assumed an
expression of cheerfulness.
He was about to leave, when Martella entered, and asked, "May I show it
to the Baron?"
Before I could answer her question, she took the letter of pardon from
her satchel and spread it out on the table, at the same time saying
that Rothfuss and Ikwarte were foolish enough to think that it was of
no account, because it came from so petty a prince.
Baron Arven assured her that the paper would be of immense importance,
if Ernst could be found again.
"Now I shall not ask another person," joyfully exclaimed Martella;
"that seals it doubly--and just see how nicely it fits into my little
satchel!"
She replaced it in the satchel and rubbed her hands over the
embroidery, which represented a dog carrying a bird between his teeth.
The Baron rode off just as the letter-carrier arrived. He brought me a
letter from my sister-in-law, who lives in the forest of Hagenau. She
wrote to tell me that, on account of the war, her daughter's marriage
had been hastened, and that, as there was danger that the incendiaries
might come, she had instructed her daughter to remain at Strasburg, to
which place she had sent all her stores of linen and other valuables.
In case any of our ladies were alarmed, she would be willing, she
wrote, to place them under protection at Strasburg.
About that time, we had sorrow in our house on account of the death of
old Balbina. She had been our faithful servant for thirty years. When
we attempted to console her by saying that she would recover from her
illness, she would answer, "Don't mind me; I shall go to my good
mistress, and she will give me the best place."
It was not until after my wife's death that I learned how much she had
done for this servant, for then Balbina said to me:
"I was very wicked, but she converted me."
"Wicked? why, what could you have done?"
"I committed a theft when I had only been in the house a week. She
caught me and spoke to me in private, saying: 'Balbina, I dare not send
you off; for then you will steal from others, just as you have done
here. I must keep you with us until you conquer this habit.' And it
turned out just as she said, for during the thirty years I've lived in
this house, my hands and lips have never touched a morsel that was not
mine."
Balbina died without receiving extreme unction. She regarded her
confession to my wife as having fully absolved her.
We never interfered with the religious opinions of our servants, but
when the priest told Balbina that Protestants would not go to heaven,
she answered, "I don't want to go to any other heaven but the one where
my mistress is."
We were now on the high road towards political unity, but was not the
antagonism in religious matters greater than ever before?
Ludwig wrote to Conny, informing her that he would soon return. She
often told me that her father, had, until his dying hour, cherished a
love of the Fatherland, and that no two men had ever had more beautiful
and affectionate relations with each other than Ludwig and her father.
Their projected journey to Italy was out of the question. How could
they now find pleasure in works of art? Ludwig would not rest content
until he could, in some way, be of service to his country.
Suddenly, there was great commotion in the village and cries of "The
French are coming!" were heard.
Lerz the baker had been driving along the valley-road at full tilt, and
had called out to the people who were working in the fields, "Unhitch
your horses! the French are coming!" They took the animals from their
wagons and ploughs and hurried homeward. But it soon turned out that
the news was false.
I do not think that this was wanton spite on the part of Lerz. He
swore--although his oath was of but little value--that a farmer from
down the valley had told him that he had seen the French. The rumor had
indeed been spread far and near, but no one could tell who had started
it.
CHAPTER X.
What could it have been that made me feel so proud when my
fellow-citizens elected me as their delegate? I was still full of
self-love, for, when I searched in my own heart, for the real cause, it
lay in a self-complacent satisfaction in the fact of my being the
chosen representative of many others.
All this was now changed. Now none were chosen, but all were called.
The whole people had become freed from egotism, and no one was
isolated. Of course the sacrifice was not made without a pang. All
thoughts were no longer centred on one man, but were directed towards a
great invisible object which was cherished by the whole people.
Sunbeams seemed to light up every tree and house, and the whole world
seemed to have undergone a change.
And how all felt drawn towards each other; they had ceased to be
strangers--we could not have enemies in our own land.
I met Funk and could not avoid shaking hands with him and saying, "I
admit that you thought you were acting for the best, in all you have
done."
"Thanks for your good opinion," answered Funk, while he barely
returned the pressure of my hand. I made no reply. I had followed my
own convictions, and that is always well, even though others do not
approve of one's course.
I drove to town with Joseph, in order to attend the weekly market. It
had never been so numerously attended, for every one that could manage
to procure a vehicle, or get away from home, hurried to town in order
to learn what was going on in the world. And, besides that, all wanted
to assure themselves whether it would be best to sell supplies to the
dealers at present prices, or, to wait for an advance, and run the risk
of being plundered by the French in the meanwhile.
It was soon seen who believed that the Germans would succeed, and who
believed in the French. Schweitzer-Schmalz, and a large number who
followed his example, sold their hay, their oats, and their bacon.
Joseph speedily became the centre of a large crowd. He excels us all in
knowing how to adapt himself to people of every kind. His fine, large
figure and cordial manner make him a universal favorite, while his
well-known riches are not without weight.
The crowd were impatient, and complained that we had not yet heard of
any actual hostilities. He asked them:
"Have you never been in a saw-mill?"
"Certainly we have."
"Well, how do they manage there? They set the wheel and let the water
run until the log is in the proper position; then they go ahead and saw
it right through. Have a care. The Prussian, or, as we had better say,
the German, waits until the log is in the proper position, and then he
goes to work with seven saws at once."
Joseph understood the feelings of the people, and felt especial
satisfaction that Schweitzer-Schmalz seemed quite lonely and deserted
in the midst of the crowd. He simply smiled, when Schweitzer-Schmalz
said, "This little fellow. Joseph is all talk, like the Prussians."
Joseph and I called on Martha, for I had promised Julius to visit his
wife as soon as possible.
We found her and the rest of the family calm and resigned, although the
son and the son-in-law were in the field.
For the first time since I had known him, the Privy Councillor revealed
a sense of his noble birth. He dwelt on the fact that, as a member of
one of the oldest families in the land, he belonged to the order of St.
John, and that he and Baron Arven would soon enter on their duties as
members. He explained to me that it was an old order, but that a man
like myself might also become a member. I had never thought of that
before, but now it struck me forcibly.
The ladies requested me to accompany them to the courthouse, where the
Sanitary Commission was to assemble. On the steps, I met Remminger, the
so-called "peace-lieutenant."
He seemed quite agitated, and urgently requested me to accompany him to
the house of his father-in-law, where he wanted me to act as umpire. He
gave me no further information, but said that I should find out all
about it when we arrived there.
I found the family in great distress. The lieutenant, who had left
the army on account of marrying the daughter of Blank, the rich
lumber-merchant, had become quite an adept in his new calling, but had
been even more devoted to the pleasures of the chase. He had just
announced his intention to enter the army again; in justice to himself,
he could not remain a mere looker-on in the moment of danger.
Old Blank maintained that this was a breach of promise, and I saw how
the lieutenant clenched his fists when he heard that expression; but he
controlled himself and calmly explained the matter, stating, at the
same time, that he asked me to decide between them.
I knew all about Blank. He was one of those men of whom one can say
nothing evil, and nothing good. All that he asked of the world was to
be left undisturbed while attending to his business and adding to his
wealth. He was a zealous reader of the newspapers, and would smoke his
good cigar while enjoying them. It suited him best when there was lots
of news. Others might act for the state, the district, and even for the
community, so that he might read about what they had done. He could not
realize that one who belonged to his family could care to exert himself
for the general good. I saw this in every word that he uttered. I
allowed him to speak for some time without replying.
"And what is your opinion?" I said, addressing the lieutenant's wife,
who stood by the window, plucking dead leaves from the plants that were
placed there.
"Shall I call in our three children, so that you can ask them?" she
answered, in a harsh voice.
"Little children have no opinions as yet; but their parents ought to
think for them."
I asked old Blank whether he would be satisfied with my decision.
"Since you ask in that way, you are, of course, opposed to me, and for
that reason I say no."
I saw that I could be of no use, declared that I would not attempt to
decide, and left the family to settle their dispute among themselves.
When I left there, I was the more pleased to meet the Councillor
Reckingen, who lived in the town, and who had visited me shortly after
Ernst's flight. He had conquered his feeling of loneliness and grief at
the shocking death of his wife. He lived alone with his only daughter,
and had devoted all his time to her education. She was just budding
into womanhood.
This man, who had always seemed troubled and absentminded, now
approached me with a cheerful smile, and said that he had the good
fortune to be again permitted to enter on his calling; and that, as a
result, his child, who had been so constantly with him that he had
begun to be alarmed for her future, would now be obliged to accustom
herself to a life of self-reliance and activity; for the wife of the
Privy Councillor had already expressed her willingness to have his
daughter stay with her during the campaign.
We were standing by the stream, where the water rushes over the dam
with a mighty roar, and he said:
"You are like me; in great times all little troubles disappear, just as
the thundering of these falling waters drowns all other sounds."
I passed a delightful hour with the Councillor in his lovely garden,
which was carefully and tastefully kept. He had been very fortunate in
cultivating roses, and I was obliged to permit him to pluck a lovely
one for me from every bush.
"She loved roses, and cared for them above all things," were his words
while he handed me the nosegay.
According to promise, Ludwig returned, bringing Ikwarte with him. He
had written to Conny and Wolfgang to come to town. He told us that he
had caused his name, and also Wolfgang's and Ikwarte's, to be entered
with the Sanitary Corps. They wore the white band with the red cross on
their arms, and soon started in the direction of the Rhine to join the
main army.
Conny went home with me.
CHAPTER XI.
When we reached the saw-mill, a wood-cutter was waiting for me, and
told me that Rautenkron, the forester, urgently requested that I would
come to him at the bone-mill which lay in the adjacent Ilgen valley.
The wood-cutter told me that one could hardly recognize
Rautenkron--something horrible must have happened to him.
I found Rautenkron seated in the bone-miller's room. He said to the
miller, "Put enough bones into your kiln, old Adam, so that you may
keep away for an hour, and then go and leave us by ourselves."
The miller left.
"Take a seat," he said, in a tone to which I was unused in him; his
features and his manner seemed changed.
After a forced laugh, he thus began: "I have bought my bones back from
this man--I had sold them to him for a bottle of gentian; and it used
to amuse me to think how my noble self would, at some future time, be
converted into grass and flowers on the hillside, and perhaps furnish
food for cattle.
"But, pardon me," he said, interrupting himself; "forgive me, I beg of
you; I ought not to address you in that tone. Forget this, and listen
to me with patience. I will confide my last will to you; you have often
provoked me, but now I am glad that you are here. The thought of you
followed me in the woods, sat by me at my bedside, and has deprived me
of rest. I have always wanted to learn what your weak side was, and now
I have found it out.
"My father was a worldly-wise man. He divided mankind into two
classes--charlatans and weaklings. He maintained that in all that is
termed love, be it love of woman or love of the people, there is a
large portion of charlatanry, which at first consciously, and afterward
without our knowing it, deceives both ourselves and others. You are not
a charlatan--but you are vain.
"Do not shake your head, for it is so. Of course, vanity is not a vice;
but it is a weakness, for it shows dependence on others. You offered
your hand to Funk, because you felt too weak to have an enemy running
about in this world. Since I have made that discovery and convinced
myself on that point, you no longer worry me. You too have your share
in the misery that belongs to the species of vermin that terms itself
man. It is out at last--now I have nothing more against you. Indeed, I
cannot better prove this than by the fact of my asking you to help me.
