FRESH TROUBLES
It was the Major, who never could wait a minute.
His face was red and the powder from his curls had been shaken off in
his hurry. He greeted no one.
"Richard, Richard," he cried, "there is news of a battle at Eylau!"
The gentlemen sprang from their chairs, Madame von Stork turned pale.
Her Wolfgang was with the army.
"Yes, yes," cried the Major, speaking French very rapidly, "there has
been a battle, a dreadful one, something terrible. There is no news yet
that is certain. Some say, victory, others, defeat, but the whole town
is in wild excitement. I have heard that the suffering of the soldiers
was awful."
"Naturally," said Herr Brandt in German--not a word of French would he
speak, "with all this ice, snow, and freezing."
"I have but one boy," said the Major, "and he is with the army. Here,
Clarchen, some wine. Ah, many thanks, Mademoiselle Pauline." In spite of
his worry he made a gallant bow, the cockade on his queue bobbing.
"My Rudolph," he said, "is a soldier, and perhaps at Eylau. But he can
be nothing better than his father was, now can he?" He settled his
double chin over his high stock and gazed from his blue eyes at the
gentlemen.
The Professor motioned them all to seats.
"Clarchen," he said to his wife, "it is bedtime for the children." His
voice was trembling.
The children all bowed and curtsied, and, kissing their mother's hand
and wishing pleasant dreams for everybody, departed; Marianne, Pauline,
and Otto, also.
The gentlemen, for Madame von Stork in a moment followed to give orders
to her servant, sat with filled glasses and discussed Napoleon and their
country.
Presently the Professor left the room to order another bottle of wine
and some sandwiches.
"That older girl, Mademoiselle Pauline, is an excellent maiden,"
remarked Dr. Hufeland, in tones of admiration. Herr Brandt nodded, his
face growing serious.
"Did you notice how calm she kept amid all the excitement?"
"Yes, yes," said the Major, "she is excellent, always ready to arrange
my stock or tie the ribbon on my queue. Very different from my niece,
Marianne," he added, "very different, I assure you."
Herr Brandt raised his eyebrows.
"Richard has spoiled that girl," he remarked; "see here." He picked up
"The Sorrows of Werther," which lay under Marianne's chair.
Then he read aloud high-flown passages marked by Marianne's pencil.
"How her parents expect any sensible German man to marry her I cannot
form an idea. A German man desires a wife who can cook, sew, and keep
his house in order."
The Doctor raised his hand, for the Professor was entering with the
bottle.
Almost immediately his wife followed.
Her eyes at once fell on "The Sorrows of Werther," and her face
darkened.
"See, Richard, see," she cried, "we quite forgot to scold Marianne."
"Come, come, Clarchen," the Professor's voice was kind and soothing,
"let the girl be. We have far more serious things now to worry over."
Then he lifted the book from the table.
"Ah, Goethe," he cried, and, in a moment, the battle of Eylau and all
else was forgotten, while his eager eye conned the familiar pages.
Madame von Stork turned to the others, who burst into laughter as they
watched her husband.
"Just see him!" cried the poor lady, her turban bobbing as she shook her
head with violence.
Startled, the Professor looked up from his book, his mild, learned face
full of wonder.
"What is it?" he asked, "is it supper time?"
"Nein, nein, Richard," and Herr Brandt slapped his shoulder with
sarcastic affection. "It is nothing, you know, only the cannon of
Napoleon."
He, himself, had not the least good for Goethe, who had remained quietly
at his dinner in his garden in Weimar when the cannon were thundering at
Jena, and who sang no songs of patriotism, had nothing to cry out
against Napoleon.
"But, Richard," his wife laid her hands on his arm, "you must pay heed
to Marianne." The gentlemen nodded. "She is more trouble to me than all
my other children. Even the twins and Carl are more useful. Reading,
talking, dreaming, that is Marianne. She is good for nothing else. It is
Bettina Brentano who has ruined her. I have never approved of that
friendship. But, O Heavens, why worry over anything when my Franz is a
prisoner, and my Wolfgang, I know not where!" and she burst into tearful
sobbing. Herr Brandt and Dr. Hufeland arose in haste, and, kissing her
hand and saying good-night to the Professor and Major, they fled.
There was little sleep for anyone that night, for dreadful pictures of
Wolfgang, or Rudolph, frozen, or dead in the snow, arose before every
eye, and drove away all slumbers.
On the morning, when the courier brought the truth to Memel, Marianne
was writing a letter to her friend Brentano.
She had met this famous friend of Goethe when she was a year younger,
and on a visit to her aunt in Frankfort-on-Main.
Never had Marianne seen anyone who had seemed to her so clever.
