The Prussians at Grumitz—Otto gets into trouble—A dinner with friend
and foe—Rosa and Prince Henry are engaged—The Prussians leave and
cholera breaks out in our midst—Servants are the first victims,
then sisters—The lover’s suicide—The only son dies, father follows
him, cursing war.
The Prussian troops were quartered everywhere about Grumitz, and the
villagers were possessed with terror of the hated enemy, whose name
became the synonym of every evil, and when the quartermaster approached
to arrange quarters for his men they trembled as if the wolves were upon
them. An occasional patriot sent a rifle bullet from some place of
hiding after the foe, and his quick execution forced the villagers to
suppress their hatred. Much to the surprise of the villagers, when they
quartered the soldiers, they found the “enemy” was usually a very
good-natured friendly lot, who punctually paid their bills.
I was sitting one morning near a big window in the library, which gave a
wide view over the surrounding country. A troop of horsemen suddenly
came in sight. “Prussians coming for quarters,” I thought. Seizing the
glass, I saw a group of possibly ten surrounding what appeared to be a
hunter. If the prisoner had fired upon them there was little hope for
him. I ran to the library and called my aunt and father.
“The Prussians, the Prussians!” I exclaimed breathlessly.
“The devil take them,” my father exclaimed, while Aunt Marie rushed to
make final preparations for the enemy, whom for several days she had
expected.
“Where is Otto?” I asked. “We must warn him from speaking out his hatred
of Prussia.”
“Otto went out early to hunt birds. And how fine the youngster did look
in his new hunting-suit. How proud I was of him.”
The house was suddenly all in an uproar of loud voices and hasty steps.
Franz the footman, pale with terror, flew into the room, and as though
he were shouting “Fire!” called out “The Prussians, the Prussians, and,
your Excellency, they have a prisoner—your son—who is said to have fired
on them.”
My father, with an exclamation of alarm, hurried down the steps. His
heart stood still. The situation before us was terrible; I dared not
think of the conclusion. But it was soon all over, for father returned
with Otto with the explanation that in crossing the field he had
stumbled and accidentally discharged his rifle. They had seized him, but
learning who he was, had brought him to the house, and had accepted his
explanation.
“It would be impossible for an honourable soldier, and the son of a
soldier, to act like an assassin,” they said, as they released him.
Later, I asked Otto if he was really innocent.
He answered, “I hope in the future to have plenty of opportunities to
shoot a few of them, but never would I be guilty without offering my own
breast to their bullets.”
“Bravo, my boy,” cried my father. But I did not share the enthusiasm.
Words which tossed about and cheapened human life so boastfully had a
most repellent sound to me.
We had as our self-invited guests two colonels and six subordinate
officers, and with the cellar full of provisions, and comfortable beds,
they were treated with every courtesy given to friends.
The Prussians bore distinguished names, and among them was a Prince
Henry of the house of Ruess. Our enemies seemed to be very courtly
gentlemen, with the most approved conventional manners of the best
society. It is true that in these days we do not war with Huns and
Vandals, but it is slightly hard to realise that the other side can
possibly stand for the same civilisation as our own.
“O God, thou who protectest those who trust in Thee, hear us as we pray
for Thy gracious mercy. Protect us from the rage of our enemies, that we
may praise Thee to all eternity.”
The priest in Grumitz prayed thus daily. Certainly these elegant,
gentlemanly fellows could hardly be considered as raging enemies as they
took the ladies in to dinner. Perhaps God had this time listened to the
prayers of the other side, and had protected them from our “rage”—or
perhaps it was the needle-guns which had done it. At any rate it was a
queer pious jumble to me. As we chatted with the stately colonel and the
tall lieutenant, mention of war was shunned with the greatest caution on
both sides. The strangers were treated as though they were guests
travelling for pleasure, and the real state of things was never hinted
at—that they were quartered with us as conquerors.
The gentlemen enjoyed the soft summer moonlight on the terraces—the same
moonlight which so lately had lighted up the mouldering corpses against
the churchyard wall. And under this soft light the Prussian Prince Henry
lost his heart to our beautiful Rosa; and to our astonishment my father
made no objection, so the engagement was announced to the family.
I had believed that my father’s hatred of the Prussians would make it
impossible for him to accept one as a son-in-law, but he separated
altogether the individual from the nation. We often hear people protest:
“I hate them as a nation, not as individuals.” This is quite as sensible
as if one were to say: “I hate wine as a drink, but the drops I swallow
with pleasure.” But popular sayings are not expected to be rational.