Usually, I have not required the assistance of others, but now I need
yours; and I think that is enough to make you feel that you must aid
me."
I consented, but in my own mind I felt a dread of this man, who, in his
bitter candor, seemed much more terrible than when taciturn.
"I request, nay I demand--" he continued--"do not interrupt me; let me
speak for myself.
"Do you know who I am? For years, I have been called by a strange name.
You cannot imagine how pleasant it is to be so constantly a masker, in
the mummery known as life. I shall not, at present, mention my true
name, but you may rest assured it is an old and a noble one, and
related to that of Johannisberg.
"My father--he was indeed my father--had become reduced, and he led a
merry life, although I did not know where the means came from. At a
later day, I discovered all. He purchased a captaincy for me.
'Purchased,' he said, but it had really, so to say, been presented to
him. He had carried others' hides to market; perhaps a couple of human
skins to be tanned. His master had many of these tanners in the state
_vade mecums_ known as prisons.
"I was, as I have told you, a captain at Mayence, and my father lived
near there, at Wiesbaden. He was known as Hofrath.
"I do not know whether what people call conscience ever pricked him,
but he was always merry and fond of good living, and enjoyed it as much
as the stupidest monk might do. He would always say to me, 'Conrad,
life is a comedy; he who does not take it in that light, but looks upon
it in a serious manner, spoils his own game.'
"I thought I had much to tell you, but I have not. My story is simply
this:
"My father had a habit of asking me about my comrades,--what they were
doing, what they were thinking of, and to whom they wrote; and I
faithfully told him all I knew. You may believe me! I, too, was once
open-hearted. But, one day, two of my comrades were suddenly cashiered.
Letters of theirs had been found--not found, but sought--which, it was
said, contained treasonable expressions. All of us at the garrison were
beside ourselves with surprise, and I suspected nothing.
"Until the year 1848, our regiments had recruiting stations where
soldiers were enlisted and received a good bounty. In a Gallician
regiment which formed part of the garrison of the fortress--there were
also Italian regiments in it--a very clever young Pole had been
enlisted. He learned the drill, was a good horseman, and his captain
wished that he would study German, in order that he might become an
officer; but he did not care to do so, and said that he could not
write. One day we learned that he had deserted. They found a letter
from him, although he had said that he could not write. It was in
choice French, thanked the captain for his kind treatment, and added
that he had come and gone by the command of others, high in station.
For some days they spoke of the fact that the Russians were even more
successful than we as spies. For this man had evidently joined us only
in order to inform himself as to the disposition of the Gallicians. It
did not strike me at first, but afterward I could not but notice the
fact that they always talked to me about spies.
"A young Prince joined our regiment. He became an intimate associate of
mine, and seemed to take a special liking to me. My father seemed much
pleased with this, but gave me less money than he had formerly done. I
was obliged to borrow from the young Prince and to ask favors at his
hands. Yes, the world is wise, if one only knew it at the right time. I
found it out too late. Is it not ingenious, and does it not do all
honor to the human intellect, to discover that it is well to incur an
obligation in order to acquire more perfect confidence on the part of
those to whom we owe a debt? Although the lynx out there is ever so
cunning, it cannot do such work; that is reserved for the image of God.
"One day my father said to me--yes, my father--'Conrad, (that is my
baptismal name), 'you are now employed at the officers' quarters; the
adjutant of the post cannot be trusted; be careful that you get hold of
something that involves him; but let it be in writing. That aroused my
suspicions that something was wrong. One day, a fellow-officer said to
me, 'There is a spy in our regiment,' and all the other comrades
laughed. I challenged the one who had thus spoken to me, and--shot him.
"But I am anticipating--I must first tell you of another matter. I
always had a great desire to be a forester. I often begged my father to
permit me to leave the army, but he would not consent. And I would have
been so glad to marry and live quietly in the woods; for I had a child,
a lovely, beautiful child.
"And then, on account of the duel, I was imprisoned in the citadel. No
comrade visited me.
"When I left the prison, my child and the mother had vanished. She had
received a letter, in my handwriting--my father knew how to imitate the
writing of others--in which was contained a considerable sum, to enable
her to emigrate--and she had left. A companion of hers in the ballet,
who had been a suitor for her affection, and had, heretofore, been
rejected, had accompanied her.
"My papers had been confiscated, and I feel quite sure that it was done
at my father's instance, for he distrusted me, and wished to get me out
of harm's way.
"Among them there was also a memento of my beloved; it was a little
narrow red ribbon tied in a knot and torn off at both ends. She had
given it to me in a happy moment, and I had fastened it on a sheet of
paper and had written under it 'talisman.'
"All of my papers were returned to me, but not the ribbon. My father
had sent it in the letter to my beloved, and had, moreover, written, in
my name, 'By this sign I request you to obey the bearer of this in all
that he may require of you.'
"My father said to me: 'She whom you call your wife has left by my
orders.' Through a former friend of hers, I received a letter in which
she asked me whether I had caused the child to be taken from her;
because it had suddenly vanished about the time the vessel was
leaving."
"What ails you? What alarms you?" suddenly exclaimed Rautenkron.
I controlled myself and begged him to go on with his story.
"I left my father and led an adventurous life. Pshaw! I have even been
croupier at a gaming-table. And there I heard that my father was dead.
On the day before, I had seen him staking rouleaus of gold--he had not
recognized me.
"By chance I made the acquaintance of Baron Arven, and through him I
received the appointment of forester in his woods, after having, as
assistant-forester, learned my profession from Hartriegel.
"I bear a strange name, and shall die with it. But, before I die, I
shall put my living bones to use.
"I could not make up my mind, but now something has helped me to
decide. The engineer whom you are employing down by the new mill which
you are building is one of my victims. I recognized him at once,
although he has changed greatly. I do not know whether he remembered
me, but I almost believe that he did. He looked at me carelessly and
then turned away. It is well that I have had a look at one of my
victims. That destroyed the last traces of indolence and the desire to
hide myself from the world. I must and will live. The French are
coming. They have made all preparations to burn our woods. The little
spectacled forest Junker--you know that I dislike him; he still acts,
the proud and overbearing corps student, and, besides that, is happily
married, has a fine hearty wife and boys like young wolves. I have
always avoided him; but I met him to-day and he handed me the French
newspaper, in which it is joyfully proclaimed that our woods will soon
be in flames. When I read that, I fled. That was enough for me. I am a
good shot. If they wish me to, I can single out my man among the enemy
and bring him down at the first fire. The little forest Junker has
promised to look after my duties as forester. He said that would be the
same as helping in the war, as he could not leave home. Let him make a
virtue of it if he chooses. My woods are in safe hands, and I can go."
He now requested me to use my influence with my son-in-law, the
Colonel, and I faithfully promised that I would.
I asked him whether he had no memento of the mother and the child. He
said that he had none.
"And has the child, perhaps, a keepsake from you?"
"I can remember none. But, yes! When I saw it for the last time, I
brought it cakes in a satchel on which was embroidery representing a
dog holding a bird between his teeth."
My hair stood on end.
"What was the name of your child?"
"Conradine."
"Then all agrees--Martella is your child."
And the man seized my arm as if he would break it, and gave a cry like
a felled ox.
After a while, he regained his self-control. We hurried to the village.
On the way, he told me that he would now confess to me that he had had
a letter from Ernst. He was in Algiers; had entered the army there and
had become an officer. He had told me nothing about it, because he had
thought it was of no use. Ernst had also given him messages for his
betrothed: but he had always kept them to himself. "Spare me all
reproaches," he concluded; "I am punished bitterly enough. Oh, if they
had only been united! How shall I utter the word 'child,' and how can I
listen to the word 'father'?"
When, after leaving the saw-mill, we began to ascend the hill, he
called out in a hoarse voice: "It was here, in this spot, that she
stepped down from the wagon in the twilight. Here, by this very tree, I
heard her voice. It was that of her mother--I could not believe it at
the time. Here, by this very tree."
Rothfuss came towards us. "Have you seen her--is she with you?"
"Whom do you mean?"
"She is gone off with Lerz the baker, who has become a sutler. Oh, the
damned hound!"
"Who?"
"Martella is gone!"
Rautenkron grasped a young tree by the roadside, and broke it in two;
then he sank on his knees. We lifted him up.
"It is right thus. So it should be," he said. "Here, on this very
spot--do you remember?--I warned you when your wife went to bring her
home. Tell me, wise man, what was that? I heard something in her voice,
and did not wish to believe it. Turenne," he said, turning to his dog,
"you killed her dog. Be quiet; I told you to do it."
He followed us to the house, but did not utter a word on the way.
We went to her room. She had taken nothing with her but the embroidered
satchel, which, before that, had always hung over the mirror; and also
Ernst's prize cup. The clothes that she had inherited from my wife she
had carefully arranged and placed to one side.
We asked Rothfuss how long it was since she had disappeared.
They had been hunting for her ever since the morning of the day before,
but in vain. No sign of where she had gone could be found.
Rautenkron left the room and went out into the garden. He sat there for
a long while, holding his rifle between his knees. I begged him to
return to the house with me. He was looking on the ground, and did not
raise his head. I asked him to give me his rifle. He looked up towards
me, and, with a strange smile, said: "Don't be alarmed; I am not such a
fool as to shoot myself."
I walked away. A little while afterward, I heard a shot, and hurried
out again. Rautenkron sat there, holding his gun with both hands, but
his beautiful brown spaniel lay dead at his feet.
When he saw me, he exclaimed:
"Now I am quite alone. I had intended to give Turenne to you, but it is
better thus. The beast might have been stupid enough to long for me."
The sound of drums was heard from over the hills. The Colonel arrived
with his regiment, and all hurried out to meet him.
And the Englishman stood at the brook, angling.
BOOK FIFTH.
CHAPTER I.
Trumpets sounded, drums rolled, and songs from thousands of voices were
heard in the valley and on the hills. All was joyous commotion. Thus,
singing, does a nation take the field for its protection and salvation.
In the midst of anxiety for great things, for one's country, we ought
to be troubled by no mere personal cares. But who can avoid them? The
general sorrow is infinitely divided, and every one must bear his
share.
That my son-in-law, two grandchildren, and a faithful servant had gone
to face the dangers of the battlefield, was a sorrow like that which
many thousands besides myself had to bear. What a heavy burden is that
borne by the lonely widow down by the rock! But the knowledge that one
child is already in the whirlpool of trouble, and is dragging another
after him--that has been given to me alone. How often it occurred to me
at that time: had my wife but lived to see the uprising of our
Fatherland! It was better thus. She was spared the sight of our
youngest son enrolled in the enemy's ranks. That phrase from the Bible,
which, when thinking of her, I had so often consoled myself with,
remained true: "But for the elect those days shall be shortened." Why
had Rautenkron, after keeping his story so long to himself, now
divulged it? Had the secret become too burdensome? And why did he cast
the load on me? Enough, I had to overcome it.
The presence of my son-in-law had given me new courage, and I agreed
with Rothfuss, who said, "When the Colonel is about, every one is more
erect in his movements. Yes, he commands even when he says nothing."