Both of them adored the poet Goethe, it being the fashion in those days
for young girls to worship some poet.
Bettina Brentano knew Goethe's mother, a fine old lady whom everyone
called "Frau Rat," and often she and Marianne went to see her.
When Marianne returned to Berlin she was changed entirely.
From a merry, jolly, little girl she had become a mournful maiden who
convulsed her family with the most melancholy speeches. She spoke of the
gloom of living, of the joy of dying while one was still beautiful, and
if anyone talked of Goethe, or even so much as mentioned his name,
Marianne clasped her hands and rolled her eyes and behaved, her brother
said, "like an idiot."
The Professor only laughed.
"She has the Goethe fever, Clarchen," he told his wife. "It has spread
at times all over Germany."
But on the day when Carl had been lost and the Queen had kissed him, the
fault of the whole affair was to be laid on the shoulders of Marianne.
Then the Professor had at last listened to his wife and heard how
Marianne would do nothing but read books, keep a foolish, sentimental
journal, and write letters to Bettina Brentano.
"And, dear husband," his wife had added, "our Marianne talks of love and
hopeless sorrow, our Marianne, who used to be so merry. Her thoughts are
never with the coffee-cake, never with her sewing. And tell me, please,
how is a girl to get a husband with this nonsense? Her wedding chest,
which every German girl, as you know, must have ready, has not a thing
to boast of, and Pauline's is entirely ready. She will not stitch, knit,
or embroider, only read, read, read."
"It is the Goethe fever, I tell you, dear wife," said the Professor. "It
will vanish."
"But, Richard," pleaded the Mother Stork, "consider the candles."
"Candles?"
Ah, that was a different matter.
"Yes, yes, dear husband, the candles. Do not think for an instant that I
permit all this nonsense to go on in the daytime. If I see Marianne with
a book, I take it away and provide needlework. And what does she do but
burn candles!"
"Ah," said the Professor, "that will never do. I will see to the
matter."
Now, at that moment Marianne was safe, she thought, in her room, her
pretty hair floating over her blue dressing jacket, her paper on her
desk, her pen in her hand.
"Ah, my chosen friend, my Bettina," she wrote in the high-flown style of
that day, "who but thou understands thy Marianne? On every side I meet
with derisive laughter when I would speak of him whose name I am not
worthy to mention, our Master, thine and mine, our Goethe! Oh, to be
again with thee, to sit with thee beneath the free, open Heaven, gazing
upward at the celestial orbs whose silver beams thrill into thought,
mysterious wonder of that law-ruled world of Nature which none but poets
truly know. Oh, Bettina, how worthless is life when spent amid the
trivialities of nothingness. Oh, to wander with thee, my heart's true
friend, chosen of my spirit, to wander on the wings of thy imagination
into the realms of infinite calm, and there to prepare our souls to be a
sacrifice to him who----"
A knock at the door had interrupted this flight of sentimental fancy.
In had come her father.
With a laugh he had shut the writing-desk.
"Liebchen," he said, "it is time for bed. Do your writing by daylight."
Then he kissed her cheeks and patted her hair, and told her he could
have no such wasting of candles.
"To bed in five minutes," he had commanded, and that ended the burning
of candles. But nothing yet had cured her of her thoughtlessness, and it
was still Pauline who did everything to assist the mother.
On the day that the news came of Eylau, Madame von Stork and Pauline
were busy making coffee-cake, Bettina, Ilse, and Elsa helping stem
currants and stone raisins.
In her room Marianne was telling Bettina Brentano all about their life
in Memel. She was not sure that she could send a letter, but it was
amusing at all events to write it. It was stupid to make coffee-cake.
"It is pleasant, dear Bettina," she wrote, "that our dear Queen and King
are in Memel. Often, now, father is sent for to talk with the Queen, and
one day mother took me to pay our respects to the Countess von Voss, who
is a friend of my dear grandmother. She is a very lively and beautiful
old lady, Mistress of the Court, and like a mother to our Queen. She is
very clever, and the gentlemen greatly admire her. She is so stately,
and will not forgive a lack of ceremony. I was in the greatest terror,
as you may imagine. We were shown into her room where she was engaged at
her toilette, some gentlemen, among them a Mr. Jackson, an Englishman,
laughing and talking as her maid did her hair.
"I made my curtsey and saluted her hand.
"'And this is your daughter,' she said very kindly to mother. 'Dear
Clara, the child has a look of poor Erna.'
"That was my aunt, my Bettina, who died when she was a girl, and who was
engaged to Ludwig Brandt.
"Then the Countess asked us to be seated, and when at last her hair
received its crown of a turban, she gave us some fine tea from England,
which Mr. Jackson had given here.