Perhaps the possibility of an alliance for his daughter with a princely
house flattered my father, at any rate he said yes with apparent
pleasure.
But Otto rebelled at the idea: “How would it be should war break out
again, and I were obliged to chase my brother-in-law out of the
country?” However, he was soon converted to the famous theory of the
difference between nations and individuals. I confess I never could
understand it.
* * * * *
How quickly happy surroundings swallow up misery, and how soon are
catastrophes forgotten! Gradually the pictures of terrors which I had
experienced in the few previous weeks faded from my thought. I realised
this and my conscience pricked me at times when the laments of the
villagers reached us. Many had lost their worldly goods, others their
friends; reports came of financial troubles, and it was even rumoured
that the cholera had shown itself among the Prussian troops. One case
had also occurred in our village, but we comforted ourselves that it was
of no consequence.
“Do you realise, Martha,” Rosa said to me one day, “what a blessed thing
this war has been to me—though I know it is something terrible. I should
never have been so happy and met Henry, and he—where would he have found
such a love as mine?”
“I wish I might think it with you, Rosa, and believe that your two happy
hearts might outweigh the many thousands of broken ones.”
“Oh, we must not think of the individual losses when the war brings such
great gain to the conquerors and the whole nation. You should listen to
Henry. He says the Prussians have won a grand result, and the entire
army is enthusiastic for its generals. This victory has done so much for
German civilisation and commerce. He says the prosperity of Germany—I
forget the word—its historical mission—but you should hear him talk
about it.”
“I should think he would have other matters than politics to talk with
you.”
“Oh, he does talk about everything, and I sympathise with it all and am
so proud and happy that he has played such a glorious part in this war
for his King and country.”
“And carries you off as his booty,” I replied.
The future son-in-law quite suited my father, and certainly he was a
fine young fellow. He gave him his blessing with all manner of protests.
“My dear Ruess, you suit me exactly as a man, as a soldier, and as a
prince”—this he repeated in manifold expressions—“but as a Prussian
officer, I maintain the right—family matters aside—to wish that Austria
may fully revenge herself for this victory which you have snatched from
her. Separating politics from personal questions, I hope I may live to
see my son take the field against Prussia. Old as I am I would be
willing to accept a command to fight William I. and humble the arrogant
Bismarck. I acknowledge the military readiness of the Prussian army and
its strategic leaders, and would think it quite a matter of course if in
the next campaign your own battalion were compelled to storm our capital
city, and even burn down your father-in-law’s house, in short——”
I interrupted: “In short, your confusion of sentiments is frightful—your
inconsistencies are as intermingled as are the infusoria in a drop of
putrid water. You fill one with repugnance through your paradoxical
conceptions—to hate the whole and love its parts; to think one way as a
citizen and the opposite as a man. No, let us have it the one way or the
other. I prefer the savage Indian’s way. He never thought of anybody as
an individual, but wanted the scalp of every member of the other tribe.”
“Martha, my daughter, do not give vent to such savage sentiments, they
are quite unsuitable to the times, which have grown so refined and
humane.”
“Rather say that our boasted civilisation is a lie upon our inherited
barbarisms. What right have we to claim to be humane until we cast off
the savage custom of making war? Do you call your speech to Prince Henry
sensible where you assure him that you love him as a son-in-law and hate
him as a Prussian; value him highly as a man and detest him as a
lieutenant-colonel; that you bless him as a father and in the same
breath grant he has the right to fire upon you if necessary? Forgive me,
father, but can you talk thus and call it common sense?”
“What did you say? I did not catch a word.” The convenient deafness had
come on again at the right moment.
* * * * *
After a few days the guests departed, and all was quiet again at
Grumitz.
The marriage of my two sisters had been postponed until October. Prince
Henry planned to quit the service, having earned sufficient honours in
the glorious campaign. He would retire on his laurels and on his
estates.
The two pairs of lovers parted painfully but joyfully, content in the
certainty of their future happiness.
Certain happiness? There is in reality no such thing, least of all in
times of war, for then misfortunes swarm thick as gnats, and the chance
that one may be standing on the spot which may be spared the descending
scourge is at best a small one.