I had never seen the Colonel thus. Such joviality beamed from his face
that a glance from him was strengthening and reassuring. His only fear
was that a premature peace might be concluded with the insolent
successor of the tyrant, before all was decided by battle!
Our village and the entire neighborhood were in commotion while the
regiment was quartered there. They even constructed a redoubt on
Silvertop.
My son-in-law confided to me that the redoubt was perhaps unnecessary,
but that his men would lose their good qualities if allowed to lounge
about idly; he also hoped that the news of their doings would spread
across the Rhine.
The peasants became refractory, and appointed a deputation, and among
them was their ruler, the meadow farmer. They said that they had not
forgotten how dreadfully the French had behaved in 1796, on account of
the building of a fortification in the neighborhood. But the Colonel
announced that whoever opposed any military ordinance, would be
brought before a court-martial and shot forthwith. From that moment my
son-in-law received the name of "Colonel Forthwith." Several of the
most notable farmers from the neighboring valley, earnest, patriotic
men, led by the burgomaster of Kalkenbach, wanted me to help them to an
interview with the colonel. They complained that a young lieutenant
wanted to destroy the bridges over the creek, and that he was about to
cast burning rosin and tar-barrels into the stream, without reflecting
that he thereby ran the risk of setting fire to the whole valley.
The Colonel countermanded this at once. He sent small detachments
hither and thither in all directions to build camp-fires on all the
hills, leaving often only men enough about them to keep up the fires,
which were visible from across the Rhine.
People were to be made to believe that a large army was collected here,
and he therefore notified all the towns and villages lying far beyond
our valley, of the fact that large numbers of soldiers would be
quartered there. On the houses they would chalk the number of men and
of horses that were to be provided for. To judge by appearances, it
seemed as if hundreds of thousands were at hand.
The Colonel asked Rothfuss if he knew any French sympathizers. He
evidently wished that the French should get the most alarming news from
us. Rothfuss thought that Funk would be his man; but when my son-in-law
consulted me about Funk, I dissuaded him from employing such an
instrument. Rothfuss then brought us the news that a journeyman baker
from Alsace, who had worked for Lerz, was prowling around and preparing
to return home.
The Colonel got Rothfuss to carry the news to this journeyman, that
more than a hundred thousand men were encamped in the forest. The few
pieces of artillery under his command were constantly moved from place
to place, so that all were led to suppose that he had a large number of
guns.
The Colonel had orders, in case the enemy should advance on us, to
destroy the roads; we supposed that Napoleon's plan must be to separate
North and South Germany by a sudden invasion. This was no small matter:
we were the first who would have to resist the shock of the enemy's
advance, and, so far as I could learn, I felt that the main forces of
Germany could not furnish us with immediate protection. We would be
sacrificed first, and afterwards would be helped by an offensive
movement from the Middle Rhine region.
Rautenkron received, provisionally, the uniform of a hospital steward;
for the Colonel was waiting for permission to enroll him. I was present
when he asked Rautenkron:
"Do you speak French well?"
"Perfectly."
The Colonel whispered something to him; but Rautenkron with burning
cheeks, cried:
"I can never do that; never!"
He then talked confidentially and excitedly to the Colonel; I believe
he imparted to him his real name.
The Colonel then ordered him, as he was so well acquainted with the
wooded heights, to attend to the further extension of the camp-fires on
their tops.
Conny carefully helped in attending to the wants of the numerous
garrison. The soldiers were treated in the best manner by the
villagers, all of whom were anxious to do their share in the good work.
The old meadow farmer was the only one who did not show himself. He,
who was always either at his door or window, and who stopped every
passer-by to have a chat which should drive dull care away, lay in his
little back room and declared that he was ill.
Carl's mother, on the contrary, did not stay in her house for a minute.
She would approach one group of soldiers after another, and ask each
man if he had a mother at home. And then she would begin to talk of her
Carl, how he was in the lancers, and how they could hunt through every
regiment and not find a better or a handsomer fellow. The two sons, who
were working as carpenters, had estranged themselves from their mother.
They lived down in the valley, and did not even visit her on Sundays.
They boasted in the taverns that they could sing French songs.
While all this bustle was going on, I was constantly searching for
Martella.
Rothfuss was of opinion that she had escaped in male attire; for,
wherever he asked after Lerz, the baker,--he had quickly lost all
traces of him, however,--he was told of a young man that had been in
his company, and who would never enter the room with him.
The Colonel had, of course, no time to sympathize with my concern about
Martella, and once when I spoke of her he said:
"We should be glad to be thus rid of her. Such a creature does not,
after all, belong in our family. You and mother have very likely been
wasting all your kindness on an unworthy person."
I did not agree with him. Yes, now at last I could understand many
things in Martella' s disposition that had heretofore been mysteries to
me. But I dared not talk about them, and the time to mourn for a single
grief had not arrived.
CHAPTER II.
On the evening of the last day of July, the Colonel returned, heated
from the effects of a long ride. A sharpshooter brought in a despatch.
He opened it, and forthwith sent his adjutant off; then he asked me to
have a good bottle of wine brought up, and to sit down beside him. He
confided to me that his detachment was getting ready to march, that he
would move off by daylight, and that he would leave but a few men
behind to attend to the campfires. I became much moved on Bertha's
account, and asked the Colonel whether he had any wishes which he
desired to have attended to.
"No," answered he, "my will is in the hands of Herr Offenheimer, the
lawyer. But the time is come for me to speak to you, dear father, of
myself. Perhaps we shall never be together again. I do not wish to
leave the world and not be really understood by you."
And so, leaning back in the large chair, he began in his peculiarly
sonorous, firm voice: "I do not like to speak of myself. I have learned
to move through life with closed lips. You are my father, and were my
comrade in a bold and hazardous undertaking. I am your pupil, although
you have shown great discretion in keeping everything from me which
might interfere with the profession I was to follow. Without your
knowing it, I developed at an early age. When crossing the prison yard
as a boy, I often saw the brother of Bertha's mother leaning against
the iron bars; The picture of this refined man, with his delicate
features, his large eye, his white brow, and light beard, haunted me in
my dreams. Do criminals look like that? I do not know whether my
childish heart put that question, but I believe it did. I stood on the
balcony as they carried his body away. I saw it placed on the wagon. At
that moment a feeling awoke in me that there are other and higher
objects in this world than princes, discipline, parole, epaulettes, and
orders.
"On that same day, I heard, for the first time, the words, _German
unity_. It became a sort of secret watchword for me; of that I am sure.
My father spoke of the noble enthusiast; the post-adjutant called him a
demagogue. I looked the word up in my Greek dictionary.
"I entered the military school. I learned about the Greek and Roman
heroes; I heard of Socrates, and always pictured him to myself like the
pale man behind the prison bars. I soon became reserved, and kept my
thoughts to myself; outwardly I was obedient and punctilious. My father
became commandant of the capital; as ensign, I was appointed as page to
our Prince. I was present at the great festivities in honor of the sons
of Louis Philippe, who were visiting our Court. I heard some one in the
crowd say they were only princes of the revolution. I studied modern
history in secret. The Opposition in our Parliament was also often
discussed. I heard some names mentioned with derision and hate--yes,
with scorn. These men were pointed out to me in the street. I did not
understand how they could thus walk the streets, since they were in
opposition to our Prince.
"The year 1848 came. The men that had been named with scorn became
ministers of state; they were entitled the saviours of the Fatherland.
"On that 6th of August, on which we did homage to the regent Archduke
John, I was as in a dream. The face of that man behind the prison bars
accompanied me everywhere. That for which he suffered and died--had it
not come? What are we soldiers? Are we nothing but the body-guard of
the Prince? Against whom are we fighting?
"Soldiering does not allow of much thinking. In the spring of 1849 we
took the field. The first order I gave was directed against the
revolutionary volunteers; the first man I killed looked wonderfully
like him who had been behind the bars. I tried to forget all this, and
succeeded. Then I met you and Bertha.
"What has happened since, you know; what went on within me I will not
bring to light.
"For a long time I have lived quietly, and have worked industriously. I
desired, above all things, to be a good soldier; to be well grounded in
my profession.
"I had asked for leave of absence to fight the Circassians; I wanted to
see real war. Leave was not granted me, but I was appointed as teacher
in the school for non-commissioned officers. I studied many things
there, and worked earnestly with my friend, Professor Rolunt.
"In 1859 I felt our alienation most bitterly. We were not allowed to
join in the Schiller festival. What would our civilization be without
our poets? Whole dynasties of princes can be wiped away, and no one
misses them; but just think of Schiller's name and works being
obliterated! And why should we soldiers not join in the festivities?
Has he not elevated our Fatherland and all of us? But he who would have
dared to give utterance to such thoughts at that time would have been
cashiered.
"In the year 1866, I had the good fortune to fight against a foreign
foe in Schleswig-Holstein, and while at the front was promoted to a
captaincy. I had a major who was, now that I consider it, merely
stupid, and who was, therefore, of most revolting military orthodoxy.
Had he not been of noble birth, he would scarcely have been made a
woodcutter. As it was, he barely managed to get himself advanced in
grade. As long as I was a lieutenant, it was easier to bear; but when I
was made a company commander, I was inwardly rebellious and had to
remain silent. Yes, you political gentlemen complain of tyranny, but we
suffer far more from it than you do. Discipline is necessary, but to
bear with such blockheads who disgrace you, and can do nothing but
curse and swear--and this fellow did not even understand his duties--is
harder than you think.
"The year 1866 came. No one, not even you, could see what was going on
within me. My misery began. What are we? Were we to have a different
commander every day? We were--now I can utter the word--praetorians,
nothing else; and Prussia is quite right in altering our military
system. We must know who our chief is. Up to now, we merely fought as
soldiers, and dared not ask what the end would be. Everything was
discipline; we partook of the Lord's Supper on account of discipline,
and as an example for the troops.
"When Annette's husband fell, I thought him lucky; I had a wife and
child, and yet wished for death. That fratricidal war was fortunately
soon over. I can see now that it was necessary for our preparation. My
feelings always revolted at the recollection of it, but now events are
at hand which will remove those memories. I shuddered when I learned
that monuments were being raised to those who had fallen in 1866. Now I
can see that they have died twice over for their Fatherland; they had
already sacrificed their hearts while living. Our profession is now at
last in entire sympathy with the nation's wishes, and it is revolting
that those who call themselves 'liberals' refuse to acknowledge the
'casus belli.'"
"Is the Prince aware of the patriotic ideas which you have kept to
yourself for so long a time?" I asked as the Colonel paused.
"No! at least I do not think so! He merely knows that I sometimes write
for our Military Journal, and that I am a good soldier. I never dreamt
that I would be appointed Minister of War. And on that night I knew
that we were simply to act as a reserve, and to be a sort of target for
the enemy's bullets. You must surely have been of the same opinion."
I could not boast of having been so wise.
But the time had not come to think of the past. The Colonel gave me a
copy of his will, which I was to deposit with the recorder. He did this
calmly, without showing the slightest emotion. A few hours later we
went to bed.
CHAPTER III.