"It was most kind in her, but I prefer our coffee.
"She told us story after story about our Queen, for it is of her that
she best likes to talk; and, also, she spoke of dear little Prince
William, and of how he had entered the army.
"It happened on New Year's Day, because the coming of the French made
the King fear that he could not present him with the honour on his
birthday.
"When the Royal children appeared before our King, he greeted them for
the New Year, and then turned to little Prince William, and, oh, he is
the dearest little fellow, my Bettina! so sensible-looking and so, in
face, like our King. 'To-day,' said our King, 'something very important
is to happen. William,' and he turned directly to him, 'I have nominated
you to a commission in the army. We can no longer stay here in
Koenigsberg, because of the approach of the enemy, and we must go to
Memel at once. I might not be able to give you the appointment on your
birthday, as I had intended to do, so I give it to you now.' Then,
indeed, as you may imagine, little William was happy.
"The Countess told us how they arrayed him in a blue coat, with a red
collar and narrow, dark trowsers and high boots to his knees. Exactly
like the Guard, you remember.
"Then, suddenly, everybody began to cry 'Ah Heaven!' and lift up hands
in horror. It is a rule that the Guard must wear queues, and Prince
William's hair was too short for a pig-tail. 'And there they were,' said
the Countess, 'acting as foolishly as they are doing about this war,
when I simply sent out for a false queue and tied it on the child's
hair, and ended the trouble.' Then they gave him a little cane, and
behold, a fine soldier!
"He is my favourite, and sometimes I think that the Countess likes him
better than the Crown Prince, who certainly knows that he is clever, but
he is very handsome. Then the Countess told us of how dreadful it was at
Koenigsberg, where our dear Queen was so ill, and how, when they told her
that the French were at hand, she begged to be allowed to travel. She
had a great horror of that monster, Napoleon, who has vowed to capture
her, and so she told them it was better to fall into the hands of the
good God, than into the hands of man.
"Mother asked the Countess why Napoleon so hated the Queen. Before she
could answer her parrot suddenly called out in the funniest way:
'Napoleon is a monster! Our Queen is an angel! Down with the French!'
You can guess how startled we were, but...."
Before Marianne could end her sentence she heard Otto calling:
"Marianne! Marianne!"
She flew downstairs and into the great kitchen.
There were Pauline, her mother, the children, and her father all
listening to her uncle.
"The courier has come!" cried Otto. "Uncle will tell us the news!"
Both Russians and French claimed the victory, but such sufferings had
never been known in the world's history.
Amid the ice and snow, all had waited for days, the Russians occupying a
church and graveyard, the camp fires lighting snowy fields and trees
and bushes which crackled.
"The courier, dear Richard," the old major addressed his brother, "says
thousands are sleeping a sleep from which even the love of their
families never can wake them."
He blew his nose with great violence.
"The snow is red with the blood of thousands," he continued, "the
Russians, God be thanked, kept their ground. They are not conquerors, it
is true, but they have checked Napoleon!"
The Major's face flushed crimson.
"God be praised!" cried all the company, and the kitchen rang with
rejoicings.
But they had not heard all the good news.
"It is said," concluded the Major, "that the Emperor of the French will
now propose peace."
"And Wolfgang? Rudolph?"
The Major shook his head, his cockade bobbing.
"No news yet, dear sister, we can trust only in God, but I have no
reason to believe they were at Eylau."
Bettina had listened eagerly.
She was very much afraid of the Major. He was so red-faced and
important looking, and had not much good for people below him, and so
she waited until at last he left the room. Then she crept quietly to
Marianne.
"Please, dear gracious Fraeulein," she whispered, "was my grandfather in
the battle?"
Marianne was opening her lips to speak, when Otto interrupted:
"Nein, Bettina, nein. Your grandfather...."
"Otto!"
Pauline quickly stopped him, her hand across his mouth.
"No, little Bettina," she said very kindly, "your grandfather was not
with the army."
"Will he come, gracious Fraeulein, come soon?" Bettina's eyes looked up
eagerly.
"Perhaps, child, perhaps." Pauline turned away and picked up some cups
from a table.
"Run away, children," she said, "and play until dinner."
Bettina went slowly. It was very strange that her grandfather never came
back to fetch her. They were kind to her and she loved them, but she
wanted her grandfather. Would she never see Thuringia again, nor Willy,
nor her godmother, nor her brothers? The tears filled her eyes and the
sobs came.
Poor little Bettina!
She lived in sad, cruel times, and she was to be a woman before she ever
again met even one of them, or walked in the forest paths of Thuringia,
or saw the spire of St. Michael's rising high above the red roofs of
Jena.