True, the war was over and peace concluded. A word had been enough to
let loose all the terrors of hostility, and a word should also suffice
to relieve us from the results. Hostilities were suspended, but what can
suspend the persistent consequences? The seed of future war had been
sown, and the fruit of the war just closed ripened still further into
want, demoralisation, and plague. To stop and think about it was now
useless, for the cholera was raging throughout the country.
One morning the Vienna paper, opened at breakfast, brought the following
item:—
The cholera death-rate increases. The military and civil hospitals
report many cases of genuine Asiatic cholera. Every measure is taken
to stop its spread.
I was about to read these lines aloud, when Aunt Marie exclaimed, as she
read a letter from a friend in the neighbourhood:—
“Dreadful! Betty writes that in their house two persons have died of the
cholera, and that her husband is ill.”
“Your Excellence, the schoolmaster wishes to speak to you.”
The teacher entered, looking pale and bewildered.
“Count Althaus, I must report that the school is closed, for yesterday
two children were taken ill and to-day they are dead.”
“The cholera!” we cried out.
“There is no doubt. There is great terror in the village, and the
doctors who have come from the town say that the horrible disease has
taken hold of the entire population.”
We looked round in dismay, pale and speechless. Here, again, was the
frightful enemy, Death; and each in turn saw his bony hand stretched
over the head of some loved one.
“We must go away!” said Aunt Marie.
“Where?” replied the schoolmaster, “for the disease is spreading
everywhere.”
“Across the frontier.”
“Across the frontier——”
“But quarantine will be set up, and you will not be allowed to pass.”
“Oh, how terrible! will they prevent people leaving a region of
pestilence?”
“Certainly. Healthy neighbourhoods must protect themselves against
infection.”
“Then we will remain and await God’s will,” answered my father with deep
emotion. “You, Marie, who believe so strongly in destiny, I cannot
understand why you should wish to run away. You say the fate of every
one will overtake him. Yet I would rather have you and the children go
away. Otto, you must eat no more fruit.”
“I will write to Bresser,” said Frederick, “and have him send us
disinfectants.”
* * * * *
What happened immediately after this I cannot tell in detail, for this
breakfast scene was the last I found in the red book. I must depend upon
my memory for the next few days’ happenings.
Terror possessed us all. The sword of Damocles hung over each head, and
is it not a horrible thought to feel that one’s friends and even oneself
should be so helplessly and uselessly destroyed? In such a case to stop
thinking is the better part of valour.
Flee? The idea possessed me on account of the safety of Rudolf. My
father insisted upon the family taking flight, and the following day was
decided upon. He meant to remain and face the danger with the villagers.
Frederick declared he would remain, and I would not leave his side.
The two girls, Otto, and Rudolf, were to go with Aunt Marie—but whither?
That was not settled at once. At first to Hungary—and then farther. The
young people busily flew to their preparations and packing. To die just
as life was beginning to unfold its happiness to them would be a tenfold
death.
The boxes were brought to the dining-room that all might work together.
As I brought Rudolf’s clothes in my arms my father demanded, “Why does
not the maid do that?”
“I do not know where Netti is hiding. I ring and she does not come.”
He despatched another servant to find her, who in a short time returned
with an anxious countenance:
“Netti is in her room. She is—she is——”
“Speak out!” shouted my father, “what is she?”
“She is—already—quite—black.”
A shriek came from every lip. The plague, the horrible plague, was in
our very house. What was to be done? Could one leave the poor girl to
die alone? But was it not certain death to whoever approached her and
those whom this person might afterwards approach? It was as if we were
surrounded by murderers or flames, and death grinned at us from every
corner and followed every step.
My father ordered the doctor to be fetched immediately. “And you,
children, hurry your departure.”
“Oh, I feel so sick!” exclaimed Lilli, turning pale and clutching a
chair.
We all sprang toward her. “What ails you?” “Don’t be silly!” “It is only
fear.”
We dared not think, but hurried her to her room, and soon she showed
most aggravated symptoms of the dread disease. This made the second case
of cholera in the castle in one day.
It was terrible to see her suffer and to be unable to help. Frederick
did everything possible to relieve her, but nothing availed. When the
attack subsided cramps followed, which seemed to make every bone crack,
tearing the quivering frame with agony. The poor victim tried to moan
but could not—her voice failed, her skin turned cold and blue, and the
breathing difficult.
My father strode up and down wringing his hands. Once I stood before him
and dared to say: “Father, this is war! Will you not curse it now?” But
he shook me off without reply.