The _reveille_ was sounded. The soldiers marched off, and nearly the
whole town, young and old, followed them on their way. When I saw these
merry men, and thought in how short a time so many of them would lie
down in death, I became oppressed with the thought that I had raised my
voice for war. But this feeling soon passed away. We are acting in
self-defence, and this will bring about a happy ending, for we shall no
longer have to live in dread of the insolence and presumption of our
neighbors.
The soldiers sang as they marched along, and up by the newspaper-tree
sat Carl's mother, looking at them passing by. Marie stood at her side,
but the old woman motioned her away, and when I asked her to return
home with us, she said:
"I have seen the thousands and thousands of mothers, who bore them all
in pain, and have cared for and raised them, floating in the air over
their heads. O my Carl! Have you heard nothing of him yet?"
We found it difficult to get her back to the village. Marie walked
along at her side, and said:
"Do you know what I should like to be?"
"What?"
"Do you hear the hawk that is circling in the air over the hill-top?
Alas, you cannot hear him, but you can see him. Like him, I should wish
to fly, and I would fly to Charles and back again, and tell you
everything."
The village and the country round about had been in an uproar; but now
that the troops had left, everything was wonderfully quiet. Rothfuss
was right; for if we had not seen the occasional remains of a
camp-fire, we would not have known that the soldiers had been there.
The old meadow farmer, who had been pensioned off by his son, and whom
the departure of the troops had aroused, sat at his door, and seemed to
enjoy watching the little pigs that were disporting themselves in the
gutter.
A little coach stood before him, in which lay a child that he had to
feed with milk; for his son wanted to get all he could from his father.
He thought of nothing but the increase of his property, and acted
meanly towards his father. He made him presents of the cheapest kind of
tobacco, so that he should not buy an expensive sort; but the old man
saw through the trick, and gave the tobacco money away, so that his son
should not inherit it.
I gladly avoided all intercourse with these people.
As I approached the house, the old man beckoned to me to come to him,
and, like a child, told me of his latest pleasure.
"I kept them locked up in my room as long as the soldiers were here.
Soldiers have a great liking for such tender morsels. I used to be so
myself."
I knew, of course, that he was talking about his pigs, and he added as
a sort of consolation:
"Yes, yes, Mr. Ex-Burgomaster"--he gave me my title--"yes, yes, you are
also retired at last, and squat by the stove. Yes, yes, we are old
fellows and must stick at home, while the young ones are out yonder,
fighting the enemy."
The old man kept on steadily smoking his pipe, and talked of war times,
and particularly of the Russian campaign, of which he was a survivor.
But on this day I could not listen to him, and while walking home I
began thinking, am I really fit for nothing but to observe from afar
the great deeds that are now being wrought?
Just as I was turning away from the old man, his son, the meadow
farmer, came along with a large load of hay, and said in a mocking
manner, "The French let us gather our hay; our houses will burn so much
the better when they come to set them on fire." Then he added with
malicious pleasure, "Your house is insured, but there is no insurance
on your woods." Here he laughed aloud. When troubles are on us, a man's
true nature shows itself.
After telling me his fears, he repeated them more fully to Rothfuss.
The latter shifted his pipe from one side of his mouth to the other,
and asked, "What would you give not to suffer any damage?"
"How? what do you mean?
"They won't hurt my house; my father has the cross of St. Helena. And I
have no cash. I can swear that I haven't a farthing in the house."
He spoke the truth, for he had buried his money.
"You need no money; it's something else. Do you know the story of the
dragon of Rockesberg?"
"What do you want? What do you mean?"
"Why, to quiet the dragon, they had to sacrifice a maiden."
"Those are old tales. Don't try to make a fool of me. If you want a
fool, whittle one for yourself."
"Stay! I know how you can buy yourself free. You needn't deliver your
daughter Marie to the dragon. Will you promise to give her to Carl in
case everything should turn out well?"
"Ho! he'll never come back."
"But in case he should?"
"Well--do you think that will be of any use?"
"Certainly. Such a promise will save you."
"You ought to be ashamed of yourself for being so superstitious. You
are a fool," said the meadow farmer, and went off.
The exciting events of the last few days had so entirely exhausted me
that I could not keep my eyes open in the day-time, if I sat down; and
I was so tired. I still refused to believe that I was growing old. But
I was strongly reminded of it, for I feared to die. Formerly, since I
stood alone, I thought death an easy matter; now I wanted to live long
enough to be laid in the soil of a united Fatherland.
I was much refreshed by the arrival of Julius's wife. When I awoke from
my afternoon nap and saw her standing before me, it seemed as if it
were my wife in her youth. She had a most charming presence, and the
resignation with which she bore her separation from husband and brother
gave great impressiveness to her manner. Every movement of hers had a
quiet grace. She lived in entire harmony with my daughter-in-law Conny;
and these two children, who had now become mine, petted and caressed me
with such kindness and consideration, and listened so attentively to
all I said, that I could speak to them of things which I usually kept
to myself. Martha was an adept in making remarkably beautiful bouquets
out of grasses and wild flowers, and when I entered the room in the
morning, I always found a fresh nosegay on the table. She was such a
pleasant table companion that the dishes tasted twice as good, and I
soon regained my strength.
Marie often came to visit me. Martha felt very kindly towards the girl;
besides, there was a bond of union between them, for each had her
greatest treasure in the field.
Marie had hitherto confided in no one in the village; for it would be
contrary to the peasant's standard of honor to tell any one how she
loved, and what her father made her suffer. Her grandfather
strengthened her in her love, and when I said that the old fellow did
it merely to hurt his son's feelings, Martha declared I was wronging
him.
Martha, like my wife, embellished what she looked upon. The light of
her eyes made all things radiant with light, and as a happy young wife
she was particularly inclined to favor and give consolation in an
unhappy love affair. Forgetting all her own troubles, she gave me a
lively account of the patience and energy with which Marie worked,
while her father would go about the house, scolding and cursing,
because he now was forced to do things which his servants had formerly
attended to. Yesterday, while she was engaged in stacking some green
clover, the father called out in the direction of the shed behind the
cattle-rack. "To whom are you talking there?"
"To him."
"To whom?"
Marie shoved the clover aside, and said, "Father, look at me! Can you
not see that it is written here that Carl loves me? There is not a spot
in my face that he has not kissed. See here, father, look at this
half-ducat. We chopped one in two; Charles has the other half. There!"
Then she piled the clover up again so that her father should not see
her. He kept on cursing and swearing. She was glad, however, that she
had spoken out at last. Still, Marie was greatly embarrassed. The
little circle in which she moved was her world, and she could not bear
being talked about by the world, for preferring the son of the poorest
cottager to the son of the rich miller.
On the other hand, she took great pleasure in hearing Carl discussed.
He had always said, "I don't like it that Marie is so rich. I don't
need much. If I have enough to eat and drink and my clothes, I am
satisfied; and if I have any children, they shall be like me in this
respect. I do not care to be like the great farmers, and have money in
the funds. I do not find that they are happier, more jovial, and
healthier than their servants."
The schoolmaster also spoke of Carl: "He was my best pupil, and learnt
the most; and when, as a soldier, he received his first furlough, he
came to visit me first of all. He waited before the door until the
school was dismissed, when he accompanied me home and thanked me. Yes,
he will succeed in life."
In short, Carl has the qualities which we wish the people to possess:
he is bright, clever, and active; is not dissatisfied with his lot, and
is modest and frugal.
Martha did not merely place the flowers from the meadow before me, she
also brought blossoms from the kind hearts of our villagers; for, as
beautiful flowers grow among nettles, so can genuine feeling be found
coupled with rudeness. We had to return to our quiet life, for, in
spite of our heavy thoughts which were far away, the present demanded
our attention.
In irrigating our meadows, we were frequently forced to protect
ourselves against the tricks of the meadow farmer. The traps are set in
the evening, and at night or early in the morning they are drawn up;
for the meadows need cool water, that which the sun has warmed being
injurious.
As the meadow farmer did not sleep well, he used to go out to the ditch
and turn our water into his meadows.
Rothfuss found this out, and I caught the meadow farmer stealing the
water. He feared the French, and yet he tried to rob his neighbors.
Martha, when she heard of this, thought that his love for his meadows
might excuse this wickedness; but my daughter-in-law reproved her with
a severity which I had never observed before. She looked upon such
trespassing as being a most serious matter; for the growth of all that
belongs to us out of doors depends on public confidence.
Alas! how we cared for such little matters, while such great affairs
were being settled yonder. The French might come upon us at any moment.
But it is always thus. You stoop to pick a strawberry, and do not
notice the mountain range. Why, as I was walking through the woods I
was delighted at the prospect of a good crop of huckleberries. This is
of importance to the poor people; for the productions which those who
are better off do not care to cultivate, furnish food for the poor.
On the evening of the 1st of August, I was again on top of the
Hochspitz Mountain, where Wolfgang had been with me the last time. The
whole valley of the Rhine was bathed in the glow of the setting sun,
which filled the air like a golden stream, and beyond lay the blue
Vosges Mountains.
What is going on there? Will the French soon be here, killing and
burning as they go?
To protect the pine-tree seeds against the birds, Wolfgang had placed
brushwood over the spot on which he had sowed them. This had already
become dry, and the leaves, therefore, covered the ground from which
the young plants were starting.
On my way home I could hear the murmur of the brook below; and
everything was so still, that I could even hear the noise made by the
fountain in front of my house. Sometimes the shrill sound of the
saw-mill would be carried up to me by the breeze. The grain-fields were
in bloom; a nourishing haze lay upon them; the forest-trees were
silently growing; the sun shone so clear by day; the moon was so bright
by night. We seemed to be separated from that world in which a dreadful
slaughter was just beginning.
The next morning I looked from out my quiet home, into the far
distance. It had rained during the night. Everything was cooled off,
the sun shone brightly, and the air from the fields was most
refreshing. We had brought in our hay the day before, and the
thunder-storm during the night had nourished the meadows. It seemed as
if the myriads of refreshed plants joyfully gave token of new vigor. I
said to myself: Thus may it be with our country and our people;
perhaps, while you slept, a dreadful storm--and, let us hope, a
beneficent one--may have passed over us.
Just then Joseph brought the news: "Fighting has begun. We have been
beaten at Saarbruecken."
"None of our people are there: only Prussians are there," cried
Rothfuss.
Joseph saw how angry these words made me, and, to turn away my wrath,
he begun to tell about Funk, who was down in the tavern boasting of his
knowledge of French, and saying that he would get along with the
Frenchmen. He also had several little books for sale, from which the
ordinary French phrases could be learnt.
Funk went about in jack-boots, carrying on a heavy business in grain,
butter, and bacon with the army. Schweitzer-Schmalz had advanced him
money for the purpose. He boasted of his generosity in putting the poor
fellow on his feet, but at the same time had wisely bargained for the
lion's share of the profits.
An hour afterwards, the wife of the councillor sent word that the news
of our defeat was false.
That afternoon a message came from Hartriegel, informing us that, from
the top of a hill in his neighborhood, a great movement of the opposing
armies could be seen. I hurried up there with Joseph, Martha, and
Conny. The engineer, who had been engaged at a neighboring stone-quarry
while the troops had been stationed about us, reappeared and
accompanied us.