After ten hours of suffering, Lilli died. Netti died before, alone in
her room, for we were all occupied with Lilli, and no servant would
venture to approach one who had “turned black.”
* * * * *
Meanwhile Dr. Bresser had arrived, and took command of the household,
bringing with him every known means of relief. I could have kissed his
hand.
The two bodies were carried to a distant chamber, and strictest measures
of disinfection were taken. The odour of carbolic acid to this day
brings back the memory of those terrible days.
The intended flight was a second time set on foot. On the day of Lilli’s
death the carriage stood waiting to carry away Aunt Marie, Rosa, Otto,
and my son—but the coachman declared himself unable to drive, seized by
the invisible destroyer.
“Then I will drive myself,” said my father. “Quick, is everything
ready?”
Rosa came forward and said, “Drive on! I must stay and follow Lilli.”
It proved the case. The next sunrise found the second daughter in the
vault of death. And in the horror of it all our departure was given up.
In my anguish a sudden scorn seized me for the gigantic folly which had
brought on all this misery. When Rosa’s corpse had been carried out my
father sank on his knees with his head against the wall.
I seized him by the arm. “Father, this is war!” No answer. “Father, do
you hear? Will you at last curse war?”
He sprang to his feet. “You bring me back to my duty as a soldier, I
must not forget that my entire fatherland offers its sacrifice of blood
and tears.”
“What benefit can come to the fatherland through the suffering and death
of its people? What gain through lost battles and the shortening of
these young lives? Oh, father, I plead with you—curse war! See from the
window the black coffins—they are for Lilli and Rosa, and perhaps there
will be a third—and why, why?”
“Because God wills it, my child.”
“God—always God. All that folly and savagery—the wilful sin of
man—always hiding under this shield—God’s will!”
“Do not blaspheme, Martha, even while the hand of a reproving God is
clearly visible.”
The footman appeared, announcing that the carpenter refused to carry the
coffins into the chamber where the dead young countesses lay.
“Then I will see to it myself,” said my father, and he strode to the
door.
* * * * *
The post brought nothing but sorrow—news of the ravages of the pest;
love-letters that would never be answered—for Prince Henry knew nothing
of what had happened. A letter to Conrad announcing Lilli’s sickness
brought him four days later to the castle.
“Lilli!” he cried. “Is it true?”
We nodded. He remained quiet, without shedding a tear, and softly said
to himself, “I have loved her all these years. I will go to the
churchyard. She waits for me.”
He rushed out, and there upon her grave he shot himself.
The war had carried off many an officer, so the tragedy of this indirect
death was quite blunted. Besides, this event was swallowed up by a
misfortune which sounded the deepest agonies of all our hearts. Otto,
the adored and only son, was in the clutch of the destroying angel. All
day, all night, with alternating hope and despair, he suffered.
When all was over his father threw himself upon the body with such a
piercing shriek that it rang through the house. We had to tear them
apart, and for hours and hours the old man poured out his cries of
anguish—giving vent to groans and roars, and rattling shrieks of
desperation. His son, his Otto, his pride, his all!
After this outbreak he succumbed to a dumb apathy. He lay as one
motionless and unconscious, and was put to bed.
When he came to himself, Frederick and I and Aunt Marie were at his
bedside. He could not speak, and was struggling for breath. Then he
began to shake and toss about, as if in the last symptoms of the
cholera, though he had shown no other sign. At last he uttered one
word—“Martha.”
I fell on my knees beside him. “Father, my poor, dear father!”
He lifted his hands over my head.
“Your wish—is fulfilled. I curse—I cur——” He sank back. All was over.
“How dreadful,” said Aunt Marie, after we had buried him, “he died with
a curse on his lips.”
“Console yourself,” I answered. “If only that curse would fall from
every lip—what a blessing to humanity.”
* * * * *
Such was the cholera week at Grumitz. In seven days ten of our group
were taken. In the village over eighty died. Stated thus coldly it makes
a scarcely noteworthy report. Told as a story it seems an extravagant
tale. But it is neither a dry fact nor an overdrawn romance. It is a
cold, palpable, sad reality.
I stood resigned in daily expectation that death would take the rest of
us. I actually wept in anticipation of it. Yet in the thought of their
deliverance I still had sweet moments. And as this hope and compassion
and love still glowed in us as individuals, might it not some day come
to dominate the general relations of the whole human family? The future
belongs to Goodness.