We stood on the top of the tower of the ruined castle and gazed over
into Alsace, where we could see the movements of the battle.
It was going on near Weissenburg, the region which was so familiar to
me. Looking on thus from a distance, with fear and trembling as we saw
the sudden flashes, the clouds of smoke, the burning villages, and
hearing, occasionally, the sound of the guns which the echo from the
hills brought us--all this oppressed me so much that Martha persuaded
me to take some wine. It went hard with me to do so, for I first had to
drown the thought of the many men yonder who might be restored to life
if we could but wet their lips.
Martha prayed; I could only think of the new epoch that was just
beginning. Happiness and victory must be the share of those who desire
their own good and that of others. One great step was already gained,
for the war had been carried into the enemy's country.
We did not return before nightfall. Joseph drove to town to bring the
latest news. The morrow came, so calm and clear. What has been the
result?
At noon a shot was fired down at the saw-mill; this was the signal that
Joseph was to give in case we had triumphed. He came and brought the
news of the glorious victory at Woerth.
"We have beaten the French on their own ground," he cried; "it _was_
their own ground, but it must be ours again. Our boys were there," he
added, after a pause. "Father! sisters! let us be prepared for
everything."
Our resolve was a timely one.
CHAPTER IV.
Martha, who had hitherto shown such self-possession, was now seized
with the greatest anxiety. She changed color constantly. She tried in
vain to control her feelings, but at last her anxiety as well as mine
became so great that we drove to the city. The crops were being already
gathered from such fields as lay facing the south; nearly all the
reapers were women.
While driving up the hill towards the court-house, I saw Edward Levi,
the iron merchant, turn about suddenly as he caught sight of us and go
towards his house. That was not the way he usually received us; so at
once I feared that there was some bad news awaiting us, and that he did
not wish to be the first one to tell it to us.
We halted before the court-house, but no one came to the windows; no
one came to meet us. We went upstairs into the hall. The councillor's
wife stood by the round table in the centre. She kept her hand on the
table for a moment; then advancing towards Martha, and taking her hand,
she said, "I awaited you here; I did not wish to cause you any emotion
on the stairs, much less in the street. Your brother--dear Martha--your
brother--died--an heroic death."
She said this with a firm voice; but when she had finished, she sobbed
aloud and embraced Martha. The latter sank down beside her. We raised
her; her faintness was of short duration, and her mother whispered,
"Don't be alarmed! the shock will not harm her."
"My brother!" cried Martha, "I shall never see you more; never call you
brother again. Pardon me, mother, I distress you instead of helping
you. Where is father?"
"He is gone to the battle-field with Baron Arven. He has telegraphed
that he is bringing the body with him. Ludwig, Wolfgang, and that
sturdy Ikwarte are of the greatest assistance to him."
"Where is my sister?"
"She is at work in the town-hall. That is the best, the only thing to
do--to care for others while you are bowed down with grief. As soon as
you are restored, we will go to work together. Only do not idly mourn
now! I have had your brother's room put in order; we will take charge
of some wounded man and nurse him."
Martha looked wonderingly at her mother. How was such self-control
possible! That is the blessing which long and careful culture brings,
while it, at the same time, strengthens the moral sense. Her mother was
dressed with care; she looked as she did in more peaceful days, and
displayed no emotion, deeply as her heart was torn by the loss of her
dearly beloved son. She told me that a messenger had come after
bandages and to get help for the battle-field, and that her husband had
sent word by him that the young lieutenant had been the first officer
that had fallen. He had not been rash, but had moved forward at the
head of his men with steadfast courage, had broken the ranks of the
enemy, and, while crying, "The day is ours! the day is ours!" he had
fallen with a bullet in his heart.
Martha was now restored, and a half hour after our arrival we were on
our way to the town-hall. Her sister, who was engaged in cutting out
garments, came towards us, gave Martha her hand, and repressed the
rising tears. She spoke softly to Martha: she evidently begged her not
to give vent to her grief before those who were present. Martha
accompanied her quietly to the table, and helped to spread out the
linen.
The daughter of Councillor Reckingen, who was just budding into
womanhood, and who had hitherto been a stubborn, proud girl, lording it
over every one, sat among the workers and was in entire harmony with
them, while her father had cast aside his grief and joined his comrades
in the field. She was placed specially in Christiane's charge.
The children, who were making lint in the basement, were singing the
song of "The Good Comrade"--in the hall upstairs everything was still.
Orders were given quietly, and the women and maidens passed silently to
and fro. It seemed as if some one was lying dead in the adjoining room;
but, above all this affliction and sorrow, there was a spirit which had
never before shown itself among those present. All class distinctions
had ceased, for all were united in their sympathy for their fellow-men.
Why does this spirit of friendship, this unanimity, appear only in
times of trouble and sorrow; why not in every-day life?
I felt sure that this union of hearts would remain with us and beautify
our lives, and this thought was strengthened by the remark of the lady
at whose side I sat, who said, "You see,--this activity is the
salvation of many, as you can perceive in your grand-daughter
Christiane. She is untiring, and the dissatisfied air her face used to
wear is gone. We are now all united. It will not last; but hereafter
the thought that there once was a time when the children of the poorer
and of the upper classes did not ask 'Who are you, after all?' will
greatly benefit us."
I stayed in the city. The next evening, just as it was growing dark,
the councillor arrived with his son's body. The whole town, young and
old, was collected at the railway station. The children carried wreaths
and flowers, the bells were ringing, and thus was the body taken from
the station to the churchyard. After a hymn was sung, the clergyman
delivered his address. What could he say? He explained in few words
that this was not an ordinary funeral, but that we were now parts of
one great whole, even in death.
The father, mother, and sisters cast the first clods of earth on the
young hero's coffin; the grave was then filled in and covered with
flowers.
We had buried the first one who had died for the union and independence
of our Fatherland. I was staying with the family which had thus lost
its only son. They sat at home in silence; indeed, what could be said?
The parson had added a text from the Bible, and had made some earnest
remarks thereon; yet I thought, and am sure that these stricken ones
thought as I did, that all political feeling is foreign to that holy
book. Patient endurance here, and the hope of better things beyond,
suit a nation that is kept in subjection, but not one that is gladly
battling and sacrificing itself for its existence. What an entirely
different comprehension the Greeks had of exertion carried to its
utmost limit. I remembered how, while in prison, the speech of
Pericles, delivered at the funeral rites in Athens, had illumined and
elevated my soul; and I could almost see the words, for they seemed to
have been hewn out of stone, like a finely chiselled piece of
sculpture. I found the book in the house, and read the address to the
parents and children. I had to stop frequently, for sometimes the
father and sometimes the mother would exclaim: "That is intended for
us, for to-day."
"No enemy has ever seen our entire forces," says Pericles, and so say
we.
"Bold, daring, and calm consideration of what we undertake, are united
in us. He among us who does not concern himself about matters of state,
is not regarded as a peaceable, but as a useless, man." Pericles shows
that he possesses the true religion when he cries: "You must constantly
keep before your eyes the powers of the state, and must love them. Seek
for happiness in liberty, and for liberty in your own courage."
CHAPTER V.
"A Prussian doesn't let go his grip from anything he holds," said
Ikwarte to the councillor, when the latter called to him not to let a
badly wounded man, who was being carefully carried by, drop. This was,
in a certain sense, a motto for us all.
Prussia has the Frenchman in her grip, and will not let him go; and our
troops have gone bravely on. The blood of the South and North German
has been shed together. Grief for the individual was assuaged by the
thought of the result which would be achieved.
The union of the German people is now indissoluble.
The councillor returned to the army.
I was greatly grieved that I could not also lend a hand, and that I was
forced to return home, there to watch and wait. But the councillor
assured me, and I dare say he was right, that I would be unable to
stand the sights of the battle-field. On the first day, he himself,
even before he knew of his son's fate, had become so crushed and dazed
that he could hardly keep his feet. Now he no longer thought of the
misery itself, but solely of the means of remedying it.
Rontheim related, to our momentary amusement, how the vicar had lost
the trunk containing his robes of office, and how he therefore had to
perform his duties without his distinctive dress: a circumstance which
worked no harm, as he was of great service at any rate. Martha took a
quantity of goods along, which she wanted either to finish up at home,
or to use as a means of instructing the children of our village. We
drove home. It seemed like a dream to me that the saw-mill was running,
that wagons loaded with wood met us, and that people were at work in
the fields. Everything goes its gait, and yonder rages the battle.
At the newspaper-tree we met Carl's mother and Marie, and she
called out to me, "Do you see the flock of hungry crows! They are
flying beyond the Rhine, to where the boys who used to sing are lying
dead--and each of them had a mother."
"Your Carl has written that he is safe and sound."
"Yes, yes, until to-morrow. Come! We'll go home."
The two boundary posts were united by means of a black, red, and gold
flag, which had been wound around them. Joseph, whom we met there, had
done it. He was greatly shocked at the sight of Martha in mourning,
although he had already heard that her brother had fallen; but all life
was now so uncertain, that he feared she might also be mourning for
Julius. She gave him a letter which her father had brought from Julius.
It was full of sadness, but at the same time he wrote with pride of his
dead brother-in-law, and expressed himself as being convinced that he
would return from the war uninjured.
The days passed by quietly. The school-master reported that the
children had become so inattentive that he did not know what to do, for
they would not study their lessons, and talked of nothing but the war.
He determined to let the children read the newspapers aloud, and copy
the reports from the seat of war.
The game-keeper who reported to Joseph told us that fewer crimes were
being committed than usual, although the taverns were constantly full.
There was a good deal of trespassing on the woods; but that was none of
his business.
Short and precise letters came from Carl, and he never forgot to
mention that he had enough to eat and drink, for he knew that such news
would gladden his mother's heart.
Martha reported that Marie and Carl's mother had stopped going to the
newspaper-tree. Marie had learned, to her astonishment, that you could
buy your own newspapers, and so she procured one daily. Living in
constant dread of her father, she subscribed for it in the name of the
schoolmaster, and receiving it every evening, she undertook the
troublesome task of reading it aloud to the old woman at night. The
worst part of it was that the latter insisted on having the lists of
the dead and wounded read to her. She did not know what she should do
in case the awful news were to come.
I live among peasants, and see a great deal of rudeness, as well as
good feeling; but the greatest affection I ever saw lay in the conduct
of Marie towards Carl's mother.
The wagons of our district were ordered to Alsace, and my wagon and
team of bays had to go along. I wanted to employ one of the workmen
engaged in regulating the course of the river to drive them, but
Rothfuss insisted on taking charge of the team himself, so I had to let
him go. He was in great spirits, and declared that he would return with
the wagon wreathed in flowers, and that Martella and Ernst would sit in
it.
Our house became still more quiet now, and when our horses were gone,
we felt as if we were cut off from the world.
The nights were so calm and peaceful, the moon shone so clear; no leaf
stirred, and even the brook ran dreamily along. And yet, at this time,
there were thousands attempting to kill each other.
Martha was often busy looking at the pages of an album through a
magnifying glass. This book contained a collection of mosses and ferns,
which Julius had arranged for her. Underneath each specimen was noted
the place from which it came and when it had been gathered; and there
were always added the words "for Martha."
We were in almost daily receipt of postal cards from Julius, and with
the same minuteness which he had shown in the album, he gave us the
day, hour, and place of writing. Sometimes a sealed letter from him
would also reach us. Martha let me read them, and only once did she
blushingly cover a postscript with her hand. Conny called my attention
to Martha; what a touching and hallowed vision she seemed to be, and
how humbly and modestly she bore her life's great secret!
While I was examining the mosses, Martha told me, with radiant face and
sparkling eyes, how she had become acquainted with Julius. She had
danced with him at a country ball, but they had seen no more of each
other.
On the next morning, as she and her sister were walking in the
"Rockenthal" and were passing through the shrubbery, they suddenly came
to a large pine-tree under which a hunter was sleeping. His dog sat at
his side, and they motioned to him to remain quiet, while they both
stood there examining the man's youthful, browned features and white
brow. Martha summoned up her courage, seized his hat and took out the
feathers, replacing them with a bunch of freshly gathered flowers.
After this bold deed, the sisters fled to the shrubbery; but the dog
barked, and the hunter awoke. He stared about him, seized his gun and
hat, apparently puzzled to find the alteration that had been made, and
uttered an energetic oath. He just caught sight of the two sisters in
their light-blue summer dresses, as they disappeared in the shrubbery.
He called after them, and they ran, until Martha stumbled over the root
of a tree and fell. "Your voice is too good to swear with," said the
sister who had remained standing, and then the young hunter pulled off
his hat, and looked confused. Recovering himself immediately, he said,
"It was not you, but your sister, who played the robber. She has the
feathers yet. I--I thank you for the exchange." Then, as Martha handed
him the feathers, and as he held his hat out towards her, he succeeded
in touching her hand with his lips. He escorted the two girls through
the woods, and starting with the joke of having caught them
trespassing, they ended by having a merry talk. He soon begged Martha
to sing, for he said that he could see that she, like him, was in the
humor of singing. So these two began to sing their favorite songs,
which, strangely enough, were the same; and when they reached the road,
both of the sisters stretched out their hands to Julius. He held
Martha's hand in his the longest, and from that moment their fate was
fixed, and became more blissful every day.
He arranged the album while they were engaged. It was filled with the
fondest memories, and even I learned much from it that was new to me.
Each tree showed me new forms of existence, and in a little while I was
able to forget, while contemplating these minute products of nature,
the great commotion that was raging so near us. A bird is perched on
the telegraph wire, while beneath it the most stirring news is passing
silently and invisibly. I often regarded the wires that were stretched
in front of my woods. Who knows the news that is flashing through them?
We were soon to hear it.
CHAPTER VI.
"It thunders, booms, tumbles, and crashes; the mountains are falling,
the world is coming to an end!"--thus did Carl's mother cry out in the
village street. She refused to be comforted, and when she saw Martha in
mourning, she began to shriek out: "Black! black! We shall all be
charred to death!"
We succeeded at last in calming her, and then led her home, while round
about us a noise like thunder seemed to come from the hills; although
not a cloud was visible in the sky.
We knew that Strasburg was being bombarded. The fact was, that the
sound of the cannonade struck against the rock behind the spinner's
cottage, and rolled thence along the little valleys between the hills.
This lone woman, who could scarcely hear a man's voice, could
distinctly perceive the roar of the artillery which shook her cottage.
"My boy is there, my good, my brave son," she cried, when she was told
that Strasburg was being bombarded. Then she broke out into a sort of
chant: "In Strasburg is the minster; I was in service for five years in
the Blauwolken Street; in Strasburg, in Strasburg, in Strasburg,"--it
sounded like a doleful song. We wanted to induce her to come to us;
even Marie wanted to take charge of her; but she caught hold of her
table, crying, "No, no! I shall not go from here until I am carried
out."
That evening Joseph came for me, saying, that from the top of the
stone-wall, the shells could be seen flying through the air. We
accompanied him to the spot, and could see the shells rising, then
falling and disappearing in little clouds of smoke. The stone-cutter,
who had seen service as a soldier, pointed out to us the shells that
exploded harmlessly in the air, and those which spread destruction as
they burst.
How is it with the people over there on whom this rain of fire is
falling? What are they doing at home? What do they say, and think, and
what consolation and support do they bring each other? I imagined
myself among them, living with them. And my niece was there, too. She
had thought to find protection there, and now she was in the greatest
danger. And how must my sister, yonder in the forest of Hagenau, be
wringing her hands at these sounds and sights! And we are sending death
and destruction among those to whom we want to cry, "Come to us, stay
with us." The language the cannon speak is a dreadful one.
We had to return home at last. I was so confused and shocked, that
Joseph had to lead me. I could hear the guns as I lay in bed; but after
a while sleep comes to you in spite of noise and sorrow.
Marie told me the next morning that the spinner had counted the shots
by the hour during the night. When she had reached one hundred, beyond
which she could not count, she buried her head in the pillow, crying,
"I can count no further; I cannot; it is enough!" and had then fallen
asleep. Marie asked our aid, for the spinner had said that, when
daylight came, she would stand it no longer; she would go to her son.
However, when the next day came she had forgotten her intention. She
sat in her room, spinning, and whenever she heard the sound of a gun,
would merely open her mouth, but say nothing. Not a word passed her
lips for days.
Joseph wanted to visit the besiegers, but I asked him to remain with
us, as I wanted to have one of my men about the house.
Every evening the young folks from the village would climb to
the top of the hill behind the little stone wall, and, with the
light-heartedness of youth, would enjoy themselves in spite of the
destruction that was going on before their very eyes.
My sister and her daughter surprised us. The former had visited the
camp; had luckily found Julius, and through him had obtained permission
for her daughter to leave the fortress. She had left all her property
at the mercy of the shells and of the plundering soldiers; for the
opinion of the citizens was, that the German soldiers would sack the
city. As Germans, they had been regarded with aversion by their
neighbors and acquaintances. She left us soon again, so as to be with
her husband; but her daughter, who was greatly overcome, remained with
us.
Martha and Conny nursed the young wife carefully; and Martha spoke
French to her, so as to please her.
A large detachment of captured and wounded French and Algerians came
through our valley. The people from all the villages flocked to the
high-road to see them pass. I feared that the people would show their
irritation, and jeer these unfortunates: but, as if by a tacit
agreement, every one kept aloof, and only words of sympathy were heard.
It was only when the fantastic, and sometimes terrible-looking Africans
appeared, that the dismay of the people showed itself, as they called
out, "There they are, the men that were going to burn our towns and
forests, the cannibals!"
Rothfuss, with my team of bays, was also in the procession. He halted a
moment at the saw-mill near the bridge, and gave a merry account of the
kind of load he was carrying. It consisted of wounded Turcos, and he
laid great stress on the fact that the French would have nothing in
common with these wicked apes. He had to keep on his way.
Great excitement was caused in the village when it was reported that
Carl had returned. We all accompanied his mother and Marie down the
valley, where he had halted with a squad of prisoners. Marie embraced
him before us all, and the prisoners smiled, and imitated the sound of
their smacking lips.
Carl had much to tell me, and could not find words to say all he wanted
to, particularly in praise of the Pomeranian lancers. He said they were
the right sort of fellows--as quiet and strong as the pine-trees; and
it was strange to see, when they first saw the Rhine, about which so
much had been sung and said, how, in their enthusiasm, they wanted to
ride directly into the stream.
His mother and sweetheart accompanied him for some distance on the
road, and when they turned to come back the old woman said, "Now I am
satisfied; now no one shall hear me complain; I am sure that nothing
will happen to him in this war."
We harvested our crops; we placed the green bough on the top of the new
mill down in the valley; we began to cut wood in the forest; yet still
the thunder of the bombardment of Strasburg continued.
The old meadow farmer lay at home very ill, and often said, "I shall be
buried like a soldier; they will fire over my grave."
We buried the old fellow on the morning of September 2d. He had given
orders that his St. Helena medal should be buried with him; but his son
did not see fit to let this be done. He looked upon this so-called mark
of distinction as a means of preservation, in case the French should
come after all.
While we were standing at the open grave, Joseph came riding up the
hill, his horse very much blown, and cried, "Napoleon is a prisoner!"
We all hurried to the road where Joseph, still on horseback, read the
extra aloud. It was the account of the capture of Napoleon at Sedan.
What strange coincidences occur in life! We had just buried the last
man in our village who wore on his breast the badge of the infamy of
our alliance with Napoleon; and now we had his successor and heir a
prisoner in our hands.
As if by a preconcerted signal, the young people of the village struck
up, "Die Wacht am Rhein."
Without awaiting the parson's permission--very likely he wouldn't have
given it--the church-bells were rung, and the German flag was thrown to
the breeze from the top of the church spire. We returned home as if in
a dream.
When my niece, the Alsacienne, heard the news, she shook her head, and
refused to be convinced of its truth.
She had been always accustomed to hear the lying despatches of her
countrymen.
After the Sedan campaign, we all thought that the war was ended; but
the French people, in their overweening confidence, still insisted on
retaining the first place among nations, and resented the idea of their
giving up the German provinces, of which in former days they had robbed
us.
The war went on without ceasing.
CHAPTER VII.
We cannot be astonished anew every day at the phenomena of existence:
how the sun rises, how the plants grow and bloom. We must accustom
ourselves to the homely changes that are being wrought; to life and
death among us, to love and hate, to union and discord.
We ended by becoming accustomed to the fact that the war was raging,
and as surely as the sun rose we expected news of another victory; for
that we should ever be beaten seemed, to judge from what had happened,
impossible.
The daily question was, "Has Strasburg surrendered yet?"
On the morning of the 29th of September, I attended the weekly market
to sell my grain. It was the crop of 1870.
Everything went on as usual; there was the same chaffering, bargaining,
and cheating, and occasionally the war was discussed.
Suddenly I heard a noise of shouting and rejoicing, and saw flags hung
out of the windows. "Strasburg has fallen," was the cry.
People called to each other, "Strasburg has fallen at last," as if some
one who had been long lost had returned at last.
Joseph brought the Alsacienne to town. We made up a store of food and
clothing for her, and accompanied by Christiane, who had been
despatched to the afflicted city by the Aid Society, she returned to
Alsace. Every one went over to Strasburg, partly from curiosity, and
partly out of pity. I refused to go.
Then came letters from Alsace for Martha and me.
I did not know the handwriting of the one for me. It turned out to be
from Baron Arven. He wrote that he had had frequent conferences with
those high in office on the importance of quieting the minds of the
Alsatians, and of coming to an understanding with them. Unfortunately
they had been forced to take sharp measures against those who were
untractable and traitorous, and now they desired to take such measures
as would stop any further sacrifices. There were other nurses required
besides those who attended the wounded, and he believed I would suit
his purpose.
The following sentence in his letter pierced my heart like a dagger:
"Your family ties make it your duty to aid the lost son to return to
his father's house."
How? Has Ernst been found, and is the preceding portion of the letter
simply written to prepare me for the shock?
I read on, and found I was mistaken. A troubled mind interprets
everything in its interest. Arven simply meant that I should aid in the
work of attaching Alsace to Germany; for he informed me that men of all
classes, who were known to have friends and relatives in Alsace, had
been requested to visit those sections of the country with which they
were acquainted, there to work in the interest of union. Those who had
been in opposition to the government were especially wanted, for the
reason that their conduct would be regarded as being founded on a pure
love for the Fatherland.
He asked me to visit the villages in the forest of Hagenau, with which
I was acquainted through my relations, and see what I could do towards
furthering the good work.
I had to laugh when he added: "Your presence and your white hair will
do much, I think, to create confidence in you."
The Baron was in the confidence of the government. It seemed,
therefore, to be decided that we should take back the provinces of
which we had been robbed. Yes, I am ready to do what I can. It is true,
I doubted my capacity; but a love of the cause and encouraging
hopefulness strengthened me. Arven's letter gave me courage. He had
never praised me to my face, but he displayed the best feeling in his
letter.
"I am going to Alsace," said I to Martha.
"Oh, that is splendid, and you can take me along."
She showed me a letter from Julius, in which he asked her to visit him
in Strasburg for a short time, until he should march off again.
He wrote: "We will meet among saddening ruins, but we shall remain
erect, and while we help rebuild the great fabric of the state, shall
also strengthen our own life-fabric."
We journeyed to Strasburg. Julius met us in Kehl. What a meeting
between the young couple!
"I have also seen Martella," Julius said. "I wanted her to enter a
hospital as nurse, but she has retained her old dislikes, and refuses
to have anything to do with the sick. She was engaged with a number of
other women in distributing supplies, but I don't know whether she is
near here now. I have been told that she has gone to Lorraine with
another detachment of the supply commission. She parted from Lerz, the
baker, after a few days. The Prince's letter of pardon has passed her
everywhere, and she is now with Ikwarte and Wolfgang, who will protect
her."
I shall not speak of the effect the appearance of the bombarded city
produced on me. I had been in Strasburg frequently, and knew many there
who could not forget the ties which bound them to Germany. Forty years
ago I was here with Buchmaier, and at that time this great broad fellow
planted himself before the Cathedral, and called out, "I say, tumble
down, or turn German."
Now it stood there, a German monument. It had been, unfortunately,
struck by our shot, but had been only slightly injured; and from far
and near one could behold this edifice, every stone and ornament of
which is German.
Martha could look on nothing but the face of her Julius, and on one
other thing--the iron cross on his breast. She asked why he had not
written about having received it; and Julius confessed that he had not
done so because a promise that was not yet binding, but which required
him to arrive at some conclusion, was connected with it.
He related that the commanding general, while fastening the cross on
his breast, had said, "You intend remaining in the service?" to which
he had not answered, but believed that he had nodded "yes," although he
was not sure.
And now he wanted to learn from Martha's lips whether he had nodded or
shaken his head.
Martha looked at me and said, "What do you say, grandfather?"
I said, of course, that this could be decided on when the war was over,
and that meanwhile Julius could consider himself a professional
soldier. I thought him too tenderhearted for a soldier, for he had said
to me, "Grandfather! the worst feature about war, is not the fighting,
but the foraging. It is heart-rending to force people to deliver up
everything, yet it must be done."
The thought that Julius would remain a soldier was painful to me, for I
had cherished the hope that, at some time or other, he would take
charge of his patrimonial estate. I could not agree with Ludwig's
American ideas, that all property should be personal. But what matters
all that at present?
I hunted up Baron Arven. Although he had written such hearty letters to
me, I found that he had again become formal and brusque. I had to learn
that in war times small matters can receive but little attention.
The Baron directed a servant to accompany me to the provisional
governor of the province. Although I had been sent for, I found myself
treated as if I were a suitor. I had to accustom myself to the
North-German manner, which regards every sacrifice you may bring as a
mere matter of duty.
The governor remembered that Arven had spoken of me. He begged me to
take a look, for the present, at the part of the country with which I
was acquainted, and then to report to him.
This interview sobered me. Was this the frame of mind in which a part
of our country was to be regained? I decided to visit my sister, and
then to return home. That evening Arven changed my resolution.
CHAPTER VIII.
Arven lived in the hospital, and on my arrival there I was welcomed by
a tall, fine-looking woman in a white cap and white apron. It was
Annette, and I was not a little astonished to meet her there; but even
she had no time to spare, for she said she had to return to her
patients, and that Arven was waiting for me in his room.
This was really the case. Arven gave me a hearty welcome, and said that
he had given orders that he was not to be disturbed excepting in case
something of great importance needed his attention, and that, for this
evening, he would be a thorough egotist.
When I told him how repellent the angularity and coldness of the
Prussians had appeared to me, he said that this was just what he wanted
to talk to me about.
He had been exceedingly provoked at their cold-blooded manner. He had
already determined to leave them; but after a while he had made up his
mind that this sharpness, bitterness, and decision were the forces that
made them the men they were. Obedience is with them a habit that can be
depended on. We South Germans are too soft and easygoing, and we ought
to breathe some of the salt-sea air that blows across that northern
country. This want of attention towards others, this disregard of
people's feelings, lay in the fact that they had no consideration for
themselves. The French, who, whatever they do, want to be observed and
applauded, will be beaten by these men, whose whole power rests in
their self-respect. We used to think the Prussians were braggarts; but
now we found no trace of boastfulness, and in spite of their constant
victories, they took every precaution as they advanced, and were
prepared for defeat. Yes, orders describing the manner of retreat were
issued before every battle.
He could not cease praising them, and only stopped when he added that
he thought their self-esteem was a result of Protestantism. The Baron
stopped when he had said this, and, after we had eaten and drunk to our
hearts' content, he said that, although he was a Catholic, he would
never confess to a priest again, but that he would confess to me; and
in case he should not return from the war, he would have the
satisfaction of feeling that his inner life had been laid before
another, for an hour at least.
He confessed to me that his desire had been to die in this campaign,
and it was for this reason that he had exposed himself so recklessly
when collecting the wounded. It seemed strange to him that people
should praise his courage, while he was engaged in seeking death. He
thought it would be the best thing for himself and his children, if the
great sorrows that had come upon them, and which might come again,
could be buried with him.
He then groaned aloud, saying, "I do not want to die before their
eyes."
I saw before me a life that had been most cruelly broken. The Baron had
once been in the Austrian army. He had never expected to find himself
at the head of his family, for he belonged to the younger branch.
In Bohemia he made the acquaintance of a girl belonging to a noble
family, and was subdued by her.
Feodora was tall and majestic, of a warm, sensual nature, but
cold-hearted. Persuaded by his sister, he became engaged to her; but
felt that he would have to stand alone in life, with her as his spouse.
On the day after his engagement, he suddenly awoke to a horror of what
he had done. He was visiting the large estate of her father. He walked
through the park, wrestling with the resolve to drown himself in the
pond; but he did not do so, because he considered it his duty to keep
his plighted word; and besides, the hope arose in his breast that, at
some future time, a closer sympathy would be brought about. Her beauty
fettered him; in short, the marriage was celebrated, and he lived for
thirty-one years married, but lonely. One by one, his hopes had all
been shattered. He had persuaded himself that congeniality was not
necessary to happiness.
But after awhile he discovered what it was to be united to some one,
and at the same time to be alone. The sudden death of the last of the
main line of his family placed him at the head of the house. He
resigned his position in the army, and devoted himself to agriculture.
He had no control over his children--scarcely any influence in fact,
but as his sons grew up, they espoused the cause of Germany, and would
have nothing to do with the conflict which their mother and her ghostly
advisers tried to stir up.
In the campaign of 1866, the Baron suffered unspeakably. He was
homeless in his own house. But when the present war began, and he
discovered plots that he would never have suspected, the conflict broke
out openly. The two sons joined the German army, and did not, or would
not, know of what was going on at home. I dare not speak of the
bitterness, hate, and despair that filled the soul of this naturally
good-hearted man, and appeared in the course of his story. "I had to
confess to you some time," said he finally, "and I chose the best time.
"I believe that your wife intuitively knew everything that I have told
you."
The deep misery of his life seemed again renewed when he cried, "I do
not wish to die before their eyes."
He mentioned Rautenkron, and said that their cases were similar. Their
devotion in the present great movement was not a joyful sacrifice, but
indifference and contempt for life; they wanted to die.
I was deeply pained, and also gratified, when he took my hand at last,
saying that my wife and I had kept him up in the faith that happiness
was yet to be found on earth. "And now I must make a further
confession. It was a great sacrifice on my part, considering the
comfort I enjoyed in your house, and the deep sympathy your wife showed
me, to deny myself frequent, yea, daily visits, whenever I felt like a
stranger in my house; and as one banished from home, I would ride
across the hills, and down into the valley towards you and your wife;
but when I had reached the saw-mill, I would turn back. It was better
thus. I felt that your wife knew everything. Though I was a man who had
sons in the army, I was again tossed hither and thither by youthful
feelings; but I overcame them. I think I ought to tell you this too; it
relieves me, and cannot oppress you. Of all men who were affected by
her sterling qualities, there is no one who worshipped her more
profoundly than I did," said the Baron finally, again taking my hand.
We sat there in silence for some time, and I was made happy by the
thought that her spirit was hovering over us, bringing us peace. The
Baron then arose and said, "Now I have unburdened myself, and am free.
I thank you for your share in this relief. And now, no more of this.
Now duty calls."
He again told me how much good I could accomplish, by going from
village to village, and from house to house, in the region in which I
had long been known, there to teach the Alsatians what they ought to
learn.
"You may depend on one thing," said he: "you will have bitter
experiences. You will be looked upon as a spy. But do you remember what
your wife once called you?"
I did not know what he meant.
"She called you the spy of what was good, because you always discover
the good qualities in every one. Well, be one again."
I made up my mind to cope willingly with everything, and went to my
sister's the next day.
CHAPTER IX.
We of the mountains had heard the cannonading; but how differently had
it affected those of the neighborhood, whose homes and whose all were
at stake. We could see the destruction that had been wrought on the
houses, but not that which had wasted the nerves of the people.
Wherever I went, I found every one feeling restless and homeless, like
the swallows that flew about, settling here and there; but only for a
moment, for their nests had been destroyed, along with the houses and
towers and fortifications.
Every one I met had a puzzled look: the alarm and fear caused by the
incredible disasters that had overwhelmed them, had dazed them, and
they seemed hurt by friendly greetings--yes, even by offers of
assistance.
My brother-in-law, the forester, a man who ordinarily bore himself
well, seemed entirely broken down. He stared at me in silence as I
entered his house, and scarcely answered my greeting with a slight nod.
My sister told me that, since the siege of Strasburg, he had suffered
from asthma, and that he constantly repeated, "General Werder's shots
have taken my breath away."
On looking at the pictures hanging on the wall, I could see plainly
what these people would have to thrust aside. The pictures on the
walls, as well as those that dwelt in their memory, were to be changed.
In our every-day life, we soon forget what the ornaments on the wall
are like. But if they are not in accord with the times, then we find
out what was once ours, but has now ceased to belong to us. On my
hinting that Germany would adopt the regained provinces with increased
affection, my brother-in-law sprang up, rolling his eyes and striking
the table with his fist, and swore that he would emigrate. My sister
then said that an oath at such a time was worthless; but he answered in
bitter scorn--he could speak nothing but French--"And if no one will
accompany me--I cannot force the trees in the forest to go along--my
dog, at least, will be my companion. What do you say, Fidele--you'll go
with me? You won't take bread from a German; you will rather starve
with me?" The dog barked and licked his master's hand.
I could see what a difficult task I had before me, but I did not give
it up. In the village, in the houses, and before the court-house,
wherever the people were gathered together, I spoke words of peace and
encouragement to them. They would listen to me as if they were forced
to do so; and once I heard a man behind me say, "The whole thing is a
lie, white hairs and all; he is some young fellow in disguise." I
seldom received a straightforward answer; the nearest approach to a
reply was, "What are we to do?" "What are we to learn." The feeling at
the bottom of all this was,--to-morrow the French will be back, and
drive the Germans away. It is impossible to conquer the French.
I then visited my brother-in-law, the parson, who lived a few miles
further on. He spoke of nothing but the excellent behavior of the
soldiers that had been quartered on them. They went to church on
Sundays and joined in the singing; and officers of high rank had
been there, too. He seemed nervous, and did not dare to express his
joy--either because he feared the maid-servant who was going in and
out, or else because he disliked to lay bare his thoughts. It was only
while walking in the woods that he unbosomed himself. I do not like to
repeat what he related, as I preferred not to believe his story. He
told me that the French government had received the assurance from the
priesthood, that the South Germans would not take the field against
France. I do not believe this, but it is the current opinion, and so I
feel forced to repeat it.
He also said that the beggars from the Catholic villages of the
vicinity had, for some time past, ceased asking for alms. They had
walked around boldly in his village, selecting the houses they intended
to occupy as soon as the Protestants had been exterminated.
Thus wickedly had religion been mixed up with this war.
"The thought of Germany," said the parson, "always seemed to me like a
silent, yea, a criminal dream. Now I see it realized in broad daylight.
We are like the prodigal son of Scripture, but the truant in Alsace is
this time not in fault, and it is that which makes his return to his
home so painful. I have often thought that the father of the prodigal
must have offended against his son, although the Scriptures do not say
so, otherwise he would not have been thus afflicted."
He was merely drawing a parallel, yet he made my heart beat with the
thought of Ernst.
The father of the prodigal son is also at fault. What had I been guilty
of?
When we returned from our walk, we were told that a French soldier, who
had served his time, had called to see me; he had not given his name,
and would return.
Who can he be? I must wait to find out. But I met a man in the village
whom I had forgotten.
The advocate Offenheimer, Annette's brother, met me, and his first
words were, "You are a great consolation to me. Come with me and give
my son an escort."
I now perceived that his only son had fallen, and that the father
desired him to be buried in the Jewish cemetery here.
As he divined my thoughts, he said, "It is true, I could not allow them
to bury my son out there with the others; but it is, perhaps, well if
there is some sign here of our having fairly and joyfully taken our
part in the fight. Perhaps it will have a mollifying effect upon our
new countrymen of the Jewish faith, who were particularly
contumacious."
I was astounded to find the man so placid. But, as if guessing my
thoughts, he said he had no more strength for complaints and tears, and
that a fact must at last be accepted.
I thought of the handsome, spirited lad, that had one time come to me
with Wolfgang. But I greatly desired to find a favorable opportunity
for addressing the Jewish inhabitants of the village. They had an
especial fear of the Germans, and were proud of French equality.
The advocate's son was buried with all the ceremonies of his church.
Two slightly wounded South German officers, who were lying in the
village, acted as the escort. They recognized in me the Colonel's
father-in-law, and had much to tell me in his praise.
"He shows that we are not inferior to the Prussians." Such appeared to
be the highest compliment they could bestow upon him.
Upon our return from the cemetery, to which the Jews here in Alsace
give the peculiar name of the "good place,"[6] the advocate leaned upon
my arm, and, as I sat next to him in the little room, after quietly
meditating for a long while, he exclaimed, "In my youth I had willingly
died for the true Fatherland; now, my son has been permitted to die for
it."
For years had I been in constant intercourse with this man; now, in his
grief and in the hour of civil commotion, I first learned to know him;
and to learn to know an upright man is to learn to love him.
I have, like suffering Odysseus, participated in the experiences of
many men; Rautenkron, the Colonel, and Arven have revealed to me their
life-secrets. Now I was to hear still another's: the history of a
step-child in his step-fatherland, who still longed for affection, for
the closest friendship, and who, though repulsed and oppressed by the
laws and his fellow-men, had not yet lost his love for them.
As Offenheimer recounted the grievances he had suffered in the schools,
and the incivilities and insults of later years, it seemed to me that I
should ask his forgiveness for all this suffering and uncharitableness,
of which, because of what we had done to him, and of what our ancestors
had done to his, we were to-day guilty. Those who style themselves
believers in the religion of love, would be much astonished at the
strength of this man's affections, who, though repulsed and scorned;
still preserved them pure. We live a whole human life and know nothing
of the inward emotions of many of our contemporaries. Offenheimer spoke
with great severity concerning the attempt to obtain recognition by
means of extravagant display, that caused many Jews to appear
unpatriotic and presumptuous. He explained this, indeed, as arising
from the necessity, imposed by the prejudice against his race, of
proving its claim to respectability, and was frank enough to refer to
the early conduct of his sister as an example.
Offenheimer then told me how happy it had made him to find his son
growing up in comparative ignorance of such persecutions--he had thus
developed naturally. He smiled sadly, as he added that he, though he
had grown physically larger and more active, had acquired a lightness
of heart which the man who is obliged to win his freedom before
enjoying it, never acquires.
"I do not mourn for my son," were his words: "he had reached the most
beautiful period of life, and it is all the same, whether a man lives
seventeen years or seventy. No man liveth to himself, and no one dieth
to himself, says the apostle; and that is true. I understand it to be
true in another sense as well. Each of us dies only to his connections
and his posterity."
It was a novelty to me to hear Holy Writ referred to as simply the
teachings of wisdom. I have since then often found educated Israelites
are not so much Jews, as simply not Christians.
Offenheimer thanked me with great tenderness for the wonders that we
had accomplished with Annette. She had been proud and selfish; now she
had become humble, and lived for others.
As I sat with him, the Rabbi of the place came and expressed his thanks
for the generous subscription that had been made in memory of the
fallen.
One word, which the priest then uttered, went straight to my heart. He
said the bereaved father would find consolation; for the Talmud
declared that the patriarch Jacob could not suppress his sufferings and
his tears for his lost son Joseph, because he felt within himself that
his son still lived. Grief for one who is dead vanishes when the corpse
becomes clay; for a living lost one, the grief endures.
Oh! my lost son Ernst!
Upon my return home, I found, awaiting me in the village, a man in a
blue blouse, with a short pipe in his mouth, and wearing his cap awry.
He approached me with a military salute, and said, "Yes, it is you."
"Who am I?"
"His father."
"Whose father?"
"Our sergeant's, Ernst Taennling."
"That is not my name."
"Of course! But he has confided to me--he took me, indeed, for a
German--that his name was Waldfried. Do you remember that I met you in
Paris during the World's Exposition. Your son deserted in 1866, and has
a bride. Have I the correct signs now?"
Alas! he had them, and again I heard that Ernst had entered the service
in Algiers, and now, probably, was in the onward movement against
Germany.
The veteran allowed me no time for reflection. He confided to me, with
great urgency and secrecy, that he could be of great service. He knew
that I had great influence, and wanted me to conduct him to some
officer of high rank; he could be of great service, but must receive
liberal pay.
I had learned much in life, but for the first time there stood before
me a man who offered me his services as a spy. He had seized my hand,
and it seemed as if his touch had soiled it.
I sought further intelligence from him concerning Ernst, but he knew
nothing more. I took him with me and handed him over to an officer that
lay here. I considered it to be my duty not to discard the dirty, but
perhaps useful, tool.
With thoughts of Ernst in my breast, with the consciousness that my
only son was in arms against the Fatherland, I was not in the mood to
unburden my heart to others; and besides, it was evidently too early.
Now, since force yet speaks, the good-will of the oppressed cannot be
won.
I turned back to my sister's, and was much delighted to meet
Hartriegel, the so-called forest professor, who had been sent by the
administration to inspect the forests.
CHAPTER X.
With Hartriegel and my brother-in-law, who had again in a measure
regained his composure, I roamed through the great forest district; and
this refreshed my soul, though the terrible thoughts about Ernst
accompanied me by day and by night like a restless ghost.
It was the night of the twenty-sixth of October. Hartriegel remained in
the town. I had stayed with my sister; a storm was raging that seemed
to portend the destruction of the world. Dogs howled, the cattle in the
stalls bellowed unceasingly; there seemed a fearful wailing in the
rattling of the thunder, and the turmoil and uproar of the elements. We
heard sounds like the splitting of trees, continually nearer and
nearer. We all sat together in the room, keeping watch, and my
brother-in-law exclaimed, "It is just so! The trees even will clear out
forthwith. They will not be German."
As he said this, a tree behind the house cracked and fell over on the
roof: the slates rattled, the timbers bent, and the storm now raged
through the house, which we could not forsake; for out of doors the
tempest raged so wildly, that it seemed as if everything that stood
upright would be stricken to the ground. We waited until daylight, and
at early morning a messenger arrived who came to tell me that Julius
must depart, and to ask whether I would not bring Martha home with me.
The messenger also showed us an "extra," that announced the capture of
Metz, and the capitulation of 173,000 men.
When my brother-in-law heard this, he exclaimed, "We are betrayed!"
tore down the epaulettes, and the portrait of Bazaine, under whom he
had served, from the wall, threw them on the floor, and trampled them
under his feet.
The messenger told us the roads were impassable; every where there lay
trunks of trees, and near the house a slain stag. He, a very credulous
man, had spent the night at the Oak of Saint Arbogast, and with pious
fervor praised the saint who had protected him.
After he had partaken of refreshments, he escorted my brother-in-law,
who soon came back with the dead stag.
We were separated from the world, and my sister rejoiced that she still
had something for us to eat.
At noon there came a neighboring forester with his men, and everybody
was called upon, and worked through the entire night to make the roads
again passable. Soldiers were also ordered from Hagenau to assist, and
soon I heard the singing of German songs in the woods.
The next morning Joseph arrived with his companion. He had been ordered
by the chief forester to buy wood here, and had now decided, since it
was so conveniently arranged, to purchase the greater portion of the
windfall. What terrified us, awakened in him a speculation.
"In the forest of Hagenau," said he, "there's also oak wood for
Ludwig's mill."
It was, and remained so; everything served as a stepping-stone to
Joseph.
He gave us further particulars of the capture of Metz, and of the march
towards Paris. At the name of Paris, my brother-in-law's face became
flushed and excited. "That you will never get, never!" he said; "the
world will go to pieces, first! But Metz, indeed! And 173,000 men!
believe in nothing after this!"
I told Joseph of Ernst; I must impart it to some one. But Joseph
urgently implored me to eradicate every thought of the lost one from my
breast.
I went to Strasburg, but the governor there had nothing to tell me. I
was so weak that I longed for home again; there I hoped to regain my
strength. I journeyed homewards with Martha.